narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three
narrator AUSTRALIA
narratorAUSTRALIA
Volume Three
Various Contributors
May to October 2013
A showcase of Australian poets and authors
who were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog
from May to October 2013
First published November 2013 by MoshPit Publishing
an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd
Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway
Hazelbrook NSW 2779, Australia
https://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/
This ebook © MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.
Cover image: Foggy sunrise – lonely tree and sun morning landscape, by konradlew, purchased from https://iStockphoto.com/
This book is also available in print. Please visit the narratorCENTRAL website for more details.
Contents
Foreword
Copyright Reminder
Index
Bios and contact details
MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more
Foreword
Here we are again with another volume of Australian creative writing, reflecting the diverse interests and thoughts of our community. What an honour it is to bring you this third edition of narratorAUSTRALIA.
It never ceases to amaze us how many new and original thoughts come in each week. One would think that, with all the billions of people on the planet and access to writing tools and the internet, that every facet of the human condition would have been explored in writing by now, but not so!
Over the last 18 months, the narratorAUSTRALIA community has grown and is reaching more people who understand the value of testing their work on the site. New and established authors alike are beginning to use the narrator program to garner an audience for their existing works by including in their biographies links to their websites and purchase links for their books.
As always, we’ve received some works which really made us sit up and take notice and so these have received an Editor’s Pick. And as always, the usual disclaimer: you may not agree with us, and yes, there are other pieces which missed out by the slimmest of margins. But that’s the beauty of art, isn’t it? It’s all in the eye of the beholder. So congratulations to all contributors for helping highlight the great standard of creative writing in Australia with this third volume.
This year we started activating our plans to broaden the narrator program. We will now accept entries to narratorAUSTRALIA from around the Oceanic region, so our friends in New Zealand, Fiji etc, can get competitive with their Aussie writing friends.
And as part of that expansion, we now have two more geography-based sites: narratorUK, which is accepting entries from Great Britain, Ireland and surrounding countries, and narratorUSA, which is accepting entries from the US, South America, and surrounding countries.
We are also pleased to introduce six genre-based sites accepting entries from all round the world, so our narratorAUSTRALIA entrants can now mix it up in a variety of ways:
– narratorEROTICA – stories and poems you wouldn’t want your mother to read!
– narratorROMANCE – for those stories and poems about love that you would be happy for Mum to read!
– narratorFAITH – a place of respect for sharing your thoughts about whatever gets you through the night
– narratorFANTASY – for lovers of Middle-earth, magic, and other staples of fantasy literature
– narratorPRIDE – for positive stories with themes and/or characters along gay, lesbian, transgender, polyamorous, intersex and bisexual lines
– narratorSSS – for sci-fi, speculative fiction and steampunk works.
All nine sites are open now. Visit https://www.narratorCENTRAL.com/ and remember to choose the competition you wish to enter when uploading your piece.
Just a timely reminder to help you maximise your chances of being published:
Please don’t submit memoir or essay pieces – narrator publishes creative fiction only.
Please ensure you are happy with your work before submitting it – we don’t have time to make requested changes to your entry.
Please ensure your work has been proofread and/or edited. Poorly written or presented works will be quickly declined.
Please ensure your work entertains, provokes thought or stirs emotion. We are looking for works which make us sit up and take notice via their rhythm, words, ideas, humour, sadness or thoughtfulness.
But enough from me. It’s time for you start enjoying this new volume which contains more than 210 poems and short stories written and submitted by more than 90 emerging and established writers from across Australia and published at www.narratoraustralia.com during the six month period from 1 May 2013 to 31 October 2013. Most items were published at 8 am Sydney time, unless otherwise time stamped.
So please, turn the page and start reading … and if you feel like submitting to a narrator competition yourself one day, we would love to hear from you!
Thank you for your support of narrator and the writers herein.
Jennifer Mosher, AE
Editor-in-Chief
Copyright reminder
Please remember that every item in this book is the copyright of the attributed author.
Please do not even think about plagiarising these works or using them without permission.
If you wish to gain permission to quote from these works, or to use them elsewhere, then please contact us via our MoshPit Publishing website at www.moshpitpublishing.com.au if you can’t easily find contact details for the author in question.
The above also applies to any images supplied by the authors to illustrate their artworks.
Thank you.
