Narrator Magazine
Blue Mountains
Spring 2011
Smashwords Edition
narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing
Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779
MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd
P: 1300 644 680 ABN 48 126 885 309
http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/
Copyright Notice
The copyright for each item in this publication rests with the author of that piece. Please contact us at Narrator Magazine if you wish to contact any contributor featured herein.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This ebook may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other books by this publisher. Thank you for your support.
Cover: ‘Three Sisters’ by Michaela Kyzyszton
‘This work was created for my Higher School Certificate and was featured in ‘ART EXPRESS 2008” at the NSW Newington Armoury at Sydney Olympic Park. It relates to a poem that my father wrote about my sisters and I, shown through the imagery and surrealistic qualities of the piece.’
If you would like to purchase prints please contact us at MoshPit Publishing narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au
A few words from the publisher ...
Well here we are again with a Spring edition of Narrator Blue Mountains—our first anniversary edition!
And to coincide with that, we are also releasing our first Central Tablelands edition this month, to encourage our writing friends from Bathurst to Orange, Mudgee to Oberon, to join the fun. If you know anyone out there who likes to write, please let them know they now have an outlet for their work!
Thanks to David Berger, our Guest Judge for last month’s issue, for some timely advice about how to make the best of your submission. As Narrator is free online, we can’t afford to edit stories, so it’s in your best interest to have the spelling, grammar and punctuation as polished as possible.
If you haven’t already joined our Facebook page, we’d love you to do so—it makes keeping you updated so much easier, especially when we had a little domain name hiccup a couple of weeks ago! Log onto www,facebook.com/narratormagazine and click ‘Like’ today!
The other good news is that we’ve started uploading our back issues in plain text format to Smashwords in America (at www.smashwords.com) which allows us much wider coverage than before. Smashwords takes our raw files and then, using their proprietary Meatgrinder technology, spits out a whole pile of digital files in different formats. This lets people with Kindles and Nooks and iPads and other types of ereader to download Narrator in the format of their choice for hand held reading. As at the time of writing (mid August) the Winter issue of Narrator Blue Mountains had been downloaded 116 times, and the Autumn issue an incredible 142 times!
Our next step is to refine the files according to the Smashwords Style Guide so that they get accepted into the Smashwords Premium Catalogue—this will then see Narrator distributed to Barnes and Noble, Sony, Kobo, Apple, Diesel and Scrollmotion—broadening your audience even more! Amazon is also on the list, but there are technical issues between Amazon and Smashwords that are still being sorted.
So it’s all happening, folks! Thanks again for your support, and now, read on ...
Jenny Mosher
September 2011
Caricature: Jenny Mosher’s caricature (above) by local artist Todd Sharp. For more info, visit http://www.toddasharp.com/
Winning Entries for Winter 2011
Our fourth issue, Winter 2011, was judged by former English teacher and author David Berger. David’s final choices were:
First prize—$200 to Aristidis, Katoomba, for his story Henrietta de Chook and her Totally Awesome Adventure—‘because apart from being very funny, witty and entertaining, it is reminiscent of Plato’s Cave and the awful burden of having secret knowledge that you can’t share with anybody even though that knowledge would bring joy to others’
Second prize—$100 to Cathy Tanaka, Blackheath, for her poem Spin Me Round Sky—‘this is a lovely celebration of being at one with the universe, a timeless embrace between humanity and Nature, and the recognition of the intertwining of all life’
Third prize—$50 to Michael Burge, Leura, for his story A Quick Fix—‘something entirely different .. which .. structured like a long email from a girl to her parents, it analyses prejudice with the biting logic of an unprejudiced teenager’
David also made special mention of:
Ode to Tony—‘for its light-hearted fun and its range of emotions’
The Stranger—‘a haunting story as well as being a nice piece of prose, but sadder and more ethereal’
From a Window—‘a poem which uses a clever use of homophones and rhymes to produce an interesting word scape of Europe’
Where is the Female Tolstoy—‘a thoughtful analysis of the place of women’s writing today’
Wedding—‘an interesting post-modernist fascinating and clever use of language to tell a story’
A few suggestions for better writing, from our Guest Judge ...
Writers should use ‘spell-check’ and ‘grammar-check’ and also get a friend to proofread the final draft. Many writers use it’s (short for it is) rather than its (for possession: its fur), or who’s (short for who is) instead of whose (and vice versa). Also, there is no of in an English sentence such as ‘I could of seen it’. It should be ‘have’ and the error arises from speech when we say ‘I could’ve seen it’.
Many articles are reminiscences and, although interesting, do not convey any story or something to make the reader go away and think about things. It’s important that your story or poem has a purpose.
However, we have some great writers in the Mountains and I really enjoyed the privilege of having ‘first view’ of the Winter 2011 submissions.
David Berger
David Berger is a former English teacher and is also the author of Letters from Paris which explores the City of Light through the stories of ordinary people living there, by meeting these people on their own terms, and viewing their city through their eyes.
This is not your usual tourist guide, but an insightful and thought-provoking book about what makes Parisiennes who they are and Paris what it is.
Letters from Paris is available from Written for Women at http://www.writtenforwomen.com/ for $24.95 plus $5 p&h.
Congratulations to our People’s Choice Award winner Stephen Studach for his piece The Sea Dog’s Last.
Poetry
Stories
The Golden Statue of Lord Carnarvon
Golden Eyed – John Ross
‘Dark they were and golden eyed’, is the topic for this week at our creative writing group. Try as I might I could not get any inspiration and so turned to GOOGLE.