Index
Abecca, Kylie
The Hermit
Wish For An End
Adamopoulos, Stephanie
Cockatoos, Rats And Venus Flytraps
Anderson, David
A Good Death
Intellectual Cowboy
Kirsten’s Photo
Murder Me Before I Die
The Book Of Dreams
The Butterfly Tattoo
The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Commuter
Arvan, John
Love
Ashwin, Hettie
Boy
Assumpter, Irene
The World That Comes Third
Baker, Sarah
The Beginning Of An End
Bingham, Leonie
Just Another Day At The Office
One Night In Gibraltar
Black, Jordan
Call Me
Heat
Kiss Goodbye
Wind
Boko, Armin
All Clerks Now
Dirty Money
Nobody Is Perfect
When There Are Two Inside Of One
Branscombe, Rachel
Darkened Night
Frightened Night Child
One’s Imagination
Swing Free
The Storm
Bruton, Judith
Five Easel Pieces
Game
Naked Options
The Art Of Nothingness
Bundesen, Jean
Capricious Weather
Garden Drama
Grey Horses Fly
Snapshots From A Railway Carriage
Burgess, Shirley
Mr Greedy
One Good Turn …
Wrong Address
Campion, Esther
Libraries
Chaffey, Robyn
Alan Murcott
Annie
Dreaming
Madge And Ruby
Sister’s First Gift
/>
The Ghost In Your Jeans
Clay, Sarah
Reality Check
Craib, James
At A Loose End
At Another Time
Australistan
Envy Of Aging Begonia
Majestic Drivel
The Charms Of Miss Cairns
The Puling
Cumming, Jennie
It’s Time
David, Lauren
Therapeutic Relief
DavidVee
Kingfisher
Demelza
Praise For Penny (And Her Poise)
Dimitric, Irina
Cloud Gazing – A Tercetonine
Ode To My Canary
Edgar, Bob
A Chip Off The Old Block
Broken Promise
Catching Up
Child’s Play
Gutted
The Punter
Fantail
Awe And Confusion
Fermanis-Winward, Michele
The Quiet Carriage
Fowler, Mark
Acceptance
Betrayal
Hero Comes Home
Me Mack’s Back
Old People Luddites
The Bee
The Natives Are Restless, Sir
Gardiner, Alexander
Cricket
Imagination
Nature’s Wonder
Sum Wee Wurds O’ Praise, Marilyn
Tae A Cherry
The Music Of Nature So Serene
Gibbs, Thomas
That Girl In The Dream
The Piercing Cold
Goodwin, Peter
The Bend In The Road
The Embrace
Govier, Mark
Dreaming I Am Edgar Allan Poe, Again …
Gow, Virginia
A Jolly Saturday
Pumpkin Soup
Rose
The Tangled Wood
Tip Top Invitation
Window of Opportunity
Hall, Emma
Desk Space
Hameed, Mubarak
Humanity’s Crime
Heks, Andris
Heaven On Earth
Homo Animal
Of Raspberry, Yoke And Yoga
Howell, Connie
Broken But Not Beyond Repair
Humphreys, Paul
A Day Of Reckoning
Another Character
I Wish They Had Not Done That
No Regrets
Surprise
Jenkins, David
A Spell For Ireland
The Battle Of Stirling Bridge
Jensen, Heather
A Sustainable Dream
Joemass
A New Sura
Johnston, Henry
A Porpoise Life
Pearl Fishers
The Snarler
Karamaroudis, Kerry
My Life On The Outside
Kathopoulis, Jenny
My Light
The Porcelain Doll
Kay, Susan
Smashing Garlic
Two For One
Keegan, David J
Jungle Land
Out Of This Wood
Khare, Ruchi
Picture Perfect
Krone, Mary
I Dreamt Of You
La Porte, Judith
Water, Water, Everywhere
Lee, Crystal
An Ode To Music (My Dearest Friend)
Linn, Marilyn
Birds Of A Feather
Let’s Party
The Old Pooncarie Road
Words Fail Me
Lutta, Fayroze
Let Me Clear My Throat Before I Begin …
On The 5½ Floor
What We Speak Becomes The House We Live In
Lynch, Felicity
Do Not Dare
Loneliness
Shadows
The Dark Garden
The Widow
Mancy, JH
Absent Friend
End Game
Henry
Quest
The Sheet House
Martin, Julie
House On The Beach
McCaskill, Ben
Ocean
McIntosh, Whitney
Eastbrook
Red And Cream
MD, Evelyn
Idle
The Black Pool
The Nut
Monica, Vita
A Man Under A Tree
Faith
Thought Of Horror
Where Have They Gone?
Murphy, Robert
A Childhood Friendship
Newman, David
Stony Waters
Just Some Thoughts
Nickols, Lynn
It Takes Quite Some Time
Pant, Subroto
The Busker
The Tall Tail
Pigott, Ann
The Meeting
Plummer, Alexandra
White Wizard’s Spell
Porter, Beau
Another Farce
Radcliffe, Douglas
The Resin Diaries
Rain, Joanna
Gritty
Liberate
Ramsay, Sallie
A Very Special Grandmother
Consequences
RL
Orchard
Robertas
The Flasher
Ross, John
The Challenge
The Dangers Of Dating Doris
The End?
The Old Man In A Boat
The Travel Bug
The View From Here
Russell, Jane
Mo Goes Missing – The Xing Saga part 6
Ogglebog Is Saved! – The Xing Saga part 4
SnoopyLoo Meets The Emperor – The Xing Saga part 5
The Abandoned Ballroom – The Xing Saga part 2
The Future Is Female – The Xing Saga part 3
The Xing Invasion – The Xing Saga part 1
Ryan-Jones, Alexander
Copper
Smoke-Stacks
Sammy
You And I
Scott, Emma-Lee
The Countdown
Untitled #7
Within
Singer, Ariette
My Friend, The Shower
Please Explain, Time!
Smith, Winsome
Justice
Roadhouse
The House On Napoleon Street
These Made Me
Smithers, Alexandra
She (Part II)
Smithers, Shane
Death And Taxes
Soul, Jessica
Always Have And Always Will
Forever And Always
This Is Goodbye
Sparks, Graham
Steppe Surfing
The Killing Floor
The Second Dispossession
Twenty-Seven Typists
Stanbridge, Deborah
Shedding Light On Life
The Performance
Stanton, Craig
Dry
Todd, Shannon
Coffee And Carbs
Tome, Gregory
One Life’s Detritus
Refugee Camp
Vitols, Wendy
The Welt
Walker, Mitchell
Grey Dawn
Ward, Ken
Prime
Warren, JL
Lady Rachel – The Downfall Of A Moral Empire
Withers, Ruth
A Magic Purple Carpet
A Nonsense
Childhood Lost
For You, Daughter
It Never Goes Away
On Waking
Zaknic, Athena
A Certain Date
Wednesday 1 May 2013
Libraries
Esther Campion
Port Sorell, TAS
We are libraries of each other’s lives,
repositories of memories importan
t only to us,
cross-referencing events for clarity and meaning,
divulging the serious and silly secrets of our past lives,
storing them in the bomb-proof basement archives of our minds
lines of files placed carefully in my case
more haphazardly in yours
to be opened on rare occasions
like breakfast in bed
or late night conversation after sex.
Wednesday 1 May 2013 4 pm
Intellectual Cowboy
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
I’ve hitched a ride with Kerouac drifting out on the road
Heard Charlie’s sweet sax, playing bop overload
Drove to Memphis in the mornin’, feeling groovy and fine
In a ’49 Chevy drinking too much red wine
Slept in Big Sur at night with no shoes on my feet
Hung out in the ’50s with those cool Village Beats
Rapped with Ginsberg and asked, ‘Was that lion for real’?
Hit some grains with Bill Burroughs, he said, ‘How do you feel?’
Am I a hipster, perhaps an intellectual cowboy?
Or just a big pain in the ass?
Am I a beatific dude – or a tad just too rude?
Or has my time faded and passed?
Learnt some licks from Coltrane, in the cold evening rain
While he sat drinking Daniels and Coke
Smelt napalm in the jungle, in that Vietnam bungle
My life’s been a Seymour Krim joke
I’ve sold my gun in the Congo, and I play a mean bongo
Spent a night with Doc Hunter on the town
Gave a Senator’s wife the best ride of her life
But next day she was putting me down
Did peyote with Capote, he admired my goatee
Rode a white horse in Chicago for a time
Heard Brubeck playing cool while I hustled at pool
In the Bronx gave Jimmy Dean my last dime
Now I’m alone in my room, contemplating my doom
With a handgun pressed tight to my head
Playing Chet on a CD, with my face looking seedy
Thinking who the f**k cares if I’m dead?
Then you knock on my door, my gun drops to the floor
The bullet screams right through my cat
You’ve got pills and some wine, and soon I’m feeling fine
And then we do it right there on the mat
Am I a hipster, perhaps an intellectual cowboy?
Or just a big pain in the ass?
Am I a beatific dude –or a tad just too rude?
Or has my time faded and passed?
Thursday 2 May 2013
The Welt
Wendy Vitols
Foster, VIC
The welt formed across my cheek within seconds of her hand falling to her side. The sting burned. I refused to let tears enter my eyes as I glared into her hard, cold face. I burnt. The fire raged within me as I stood, still, swallowing my fear and anger.
Her eyes shifted, side to side. It was a weakening that only I recognised. Perhaps she didn’t even know it was visible. Those ice-like eyes did not meet mine again. Her head turned slightly as she began to move away from me.
I held my gaze with every ounce of determination I thought I had. Every hair on my body prickled, every pore sweated, every breath tortured. With each slight weakness she showed, I felt empowered. Strong. More equipped to bury the shame of the slap deep within me.
She busied herself with the dishes. Her back and the clang and battery of the dishes a fortress against me. I stood. Still and alert, still piercing the back of her head with my eyes. Still fighting the tears that bulged against my soul. I would not speak. I would not move. I would not allow her to win. I realised my strength. I realised she thought she had won. I knew she hadn’t.