‘Dark They Were and Golden Eyed’ was the title of a science fiction short story written by Ray Bradbury and was originally published in the magazine ‘Thrilling Wonder Stories’ in August 1949. For some reason this information coupled with the words ‘Dark’ and ‘Golden Eyed’ jogged my memory about some news articles I had read about a real, or mythical, Blue Mountains Panther. Sometimes I worry about how my mind works, but usually just go with the flow. You surely remember the stories of people sighting these large black animals that resemble panthers. They have been sighted from Penrith to Bathurst.
Anyway last night, still lacking inspiration, I took myself off to bed. As usual when something is bugging me I could not sleep. Thoughts of things with ‘Golden Eyes’ and stories of wild animals ran like an annoying TV advertisement, round and round in my mind. Finally, exhausted, I rolled on my side and expelled all thoughts of such things and drifted off to sleep. ‘Drifted off to sleep.’ What a strange expression. Why don’t we ‘float off’ or even ‘undulate off.’ See I told you that I worry about the strange sidetracks that my mind sometimes takes.
Well, I must have been asleep for hours when I suddenly became aware of a presence. It did not frighten me. In fact it excited me, with a feeling of tremendous power and energy. I was aware that my body was still lying asleep in my bed but my mind was telling me that I was outside the house. It was so real that I could feel the cold on my skin and the rough grass beneath my feet. I was hungry, with a deep, sickening, empty feeling that told me that I needed to eat very soon.
I felt young again. My body was tensed and I could feel my muscles flexing beneath my skin. Adrenalin was pulsing through me like small electric shocks. Danger was all around and the smell of my most feared enemy was strong in my nostrils. Normally I would not venture this close to where he slept but hunger had driven me out of the dense bush where I usually hunted.
The full moon escaped from behind a cloud and I froze fearing that I might be seen. The light was so bright that I could see the steam of my breath on the cold night air. I waited, poised for instant flight, but no shout of alarm came or any dog started barking. Slowly, carefully, I inched my way forward. Just in front of me was the strange den of some of the enemy. Carefully I looked inside. With a jolt that made my whole body spasm and paralysed my mind I saw myself asleep in my bed.
A noise outside the window disturbed me and for an instant my mind was in turmoil. Where was I? I sat up and looked outside. Bright moonlight, a dark shape and two burning golden eyes.
I tried to scream, to warn my wife but my vocal chords were frozen. I could not move. Invisible forces were holding me down, constricting my arms and legs.
A voice intruded. My wife’s. Wake up! Wake up! You’re yelling out in your sleep. It must be a nightmare. Wake up!
It had been so real; but it was just a dream.
As I was having my cereal this morning my wife who had been out picking some camellias for the house came inside and said, ‘Come out and look at this.’ Still munching on my toast I followed her out to the front path.
There were huge muddy paw prints everywhere ...
This section brought to you by
Sunergy Design
Custom solar house design across New South Wales
John Basden 0449 611 076
http://www.facebook.com/sunergydesign/
Celestial Femme – Albany Dighton
An elliptical ray of light elicits the contours of quintessential beauty;
Shrouded in darkness and mystery, the seductive femme is a vision to behold.
A dominant force of eroticism and pleasure,
She’ll snake and lure, destroy and conquer;
This body and soul exudes no mercy.
The danger unfolds beneath her slender expose,
As shadows lick between the thighs.
The wrists are coupled with passionate friction,
And her pneumatic breasts emanate soulful esteem,
Upon a spine that curves with a transgressional demeanour.
Waves of desire suffocate the voyeur,
Possessing the thoughts of innocent bystanders.
Sensual, sexual, the empress engulfs her captives with such finesse;
Her lovers witness to her subtlety,
She is but a shrine for her disciples.
The power of silhouette, her aura, her enigma,
Exhibits the sheerness, the rawness, the grace and the radiance
Of such a powerful energy, cascading in light,
Succumbing to her force.
Taste of Beauty – Jean Bundesen
Air crisp and cold.
Full moon
A shimmering golden orb
Galleon of ages past
Floats above ink black trees.
Silvered moonlight
Silhouetted shadows.
A drop
Of water falling
Breaks the emptiness of silence.
Alluring scent of mown grass.
The beauty of this night
Tugs and tears
My heart.
A setting for romance
Though ...
It’s just the dog and me.
The Leaping for Joy Girl – Alan Lucas
She is leaping down a sloping path in front of her mother,
Who strolls unconcerned
A few paces behind,
She leaps and jumps for the sheer joy being,
Seemingly floats, defies gravity,
Her mother calm, unconcerned,
Carries her school bag.
Perhaps she is demonstrating
Her new ballets steps,
Or perhaps the sunshine, a fresh breeze, the scent of flowers
Have coalesced to produce
Her moment of joy,
The sudden, unspoken knowledge
That everything is ahead,
That all her anticipated life is ahead,
And of a sudden the young girl is joyous,
Flying for an instant like an angel,
Like Nijinsky.
I drive by with the image still with me,
And remember a young boy
Who could leap like that,
And from the same kind
Of joy.
This section brought to you by
St. Flour and Associates
Business advisors
Love in the Suburbs – Paris Portingale
Somewhere in Middle Europe ...
Vince Nazwisko, a Polish crane operator, arrives home after a day at work. His wife, Katarzyna, currently unemployed, but fully trained as a hair beautician (Warsaw Polytechnic – 1965) and, having been brought up on a farm, just outside Wroclaw, possessing a more than passing familiarity with tractor maintenance, catches a whiff of him as he goes past and exclaims, ‘You smell like some woman’s vagina.’
Shocked and surprise, Vince says, ‘What woman?’
‘I don’t know,’ his wife tells him. ‘Clearly you’re the one schtooping her.’
Vince raises an arm and smells but can find no trace of vagina. He says, ‘What vagina?’