I knew she was pretending. Her hand shook just a little as it thrust plate after plate on the sink. Suddenly, she whirled around to face me. Spit and bitterness twisting her features, a glass fell to the floor, shattering, ignored by us both. The only common ground, as it settled sharp and dangerous between us.
‘What the hell are you still standing there for?’ she spat, between closed teeth and clenched jaw. ‘Aren’t you meant to be doing homework or something?’
I saw the hatred. I saw the resentment. I saw the decades of sacrifice and martyrdom tattooed on her heart. I saw her mentally grab for me, pulling me in closer, living through me. I saw the life wasted. I saw her lack of desire and passion crumpled up and shoved inside her near empty pack of Winny Blues.
I was everything she was not. I was young, where she was ageing. Soft, where she was hard. Quiet, where she was the life and soul of every situation. I was creative, where she was practical. I was demonstrative, where she was closed.
I had a vision of what we looked like, under the nude fluorescent assault of the kitchen light:
My Aunt, a middle aged sagging woman, shaking. Ill-fitting op shop t-shirt stretched tightly across her chest. Shorts that were too short sitting sadly around her thighs. Thongs clinging for life to the soles of her feet. All I had in the world was this woman, all the hope I had ever felt was wrapped invisibly around her.
Me, a twelve year old, red welt starting to bruise and swell across her face, proclaiming to the world my lack of innocence. A fourth hand school uniform, remnants of the school before last, shielding my scrawny body, feigning adulthood. All she had in this world was taken by me, as a four year old, when there was nowhere else I had to go.
Each of us pressed into our own corner, in the tiny box like laminate and linoleum room, the shards of the past strewn at our feet.
I knew she wanted physical retaliation. She craved a strike back, or even an attempt. Any touch at all would be justification for her. I could hear her breathe, quick, methodical, and shallow.
‘I asked what you were still standing there for,’ she said, almost quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered, honestly, in a whisper.
The stench of the rubbish bin in the kitchen, the grime of last night’s sausages on the bench top, the stains of nicotine smoke on the ceiling. I honestly didn’t know why this was my home, why it was that this woman was meant to be my mother figure. As I looked at her I saw the path ahead of me. I saw the cost of my own servitude. Nausea welled inside of me, I swallowed.
‘I don’t know,’ I repeated.
Half hoping, half even expecting, that she would give me a reason. That she would explain my place, my spot in her life. That she had no regrets, although she’d had no choice either, eight years prior. I wanted to hear of the joy I had brought her; I needed to know I was wanted. All she needed to do was tell me, reassure me, and love me.
‘You need to take the rubbish out.’
She turned back to the sink, grabbing for the dustpan. The radio perched on the window sill, blocking the light between the sink and the roller blind, crackling a bizarrely cheerful tune.
Dutifully I pick up the rubbish bag. I stand, bag in hand watching my Aunt stooped and broken over the once whole glass. I reach my hand out to touch her but stop before it is too late. I turn and walk out of the rusty wire fly screen and toss the bag onto the bin top.
I don’t turn back.
I don’t think about it, I just do it.
The anxiety in my gut makes way for butterflies. Goosebumps of hope appear on my skin.
I walk briskly, nervously, through the one hinged gate. I tread over the cracks in the concrete pavers. It is not until I am way past the letterbox I start to smirk, then grin. By the time I am at the bus stop I am giggling to myself and jogging.
I don’t turn back.
Friday 3 May 2013
Gritty
Joanna Rain
Nelson Bay, NSW
Gritty dirt
Gritty sand
Lay to rest
In my bed!
Traipsing in the earth
br /> Don’t touch my feet!
I’m attached to the dirt!
I won’t wash my feet
Until it rains on me!
Gritty dirt
I carry around
As I cross the ground
I bring it home in little piles
Gritty dirt lays to rest
In a pile of earth in my bed!
This item started as a bit of fun between Joanna and JH Mancy. Joanna is JH’s daughter and we published JH’s response that afternoon – you can read it on the next page.
Friday 3 May 2013 4 pm
The Sheet House
JH Mancy
Tallebudgera, QLD
I don’t buy white sheets anymore;
Motherhood was with disaster fraught
It started when the kids were little –
Kids can be oh, so very fickle!
Bed times were a mite unsettling:
‘Wash your feet!’ I’d yell,
My words upsetting
‘But Mum!’ they’d wail (to no avail)
Glaring looks aimed in my direction –
I’ll come back as a camel
If there’s a resurrection
It gives me the hump – I tell you true
Now would I ever lie to you?
We’re all assuredly in the frame:
We should go back – do that again!
This is JH’s response to the contribution her daughter, Joanna Rain, made to narratorAUSTRALIA and which was published on the previous page.
Saturday 4 May 2013
The Tall Tail
Subroto Pant
Sinnamon Park, QLD
It was on one of those lazy Sunday mornings when Ray first noticed that he was growing a tail. He had walked groggily out of his room when he felt an odd twitch in back of his pyjamas.
Either my head has rotated 180 degrees, or that dodgy kebab from last night is making an early exit, thought Ray.
The pyjama moved a little more. With much trepidation he put his hand inside and touched a little stub that seemed to have sprouted from the base of his spine; only a few inches long, but felt solid and real. Ray groaned inwardly, he knew this was a result of the drinking games that he had indulged in with his buddies the previous night. Given the choice of being reckless or responsible, they chose the former. None of the games required a lot of thinking – just a lot of alcohol. Spurred on by friends and the presence of young women they drank the night away. And now all that alcohol seemed to have affected his brain. He glanced up at the wall clock with its antiqued ivory face and the edge with dark chestnut undertones.
It’s a quarter to eleven in the morning and I am having hallucinations.
The tail was making its way out from his pyjamas. He jammed a hand down his pyjamas; it was already a couple of inches longer than it was earlier, and growing. It was not just growing, the way it pushed itself out, grasping the elastic band, it was clearly exhibiting prehensile behaviour.
This can’t be happening, he thought. Clearly I am experiencing hallucinations. I need help. Or maybe I should just go back to sleep.
Then as he walked to the kitchen to have a drink of water he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. The tail was out in the open now. It had gripped the glass tumbler on the table but it had slipped out of its grip. The floor was littered with shards of glass that were twinkling like the night sky.
A stream of profanities issued from his mouth. This shit was real! This was the end of his life as a normal person. As far as he was aware there was no one in the world with a tail like the one growing out of his rear. Surely he would have heard about it by now. Such a creature would be on YouTube by now, generating millions of hits on the page. There would be unprecedented media coverage if such a creature existed. A daily report on some TV channel or other. Was he going to be that person? The first glimpse his friends get of his tail and nanoseconds later there would be a Facebook post, ‘chillin’ out with Ray and his tail’. In an instant, millions of likes and comments would be posted, as eight hundred million people would take to the social media networks. The man whose tail caused an internet meltdown.
A drop of sweat trickled down his brow and onto his nose. He wiped it off with the back of his hand wondering what had happened. In the stillness of the room he heard a fly buzz. The buzzing got louder but before he could brush it off with his hand, there was a swishing motion as the tail swatted the fly off his nose. His mouth opened and issued a silent scream.
How the hell did this happen? Was this an act of some kind of reverse evolution? A genetic journey with a DNA strand sending a mutation back in time? His body travelling backward through the millennia, reaching that moment in evolutionary history in which the human tail was both common and quietly useful. There was a story he remembered reading once about the Persian king Ahasuerus and his wife Vashti. In his drunken revelry, Ahasuerus decided Vashti should be paraded in front of the men in her royal crown and nothing else. She refused and was subsequently dethroned. Legend says that Vashti was not known for her modesty. So why did she disobey the order of the king? In the fable, Vashti grew a tail and did not want anyone to see it. Myths are often stories of supernatural beings and of a timeless past so there is no objective proof, but how do we know that the stories aren’t true?
This was no fictional event; the swishing tail was evidence of the change that his body had undergone overnight. Cold sweat stood out on Ray’s brow, and he was frightened now in earnest.
A doctor! That’s what he needed. A doctor who would take care of this problem and cut his tail off. Or would a vet be a better choice? Does Medicare even cover removal of a tail? Surely this would be a world’s first. Probably have legal issues involved. He remembered the advertisement he had read for the personal injury lawyers. We have considerable experience in the pursuit and defence of personal injury claims. You’ll receive an early assessment and advice in respect of your prospects and the value of your claim, and we shall be happy to provide a free initial explanation of your potential entitlements and your options. We offer vigorous and efficient pursuit of your claim or defence, with access to expert advice and assistance from medical, engineering and other professionals. Would they laugh if he told them about his condition? Or would they be ecstatic just thinking about the free publicity involved.
Publicity! Oh God how would he deal with the publicity? And the stream of media that would be stalking him from now on? What was that story some years back about that infamous ‘party boy’ with giant yellow sunglasses? The teen that was famous for a year? He had hired some celebrity agent to look after him. Did he need to call Max Markson now, before the story broke, or would that come after? I hate Big Brother; I am never going on that show. Or be on the cover of the New Idea – ‘Ray’s Tall Tail’. There was probably an option for making ads for beer companies. The one that would have him two-fisting beers and still working on the barbecue. Blokey ads, doing blokey stuff with a helping tail. Fixing a Holden with the tail handing him the monkey wrench.