Meanwhile, Katarzyna has visited the kitchen, returning with a Sunbeam mix-master, which she now uses to beat Vince to the ground, alternating between swinging the heavy base on the end of its cord, and bashing the more than solid mixing bowl against the side of his head.
From the floor, Vince can see up Katarzyna’s dress, and he stares till Katarzyna kicks him in the eyes. ‘You are a vile, pervy piece of shit,’ she tells him.
‘Fuck you,’ he tells her and she kicks him in the stomach and testicles. She is wearing her pointy stilettos, which are her best kicking shoes, a happy coincidence as she had no prior knowledge Vince would be coming home smelling of another woman’s vagina.
Vince crawls off, managing to make it to the kitchen, and he wiggles himself under the table. Meanwhile, Katarzyna has fetched the mop-handle and, bending, is trying to jam it down his throat. Vince, being no man’s fool, is refusing to cooperate and won’t open his mouth.
‘Open your mouth, you arsehole piece of crap,’ she tells him, but it is falling on deaf ears. He has no intention of opening his mouth while she’s poking at his face with the stick like that.
The phone rings at this point and Katarzyna tells Vince, ‘Don’t move,’ and goes off to answer it. When she returns, she tells him, ‘It’s for you,’ and when Vince gets out from under the table, Katarzyna takes advantage and breaks the mop handle over his head.
The call proves to be from a tele-marketing centre, which Katarzyna knew, but kept from Vince as she wanted the opportunity to get him in the head with the stick.
Vince would like to confront her with this deception, but doesn’t, as, while rolled into a ball under the table, he has discovered he does in fact smell like some woman’s vagina and would like the whole thing over as soon as possible, so they can move onto something more general and less confronting.
As Vince goes to hang up, Katarzyna takes that handset from him and strikes him on the side of the head with it. Vince goes down and Katarzyna takes the rest of the phone and drops it onto his face. It is an older style telephone, quite heavy, and Vince briefly loses consciousness.
When he comes to, some moments later, he finds Katarzyna now has one of the halves of the mop handle and is trying to get it inside his mouth and down his throat. He tries to tell her to stop, but the mop handle is making speech virtually impossible, and his exhortations of, ‘Fuck off, you’re choking me, you fucking bitch,’ are just garbled streams of noise.
The phone goes again and Katarzyna is forced to leave the stick in Vince’s mouth and answer it. Turning, she says, ‘It’s your mother,’ but when Vince gets the handset it is the same call centre again, and Katarzyna takes the opportunity to hit him in the head with the other half of the phone and shout, ‘Faithless bastard,’ at him.
Vince holds up his hand for quiet, because with all the shouting he can’t hear what the person on the other end of the line is saying, but Katarzyna keeps hitting him and notes absently that the phone, remarkably, retains its connection.
When she stops to get her breath, Vince hears, ‘…and so saving you $35.00 a month for the entire first year of the contract,’ and Vince is forced to ask, ‘What contract?’
The caller says, ‘The contract I’ve just been telling you about,’ and Vince says, ‘Right. And is that American dollars?’ to which the caller replies, ‘No, Nigerian.’
Vince says, ‘The Nigerian dollar is holding well against the greenback at the moment,’ and the caller says, ‘Yes, the whole deal would be greatly to your advantage.’
Katarzyna says, ‘Don’t agree to anything without asking me,’ and, having got her breath back, begins striking him again with the other half of the phone.
Vince tells the caller, ‘I’ll have to ring you back,’ and stupidly hands the handset back to his wife, whereupon she strikes him on the head with it till he falls again to the floor.
Any normal man would be dead by now, but it takes a lot of strength to drive a crane and Vince has many of the physical capabilities of oxen. However, even someone part man, mostly ox, has his limits and Vince feigns a coma, hoping the punishment will stop, which it does.
Katarzyna, having tired of the bending required to beat at a man lying on the floor, retires to the kitchen for a tumbler of vodka to steady her nerves. It is ‘Golden Bison,’ imported all the way from Poland in bottles. She has just finished half a large tumbler when the phone rings. Stupidly, Vince calls out, ‘I’ll get it,’ and gets up and answers. He’s hoping it’s the tele-marketer ringing back, as he’s keen to explore the new contract being offered, and the consequent savings, all in the exciting and exotic new currency of Nigerian dollars.
It is his mother, however, and he tells her, ‘Get off the line, I’m expecting an important call.’
Katarzyna wanders in then and he mouths the words, ‘My mother,’ to her and she brings the half mop handle, which she’s forward-thinkingly kept with her, down hard against his neck, causing him to drop the receiver and squeal in pain.
‘Fuck your mother,’ Katarzyna says, ‘She is a slut and a whore-bitch,’ and downs the vodka and throws the empty tumbler at Vince’s head, where it makes contact and smashes.
***
Later in the evening we find Vince and Katarzyna discussing the movie, ‘Casablanca,’ during an advertisement break on the television. They start replaying a scene at random, Vince taking the part of Humphrey Bogart and Katarzyna playing Ingrid Bergman. It goes like this:
Vince/Bogart: Of all the gin-joints in all the world, you had to come into my gin-joint.
Katarzyna/Bergman: So, this is your gin-joint?
Vince/Bogart: Yes, it’s my gin-joint.
Katarzyna/Bergman: Heh, how long have you had it?
Vince/Bogart: God, like for ages now.
Katarzyna/Bergman: Huh. Who’s that over there?
Vince/Bogart: Claude Rains.
Katarzyna/Bergman: He looks shorter in the flesh. Is he drunk?
Vince/Bogart: Probably. Hey, I suppose a ride’s out of the question?
The show is back on again now, and they return their concentration to the TV. In the next break they resume their replaying of the film.
Vince says, ‘Okay, now I think we’re up to the part where Sydney Greenstreet comes in.’
Katarzyna says, ‘Right, so what happens now?’
‘Claude Rains shoots him I think,’ Vince says, and Katarzyna replies, ‘Claude Rains never shoots him,’ and picks up a large glass ashtray and throws it at his head.
Anniversary – Aristidis Metaxas
There are some who say that magic doesn’t exist, that it is merely an illusion and that the real is what matters, and that the precious experiences we had in our childhood slip away as we grow older. This may be so for some, but as I think back over a few of the events that happened when I was a child, that strange otherworldly time when I seemed to be so much older and knew the answers to the mysteries, I know for certain that these very same events helped shape my life and are still with me to this day.
I remember even now this particular golden and warm summer’s day, school was out for the time and the months were spent on a farm out in the country, ‘Nana’s Place’ they called it, some of my happiest times and memories were there, and some of the strangest also. That day I was sitting in a meadow, watching the butterflies float by looking like golden empresses and their transparent wings shining in the sun. Me and Tinker the cat were playing with the flowers and sunbeams, watching the air traffic of bugs and beetles winging their way through the air, all kinds of tiny little flying machines making their way around the best they could, when suddenly I had the strange feeling that I had to get up and go into the house were Nana was preparing lunch. Don’t know what came over me, I just had to get up and walk towards the big ol’ house, for no particular reason. Lunch was still a while off and I really wanted to stay in that meadow for a little longer. Tinker the cat was looking at me kind of strange like, as if he knew what was about to happen, cats do that sometimes. He went ahead of me, tail up in the air leading the way, and me following behind him unable to shake the strange feeling that was growing inside of me …
As I entered the doorway of the house I had the oddest sensation that something was about to happen, something ordinary and yet so unusual and inexplicable that I would remember this very day for the rest of my life. I couldn’t see Nana in the kitchen so I slowly went up the stairs to the top floor where the bedrooms were, hoping to find her there. Tinker the cat was in an odd kind of way meowing at me, trying to tell me something, wanting to come up with me but something made him stay behind. As I came to the top of the staircase I could hear Nana’s voice humming softly from the bedroom. I nearly called out to her but, to this day I still don’t know why or what, something told me to keep quiet.
I went to the bedroom where Nana was humming, the door was slightly ajar, and through the narrow opening I saw her all dressed up in her finest dress and shoes, she looked real pretty, with her silver grey hair done up in a bun and held in place with a golden pin. She had her eyes closed, her head was slightly tilted to one side as if she were listening to an inner voice, or perhaps she was remembering something from her past, some precious memory that had come calling unexpectedly and unannounced. She was clutching an old record to her heart, one of those 78s you see today in the junk shops for a dollar, and it seemed to me as if she was in a trance, she didn’t see me or didn’t even acknowledge me in any way, she seemed so far away, somewhere in an inner landscape that only she and children knew and had entry to. Do you know it?
After a little while she opened her eyes and looked at the record for what seemed like a long time, almost as if she were hesitating, then softly and gently wiped it with a silken handkerchief before turning towards the old grammy player and with careful hands turned the handle and placed the platter on the turntable. Music filled the bedroom, music – although a little scratchy and worn, music that I can still hear today, music that I haven’t forgotten and can’t get out of my head even after all those years. Nana had closed her eyes and swayed to the sounds coming from the old gramophone, and then, with small and careful steps began to dance, dancing as if she were with an invisible partner, her face shining in the golden light of the morning sun that was streaming through the bedroom windows, sun that seemed to mingle with the sounds of this strange and wonderful music.
Nana danced like this for what seemed to me a very long time, and then suddenly with a soft cry, as if waking from a beautiful dream she stopped in the middle of the room and looked around herself sort of bewildered. Her fingers touched her lips as if she had been startled and slowly she walked towards the dressing table and sat down before the big mirror. With a dreamlike motion she loosened her long beautiful hair and began to brush it, kind of absent minded as if seeing something that only she could see, when from behind the door appeared Grandpa, and he walked towards Nana softly as if he didn’t want to wake her from a deep sleep.
He gently took the brush from her hands and began to brush Nana’s hair, his strong brown hand resting on her shoulder, ever so lightly, ever so tenderly as if trying to reassure her not to be afraid, that there was nothing to fear. Nana, her eyes still closed, softly touched his hand and put it against her cheek, tears were rolling down her face, and after a while the music stopped. Grandpa put the brush back on the dressing table, kissed Nana on the forehead, whispered something in her ear, and before leaving placed a red rose in front of Nana right there on that dressing table. Nana opened her eyes and I could see that she wanted to call out to Grandpa, trying to say something to him, maybe asking him to stay a little while longer, but she kept silent and watched him walk out the other door leading from the bedroom down to the backyard.
Nana sat for a long time before that dressing table looking with love at the red rose left for her by Grandpa. After a while she picked it up, opened the drawer of the dresser, gently placed the rose into it, closed the drawer again and then stood up, fixed her hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked at once happy and sad, old and yet so much younger, a strange mix of emotions that we sometimes feel when we don’t know whether our tears are tears of joy or sorrow, when we laugh and cry at the same time.
She walked through the same doorway that Grandpa had left open, softly singing to herself the same tune that had played on the ol’ grammy. I waited without making a sound until I could hear her downstairs in the kitchen before I entered the bedroom. I could still feel Grandpa’s presence in the room, I could smell the tobacco and the after shave he used to wear. I could smell the leather from his boots, all the familiar aromas that I had come to love and know of Grandpa.