Then he saw it. His latest acquisition, the barbecue knives ordered online in plans for the planned cookout with his friends. He had always said that there are three types of knives that every barbecue addict should have: a boning knife, a slicing knife and a chef knife. Add a meat cleaver to the mix and you are ready for your own autotomy setup. No other parties would be involved. He would try this out first but if, like a urodele amphibian, if the tail was to regenerate again, he would accept it as a part of his life. It was going to be a long day ahead.
Sunday 5 May 2013
The Xing Invasion – The Xing Saga part 1
Jane Russell
Mount Barker, SA
I was alone in the lift when I heard a heavy, rhythmic pounding echoing outside. It sounded like an army of heavy-footed storm troopers stomping up the fire stairs in unison.
I wonder what’s going on? No one mentioned any building works today.
The lift arrived at the top floo
r with a ‘ping’ and opened directly into my penthouse apartment.
The pounding continued in the stairwell, but my attention was diverted by signs of intrusion – the sliding door to the beach was open, sand and sea-water were scattered across the lounge room floor. More importantly, a large, bright red, metallic robot stood in the room, clashing horribly with the décor. It was wet, seemed frozen mid-stride, and was mournfully intoning ‘Stuuuckk!’
‘What the hell are you doing in my apartment?’ I demanded, ‘and what have you done with my wife?’
‘Oh, hello,’ said the robot. ‘I’m part of a 200-strong advance guard of metalbots from the planet Xing. We’ve just dropped in to set up the invasion of Earth. I met your wife. Lovely woman. Pity about the screaming. In the end I tossed her to Gerald – at least he was appreciative.’
‘Gerald?’ I prompted, full of foreboding.
‘Gerald – the kraken. Poor chap, always hungry.’
I looked down the beach. In fact I did notice some large tentacles waving about, near the shore. Wasn’t that a woman’s leg???
No, look away. I gulped. I had to take charge of this situation fast. The rhythmic clumping was getting nearer.
‘What’s wrong with you, then?’ I asked, maintaining calm. ‘How come you’re stuck?’
‘Oh well, that’s because I got splashed you see. Our joints seize up if we get wet,’ replied the robot.
I couldn’t believe the naivety of his candour.
‘You’re a bunch of intergalactic morons!’ I ranted. ‘Didn’t you notice how much water there is on this planet?’
‘It was a pretty blue ...’ mused the hapless creature.
‘Water even falls randomly from the sky – you’ve got no chance!’
I almost pitied him as he saw me grab the hose, then I remembered what he’d done to poor Dora, so I turned the jet on him and washed him down to the sea. Gerald, the kraken, must have thought it was Christmas as he enthusiastically chomped down on his next victim, only to break his beak on the metal.
I ran back inside, but several more red robots had already come through the fire door. They hesitated when they saw my dripping hose.
‘Oh scroobledinkaloo!’ muttered the leader.
At that moment the lift pinged open and there was a mad rush to get in it. With each robot weighing 150 kg, this seriously compromised the lift’s loading capacity. However, instead of making a rude sound and refusing to budge until someone got out, the lift gave up the ghost altogether, snapped its cable and plummeted 20 floors to a resounding, building-shaking crash, desperate cries of ‘Scroobledinkaloo’ all the way down.
I went out into the stairwell to see red robots everywhere in retreat, climbing over each other to get away. I sprayed them mercilessly. Nevertheless, some escaped, so I heard later, as many rusting red heaps were discovered over the next few days. Those who had tried to reach their spaceship to return to somewhere drier had been caught in a freak thunderstorm.
Back in my apartment, I swept away the mess, set up the remains of my luckless visitor as a sculpture on the beach, and fed Gerald some puréed fish, as he wouldn’t be up for anything crunchy for a long while. I wasn’t that put out to lose Dora, after all I was planning to apply for a new model soon anyway.
Daft robots! That’ll teach them to mess with Earth!
Monday 6 May and Tuesday 7 May 2013
Another Farce
Beau Porter
Reservoir, VIC
The moment Donald strutted into my living room I knew trouble had arrived. I was lounging in a comfortable beige armchair, reading an article on the strange breeding habits of hippopotami as he entered. Sensing his presence, I lifted my gaze from the paper. There stood Donald in the doorway, with a look of playful concern on his face. Evidently he judged my academic reading to be a waste of time. There is no doubt he expected to find me occupied thus, for his greeting felt pre-rehearsed.
‘I’ve come to rescue you from the doldrums,’ he announced.
I placed the hippopotami paper on a small coffee table before me, and crossed my arms expectantly. A wry smile was given as Donald slinked his way over to a long beige two-seater. He stretched out, resting his head against a frayed fabric arm, and removed a rolled up magazine from his pant pocket.
‘Check this out. Page six.’