To this very day I don’t know what made me open the drawer of the dresser, but as I watched my hand slowly open it I became aware that what I was about to see would change the way I would see reality from then on forever. Inside that drawer were four roses, all neat and tidy like, resting on white tissue paper, three of them all dried up and the colour drained from them, but the fourth rose still fresh and full in bloom, its fragrance filling the room, filling my head, filling my very body and soul … The room began to spin, I felt dizzy and yet the dizziness turned into unbelievable joy, joy and reassurance that all was well, that everything was all right.
I never told anyone about this strange occurrence until now, there are some things better left untold, no one would believe me anyhow, and as we grow older and more grown up those times of magic fade into the darkness, and we begin to doubt and question our own perceptions and memories. If you asked me what really happened that day I can give no reasonable answer but I can tell you this:
Perhaps it is true childhood memories are for kids, that ghosts don’t exist, that the dead are dead and can never come back to life, that we are told to leave childish things and imaginings. This may be so. But I know without doubt that I saw Grandpa place a red rose on that dressing table and I saw Nana put it into that drawer of the old dresser. I also know that I saw four roses in that drawer, all lined up. That in itself may be quite ordinary and nothing special, an old married couple celebrating their anniversary and a husband giving a red rose to his wife. Ordinary indeed one could say except for the fact that Grandpa had been dead for four years on that very same day.
I wish I had kept that record or taken notes of the tune that was playing, I never found that record again nor do I think I ever will, nor heard the tune on the radio except in my memories. Sometimes things like that are better left where they are, in that Kingdom where only children and old folks can enter.
Kind of makes you think, don’t it …
This section brought to you by
The Turning Page Bookshop
Books for the community
134 Macquarie Road Springwood NSW
http://www.theturningpagebookshop.com.au/
Gloria Davidson – Abena Gyemfuah
July winter wind chills cracked her skin dry.
Not knowing what awaited her home;
She gathers from the grocer and plans her folks’ dinner, a routine so accustom to her, she dares not to ruffle.
Meanwhile, the house laid empty after a day long enough at work.
HE appeared from nowhere and then gone again in a packed car full of their memories – and for what?
Mother in her shock gathered her children and nestled them tight in her bosom, huddled up close in the couch;
Tears flooded them.
They moaned, they groaned, they wept, he’s gone!
This can’t be happening, our beautiful family, our sacred love withers.
Rejection and misery gripped her.
Yet she stood up straight, scurries up her feet at once, children to be fed;
She bestows love upon her children and comforted them, the way she had always done;
And together they were secured in that love, that warmth, again.
A year is passed, nothing ever the same, here again, gone again, pain ever so raw.
Vide Grenier – Samantha Miller
Monsieur Farfalu was bored. His lover had left him last week and he had finished his vin ordinaire the previous night. He was loath to start on his good wine, so he must go out into the village to stock up.
Taking his moto¹ from his back garden he putted into the local town to have a look around and buy much needed produce. As he drove along he noticed vide grenier² taking place outside the house of one of the mushrooms of foreigners that had been popping up in the last twenty years. He grunted as he passed taking in the two women at the stall.
Marina and Veronika had been at their stall since 6am sipping coffee and exchanging the desultory conversation of friends who know they will spend a whole day together and so are in no rush to make a gossip deadline. The stall was actually all Veronika’s with Marina (a sporadic local) being drafted in to help and keep company. The coffee was good, the weather was fine and it looked like being a lovely day for it.
Being a Saturday all the locals were out in force. M. et Madame LeClare stopped to chat and snoop, but didn’t really want anything. Some English people on holiday recognising a possible compatriot came over for advice on and directions to the local sights. A man approached looking at a set of four wooden folding chairs and asked to purchase them. He would check his house for the size and would phone Veronika to see if they were still available.
M. Farfalu backtracked on his moto, leaned it against a wall and approached the stall. Like the previous local, his eye was on the set of four folding wooden chairs and he was about to have a little fun. After not much thought Veronika had set a price of four euros each for the chairs with a combined price of €14 for taking all of them. M. Farfalu asked for one chair for only €3.
‘If I’m to break up the set, I want my €4’, said Veronika staunchly.
‘Pah!’ said M. Farfalu, getting into his stride, ‘It isn’t worth it for me.’
‘So, don’t buy it,’ Veronika stuck to her guns.
M. Farfalu bargained back and forth enjoying himself immensely, but Veronika wouldn’t budge. So off went M.Farfalu to do his shopping.
When Veronika was ready for lunch, she and Marina agreed to take turns for a break. M. Farfalu was in the area and saw his chance. He thought Marina was a fine looking woman and he was in need of a woman himself.
Sure enough, the coast being clear M. Farfalu wandered across to her and sat in the chair vacated by Veronika. Smiling his best smile and exuding the fumes of his time at the village bar, he offered her five euros for two of the chairs. Leaning a little back from him, Marina explains that they are not hers to sell and perhaps they are already sold anyway.
Disappointment etched on his face, M. Farfalu scans the stall. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’ he asks.
Mystified by this turn of events, Marina replies, ‘No, this is a vide grenier stall, not a bar.’
‘Ah,’ he then says as if he has won a major point, ‘then come to the village bar with me.’
With Marina declining this kind offer, M. Farfalu takes himself off to the village bar, humming to himself.
On Veronika’s return, they discuss their recurrent visitor and decide that if he tries again for the chairs the price will be €4 for one chair, but he can have two chairs for €6.
M. Farfalu is down, but not out. Fortified by his next trip to the bar, he is ready to return to the fray.
‘Two chairs for €5’ he cries. ‘You can bring them to my house, it’s not far.’
‘Of course, not,’ Veronika says. ‘This is a vide Grenier, not a shop.’ She smiles and waves her arms dramatically at the items left on the stall. ‘The price is €6 for the two chairs and you must take them yourself.’