Donald lobbed the magazine in my direction. It was one of those tabloid numbers; the type of nonsense one finds in the toilets of lonely housewives in their forties. One celebrity is too fat, the other too skinny. One star has finally found happiness in the arms of another; a different star has found freedom away from their treacherous man. I flicked to page six and immediately got a sense of what lay before us. A tanned, blonde heartthrob stood in crystal blue waters, posing for the cameras. The title read Summer Bay’s Brand New Hunk. The resemblance between he and Donald was uncanny. They shared the same medium length blonde hair, chiselled jaw and elegant blue eyes. Donald gazed at my cracked plaster roof lazily.
‘Quite the development,’ he added.
It was clear he was intent on dragging me into whatever this revelation entailed. I often wondered why he chose me as his partner in these adventures. It wasn’t as if he needed a wingman. Donald overflowed with confidence and charisma. There was simply nothing I could add to the mix. At times it seemed he was trying to prove something to me, though I don’t know what. Donald waited there patiently on the couch, knowing I would eventually make inquiries as to his intent.
‘Well?’ I asked, slightly agitated.
Donald scoffed.
‘Surely you’ve figured this one out on your own? We’re going to Prahran to bang star fuckers.’
There was no way I was getting out of this; however I had to at least feign resistance.
‘I don’t see how you need me for this. Plus, I was planning on eating risotto and watching Goldeneye.’
Donald tilted his head back and shot me a look intended to make me feel tiny and insignificant. I waved goodbye to my solitude with an audible sigh. Donald spoke with his common tone of self assurance.
‘Of course I need you, baby. You’re my talented up and coming director.’ He gave a dark chuckle at the thought.
‘What’s the name of the guy again?’ I glanced at the page.
‘Edgar Symonds.’
Donald howled like a coyote. He had his heart set on this one, which meant I was in for a long night.
We went over the details that afternoon, before parting to prepare ourselves for the evening. That night Donald would assume the identity of Edgar Symonds, the Home and Away heartthrob. I was to become Rick Smits, a youthful director with nothing short of a glittering career paved ahead of him. We deliberated for some time on my name, eventually handing it over to the Gods. The first basketball card I pulled out of the ancient tin box was none other than Rick Smits, seven foot centre for the 93/94 Indiana Pacers. Not only did Donald and I agree with the name, we were also rather impressed by Smits’ rebounding average. I took a long shower, deliberating over the Smits aesthetic. A large green dinner jacket hung idly in my wardrobe. It was reminiscent of the one professional golfers receive for winning a championship. I wore it over a black polo shirt, with a pair of matching trousers and sneakers. Semi-casual-artistic-professional. I observed my figure reflected from the shower door glass. My hair was blonde like Donald’s, however it never seemed to hang with the same attractive whimsy. I too had blue eyes, yet they were dull and pointless. The whites of my eyes blended in seamlessly with my pasty alabaster skin. Where Donald was tall, I was lanky. Where he was well defined, I was a caricature. I attempted to prophesise Donald’s outfit for the evening. For a shiest like this, I presumed he’d wear a grey two-piece suit. As to the undershirt, I guessed either bone white or peach. Edgar Symonds and Rick Smits were on holiday from the set in New South Wales. Being old high school friends and lovers of high culture, it was only fitting that they head down to Melbourne’s chic inner suburbs for leisure time. I applied a fragranc
e manufactured for pimpled faced high school boys, snatched my wallet from the kitchen table and departed into the night, with more than a little anxiety escaping from my underarm pores.
I met Donald at 9 pm outside a typically luxurious Chapel Street establishment. He was leant against the wall smoking a menthol cigarette. Part of the character, I guessed. Donald’s undershirt was white, his hair deliberately splayed across the forehead at different angles. I noticed a wooden necklace hanging down under his shirt. Rich-yet-rootsy. As I approached he offered me a peppermint cancer stick. I looked at him as a sister of the cloth would at a nun who’d just offered her a hit of a blunt, then took one anyway. So Rick Smits and Edgar Symonds were menthol smokers then. This sat fine with me. Donald handed me a lighter. We stood there looking disinterested, and went over the play once more.
‘It is imperative we introduce ourselves to every staff member we see. They’ll pretend to know us if we hold ourselves correctly. It’s human nature, baby.’
He flicked his cigarette away nonchalantly.
‘How much cash you got?’ Donald inquired.
I shook my head, grinning bitterly. He knew I wouldn’t have much, though it was probably more than he had.
‘Thirty bucks.’
‘No matter. Make sure the first drink you buy is top shelf. Remy Martin, Courvoisier. Something along these lines.’ He spoke coldly and I began to see the irony of this particular shiest. For Donald to play the role of Edgar Symonds, he would likely put on a better dramatic performance than his heartthrob doppelganger ever could. He would become more Edgar Symonds than the man himself, essentially improving on the character. When we entered the bar the air felt artificially warm and heavy, as if there were hair dryers blowing from behind each and every ventilation shaft. Edgar greeted a bartender with uncanny familiarity, shaking the man’s hand with both of his own. I followed suit, filled to the brim with fraudulent smiles for whomever we encountered. We were received cordially and, after a brief chit chat about our respective afternoons, ordered a couple of glasses of cognac, served clean.