‘But Madam, I am on my moto. What would you have me do?’ He pleads with a gleam in his eye, belying his attempts to look pathetic. ‘How will you feel tomorrow, when you take up your newspaper to find I am dead by the roadside with the two chairs wrapped about my neck?’ He gestures dramatically. ‘Will you not then feel guilty and wish you had delivered the chairs?’ Though M. Farfalu was very pleased with this visual, it didn’t have the desired effect with both women stoutly declaring their lack of any finer feelings with regards to his safety in the matter.
The wind knocked out of his sails, M. Farfalu slumped a little, before sadly telling the women that he could get his van, but he really didn’t feel like riding home and then driving back to pick up the chairs.
‘What do you think is in it for me to drive to your village just to deliver two chairs for €6?’ Veronika asked. ‘It costs more than that in petrol and I won’t be getting the chairs.’
M. Farfalu has another try.
‘Oh, but I will give you a nice drink on my boat.’
‘I don’t want a drink,’ Veronika replies.
‘Cake then. I have just bought a lovely cake,’ he offers.
‘And how much did you pay for the cake?’ Marina asks.
On finding the cost of the cake was the difference of the offer and the cost of the chairs, the two women fall about laughing.
‘If you hadn’t bought the cake you are offering us you could have paid for the chairs,’ they say.
At that M. Farfalu perked up. An idea had so obviously implanted itself in his mind that Marina felt as though a light bulb should appear above his messy salt and pepper coiffure.
‘It’s too late now,’ he says ‘those chairs won’t sell this time in the afternoon. You should just let me have them for €5 and deliver them to my house, or you will just have them left on your hands,’ he warns.
Well, Veronika doesn’t mind keeping the chairs and so after all this time, no bargain is struck at all.
M. Farfalu is pleased with his day. He has stocked up his supplies, had a nice drink and renewed his appreciation of the females of the world. He leaves with Veronika’s address in case the chairs will fit under the shelf in his boat.
He smiles as he weaves away on his moto, Veronika’s parting shot reverberating in his ears.
‘Don’t bother driving over if you aren’t prepared to pay the €6.’ m
¹A low cc motorbike or moped
²A vide grenier is a garage sale, as charming direct translation being ‘empty attic’.
With thanks to my mother Marina for the original material that became this story.
This section brought to you by
Maber Business Services
Specialising in Tax Returns, Accounting and Loans for
Individuals, Sole Traders and Partnerships
What Cannot Be Contained – Michele Fermanis-Winward
it falls through space
holds life and captured light.
Repeated out of time
beyond the known millennia
to carve a chasm or a cave
within our rock and earth.
Locked into lakes
or swelling up from springs
a river’s course replenished by ice thaw.
We halt its pace in tank and pipe
held tight for future use
until a washer fails
then it resumes the journey as before.
To fall through space
each drop marks time relentlessly
reverberates against unyielding iron.
Eclipsing other sounds
it carves a chasm in my mind
the silence broken by a dripping tap
that cannot be contained.
Another Day – John Egan
Who sat alone
Whom to many
Would not be known
Who stood behind
To brush the hair
Could be a mother
With loving care
Who’s eyes were bright
And clear
But sometimes shed
A silent tear
Who made the frock
That fits so well
Why or when
No one can tell
Who gave the book
So dearly treasured
With stories of
Yesteryear
That cannot be measured
Who built the table
So sturdy in bás
It enhances
The tall ornate váse
Who arranged the flowers
All part of the day
Many will guess
But none can say
Who will look in adoration
Unable to use
Imagination
Who will read
Then walk away
Left with thoughts
Of another day
Once when on my way to visit a friend in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales I passed by a shop window and glanced at something within which caused me to turn back to take a proper look. Centred amongst a display of soft furnishings was a framed print. Portraying a child it revealed all the grace and charm of a bygone era.
Some weeks later I was in the same area, but not to visit my friend. I was surprised to see that self same print was still in the window. Being a person who likes to know the whys and wherefores of everything I ventured into the shop to make some enquiries. I learnt that it was a copy of the original photo taken in 1910. Furthermore it was the woman as a child that can be seen sweeping the floor in Tom Robert’s oil on canvas entitled ‘Shearing of the Rams’. That to me was something historical so I enquired, was it for sale, and yes it was, so I bought it.
After I wrote the poem I offered it and the print to my cousin. Offer of the poem was rejected but the framed print was received with gratitude. Placed in a prominent position in her house it remained there for many years, to be known by all as ‘Emily’. As my cousin is presently being cared for in a nursing home the framed print is now in the proud possession of her granddaughter.
This section brought to you by
People Like You
A beautiful, inspiring book about overcoming adversity
What is River? – J-L Heylen
There were two parents, a mother and a father. They had two lovely sons and were pregnant with a third child. Knowing the wealth of research that had been done since the 1970s about how sexual stereotypes were all about what other people thought was true about how the xx or the xy chromosome determined a whole lot of social, physical and mental factors, these parents had tried as hard as they could not to inflict these gender stereotypes onto their sons.
Instead of deciding what their sons would wear each day, for example, the parents let their boys choose. Sometimes one or other of the boys would choose something pink. Each of them might, and did, on occasion, choose to wear a dress. The kids were also given complete control over what they chose to play with, and who they chose to play with. Whenever the boys jumped to a conclusion about someone’s behaviour based on their sex, the parents tried to explain that those assumptions might well be correct, but not because the person was born male, or female, but rather, because they had been told they were that sex from birth, and that had caused them to act that way.
As the boys grew older and went to school, it became increasingly obvious that the values of respect and inclusion, regardless of gender, were being undermined in the school room and the playground. When one of the boys was told a story of little Red Riding Hood, he put up his hand and told the teacher that he thought the story was silly. Why would little Red Riding Hood need an axeman to save her? Why couldn’t she reason her way out of trouble herself? he had asked. The teacher was angry, and sent him out of the room. The teacher had sent a note home to his parents saying Jess was a ‘disruptive influence’ in the classroom and that his tendency to interrupt all the time was symptomatic of a possible attention deficit disorder.
Eventually, the parent realised that if they wanted to maintain their ‘gender-neutral’ beliefs, they would have to take the boys out of the social system that perpetuated what they believed to be myths. For the next three years they home-schooled their sons. Then, they got pregnant with their third child.
The parents didn’t want to know the sex of the child. They had already chosen a name for it, but that name was gender-neutral too, so no-one would be able to decide the sex by hearing the name. When the boys asked whether they were going to have a brother or a sister, the parents asked ‘Why does it matter?’ The boys had no good answer to the question. The older one, who was wiser in the ways of the world, tried to answer that he would like a little sister to play with, but his parents just asked again, ‘Why does it matter? You can play the same games with a brother or a sister. You can help just as much with either, and your little sibling will need your help and friendship all through their life, regardless of their sex. Cody had to admit that this was true, as far as he had experienced. He was good at throwing and catching but Jess was rubbish at it. But Jess was really good at explaining stuff, and he wasn’t, Cody thought. There was a heap of stuff that he was good at and liked to do, that Jess wasn’t so good at or didn’t like to do, and theirs was a heap of stuff that worked the other way.
When the baby was born, the parents looked between its legs and saw what sex it was. The woman’s parents asked what they had, but the mother and father refused to tell anyone. The next door neighbours dropped in when they got back from the hospital, the parents, Cody, Jess, and River. They asked if River was a boy’s name. They thought it sounded like a boy’s name, they said. The parents refused to tell. No matter who asked, the parents refused to say what sex River was. People thought of the famous actor, and decided the child must be a boy. They brought around toys that they hoped wouldn’t be offensive to the parents, who had made their views on gender as a social construct perfectly clear. Surely a jigsaw puzzle couldn’t be a problem, they concluded. Indeed, River received many puzzles—and had two favourites. One was a picture of a train going over a bridge. The train was red, River’s favourite colour. The other was a picture of a ballerina in a beautiful red tutu. It seemed River didn’t care so much about the subject matter of the picture, as long as it had a lot of red in it. When she grew old enough to ride a bike, she wanted a red one.
The boys knew better by now than to ask either of their parents whether River was their sister or their brother. So one day, Cody offered to change River’s nappy. Like I said before, he was wise in the ways of the world and knew how sex manifested itself in the physical make-up of his dad and him and Jess, compared to his mum. So, of course, as soon as he took the nappy off, he could see what River was. He immediately went running to his mother saying ‘Mum, Mum, I know what River is.’ He was disappointed at the lack of excitement his mother showed. She just said, straight back to him, just as she had before the birth, ‘Why does it matter?’
This time Cody had his answer prepared. ‘I just wanted to know, Mum.’
‘Well, now you know, Cody. Please don’t mention it again, because it doesn’t matter, does it?’
Cody thought of the television show he had seen just the night before, where a boy had refused to play with his little sister because she wasn’t good at climbing. The boy in the show had said she wasn’t good at climbing because she was a girl. The whole family in the TV show had said nothing about this comment. They all acted as if this was a perfectly reasonable explanation and a perfectly reasonable response from the boy character. Jess had piped up and said ‘That’s not fair. She probably can’t climb very well because she’s younger than him.’ Jess suffered from being less physically able than his older brother, and he knew how this felt. His parents glanced at each other knowingly. This was a good observation from their son, they felt.
Cody had thought about this for a long time. He also knew Jess was less physically able than him and he had always assumed it was to do with his age too. But maybe the boy on the TV show was right. Maybe Jess was actually a girl, inside, where it mattered. Maybe the fact that he had a penis and balls didn’t matter so much as how he behaved. Boys climbed trees. Jess couldn’t climb trees very well. Boys were good at throwing a ball and playing cricket and riding bikes, and Jess wasn’t good at any of those things. Therefore, Jess must be a girl and I’m a boy, Cody concluded.
After the conversation about River with his mother, Cody started watching people a lot more than he had before. He watched how Jess behaved, and concluded that Jess must be a girl, because Jess liked lots of things that girls seemed to like. He concluded he was a boy because he liked lots of things that Jess didn’t like, but which the boys that visited them did like. He watched his father, and noticed that there were some quite obvious differences in behaviour between him and his mother. They both shared the cooking, but his mum was terrible at cleaning up after herself. His dad was much more fastidious (although Cody said he was ‘cleaner’, because he didn’t know the word fastidious!). From what he could tell, this would make his dad a girl. But his dad loved watching sport on Saturday, while his mum was in the studio painting, so this would make his dad a man, definitely.
On things like physical prowess, his mum and his dad seemed to be pretty much equal. His mum was just as capable and willing to jump on the bike with River in the baby seat and Cody and Jess in the buggy as his dad was. They both changed light bulbs, screwed in hooks, painted the walls, took out the garbage, and drove the car. So, Cody concluded, the jury was still out, then. It was hard to tell what sex his mum or his dad really was.
So then he started watching River. Even though he knew what was between River’s legs, he tried to look at the behaviours – what River liked and didn’t like. This didn’t help. Cody just couldn’t conclude what was going on in River’s head. One minute, the ballerina was favoured and River would seek out the Barbie doll with the red ballerina dress to mimic the moves being shown in the jigsaw. The next minute the red train set would be dragged from the toy box and River would be pretending that the whole room was filled with steam and chuffing engines as the carriage made its way from room to room.
What’s a person supposed to think? Cody wasn’t sure. Still, he didn’t say anything to his parents about his research. He thought they’d be angry.
In fact, this was exactly what they had hoped would happen. They had wanted their children to make their own minds up about things, rather than rely on the physical appearance of a person, or the role that society determined they should have based on what chromosomal mix they had inherited. The fact that Cody could go against the physical proof of Jess’ genitalia to conclude he was a girl was a step in the right direction, they would have thought. But Cody had already worked out that genders had values.
This became even more evident to him one day when his mother’s sister came to stay for a few days, with her two children. All the children were in the tree house, including River, who had been carried up by Cody because River was still too small to climb the big steps in the ladder. Thomas, who was the same age as Jess, more or less, was boasting about his jumping ability and daring everyone there to match him.
‘I’m the best jumper here,’ Thomas proclaimed. ‘I bet I can jump out of this tree house and land way over there, near where the cat is standing.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Thomas!’ Jess warned, ‘That’s dangerous.’
‘Yeah, you’ll break something for sure!’ Cody assessed, sagely. He was the oldest, after all. He understood that large impacts caused things to break, and that bodies weren’t immune from this effect, regardless of whether you were a girl or a boy.
‘Better not, Tom,’ his sister cautioned. ‘If you hurt yourself, Mum will be upset. She’s already got enough to deal with.’
‘Oh, you’re such a bunch of girls!’ Thomas yelled at them and leapt up before anyone could stop him. He launched himself from the tree house and landed almost on the spot that he said he would. The cat raced off, yowling, and hid under a chair on the verandah.
‘I am not a girl!’ Cody screamed, and jumped after Thomas. He landed next to Tom with a bone-jarring thump. Thomas looked at him and grinned. Cody had bitten his tongue when he hit the ground, and now he tasted blood, but somehow he knew that showing any weakness now might endanger this frail camaraderie that was now showing in Thomas’ admiration, so he said nothing.
Jess was angry that Thomas had called him a girl, because he knew he wasn’t one, but he also knew he didn’t want to jump out of the tree house. He was smaller than Cody and Thomas, and thought he wouldn’t get away with it unscathed. The problem was that he could also see how important this challenge was to Thomas, and how seriously Cody had reacted. He could see he was stuck in a dilemma. Jess wanted people to like him. He wanted to get on with people. Jess had been enjoying sitting in the tree house talking, without parents listening or intervening to correct them or ask them to do the dishes when he had other things he wanted to do instead. Proving he was a ‘boy’ by doing something obviously perilous would make Thomas like him. Thomas clearly had liked Cody because he had jumped. On the other hand, Mum and Dad always said that being a boy was just the same as being a girl, so why had Thomas used the term as an insult, and why had Cody taken it as such? If boys are so special, and girls so bad, Jess, wondered, why wasn’t having a penis enough to make you a boy without you having to break a limb in a death-defying endeavour?
Cody and Thomas had turned towards the tree house and were now chanting his name, trying to get him to jump.
‘Come on Jess, jump,’ Cody encouraged.
‘Jess is a Jessie, Jess is a girl!’ Thomas teased.
Jess felt humiliated, but he really didn’t understand why.
Thomas’s sister, Fiona, was so disgusted by this show that she had gone back to her book, and was trying to ignore all of them.
By the time anyone noticed River, it was too late. River loved Cody, and admired him. Everything Cody did, River tried to do to. This had meant that River’s development had been phenomenal. By copying Cody’s behaviour, River’s physical abilities, mental faculties and speech were more advanced than you would normally expect from a four year old. But four wasn’t old enough to jump out of a tree house. As River followed Cody down to the ground, the other children watched, transfixed. River hit the ground in a heap and immediately started to scream in pain.
Thomas and Cody, who were closest, both seemed unable to act. A small part of them knew this might be their fault, and they didn’t know what to do to fix it.
Jess didn’t even wait to see what happened when River hit the ground. As soon as River shot past him, Jess jumped after the toddler. In his mind, he hoped he could go faster and catch River in mid air. He didn’t know enough physics to know this wouldn’t work. He had acted through instinct. When Jess hit the ground, he tumbled once, and came up quickly, deftly plucking River up in one arm as he raced into the house.
River had to go to hospital, and Mum wouldn’t let anyone go with Dad and River except Jess. When they got home, hours later, Mum was still crying. She cried the most when she had gotten a text from Dad saying River just had a broken arm, and they would be home in a few hours.
After that, Cody decided in didn’t matter if Jess or River was a girl or a boy. He thought Jess was the bravest person he had ever known, because he had been scared to jump, but had jumped anyway, to save River. He also decided he didn’t like Thomas very much, and spent much more time with Fiona after that. He was really glad when Thomas went home to live with his dad. They can have each other, Cody thought.
In the years that passed, Cody rarely felt any need to wonder again about what made boys boys and girls girls. He knew the difference physically, but he didn’t really care as long as they were nice people. He grew up understanding, too, that it didn’t really matter so much if people liked him because he was a boy, or because he wasn’t a boy. It was more important that he liked himself, and he did like himself.
When he got to uni, Cody realised other people liked him too, especially girls. There was a certain type of girl, too, he realised, that seemed to like him more because he didn’t make any assumptions about what they should or shouldn’t do. He judged people based on what they liked to do, and girls seemed to find this refreshing. In fact, more than that, they seemed to find it extremely attractive. It wasn’t long before Cody learnt how his male genitalia fit with girl’s female ones. He never tired of the novelty.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-34 show above.)