It took less than a glass for Edgar to find his target. We joined a group of four girls in a semi enclosed booth at the far end of the narrow room. They made no complaint as we helped ourselves to a couple of unoccupied spots at the table; rather it seemed as if they’d been waiting for an approach of this sort, and were relieved now it had finally occurred. It was an admittedly attractive spot. A blue archway separated the booth from the rest of the bar. There was square metallic grating built into the wall, behind which shone amber light. This sent an aesthetically pleasing mandala of soft luminescence along the walls and down the bodies of those seated. The women were doused in fragrance and garbed in Southside frocks. They had carefully planned their outfits, so as to not steal one another’s colours of the night. This applied also to hairstyles, makeup, trinkets and the like. Four individuals in four unique cocktail dresses from the same Chapel Street boutique. They took an immediate liking to Edgar, whispering amongst themselves after he’d introduced us. Evidently they read tabloid magazines. I sat quietly, sipping cognac and judging the six of us with brutality.
‘I’m so glad that people such as yourself are starting to recognise this part of the country as an area of legitimate cultural significance,’ said the faux redhead in the violet dress. I choked slightly on my cognac then grinned at the ground privately. She gazed dreamily at Edgar’s locks.
‘Well it’s not just me,’ noted Edgar with feigned modesty. ‘My dear friend Mr Smits here has always been a lover of Chapel Street culture.’ He made a sweeping hand gesture in my direction, almost as if he were allowing the four women to set eyes on me once more. Their stares followed his well manicured fingernails and landed on my face. I sensed from their collective silence that the girls waited for me to speak. I took a deliberate sip of cognac and gave it my best.
‘Yes. I do love ... culture.’
‘And what do you do, Mr Smits?’ asked the blonde in the brown dress. Edgar – sensing that I already wanted out – cut in promptly.
‘He’s my director.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Well, not just mine. He’s been directing the show for the past six months now.’
Smiles of surprised condescension met me from all angles. I felt like a special child who had just given the gift of a macaroni necklace to my superiors. A voice in my head told me to forget about it, and stay in character. Rick Smits was to remain quietly dignified. I nodded with an air of austerity, waiting for the table’s attention to fall once more on Edgar. Thankfully it didn’t take long.
‘Edgar, I simply have to know: how old is Alf?’
‘Oh my God, do you remember Sally?’
‘She was such a bitch.’
‘Are there any new on-set romances Edgar?’
As predicted, the girls paid for our next round of drinks. Atop this they ordered a bottle of champagne, to celebrate their chance encounter with the charming Edgar Symonds and his director. As the drinks flowed I loosened up, eventually finding myself in a conversation with one of the girls. To my surprise she was a pleasure to speak with. Though I had not been able to distinguish her from the others at first, it became almost immediately clear there was something more to this woman. Her name was Margaret. While the other three bombarded Edgar with compliments and Home and Away related queries, Margaret and I held our own private conversation. It turned out she wasn’t as close to these three women as one would suspect. In fact, she hadn’t seen them in years. The four of them were old high school chums, this evening being a reunion of sorts. Over the next couple of drinks Margaret disclosed to me her indifference to this part of town. When the blonde in the brown dress asked Edgar how he managed to stay in character, Margaret snickered and touched my knee lightly. Maybe this whole fiasco wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Edgar could have all three of those south side girls for all I cared. Margaret had saved me from the doldrums, just as I’d been promised. She eyed me with curious intent.
‘So Mr Smits, is it all you imagined it to be?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The soap opera.’
I nodded with affected sourness, as I’m sure she expected.
‘All that and more,’ I said dryly.
Our dialogue was interrupted by an eruption of laughter from across the table. Apparently Edgar had concocted a particularly amusing anecdote. Margaret raised an eyebrow before resuming her attention on yours truly.
‘Seriously though, I’m guessing your aspirations extend beyond Summer Bay’s white sandy beaches?’
I provided her with a contemplative and scholarly glance, whilst racking my brain for an impressive answer. Edgar cut in once again. He seemed to have three sets of ears. One listened to the high pitched monotony surrounding him, the other took note of the conversation between myself and Margaret, and a third perhaps, tuned into the gossip behind the bar.
‘Of course he does. Mr Smits is nothing short of an auteur.’
The three girls nodded understandingly. I wondered if they did.
‘Just as I suspected,’ said Margaret. From beneath her chocolate brown fringe came a look which made me feel guilty for my charade. Two hazel eyes revealed that which lived behind them for the briefest of moments. There was a distinct movement in my pants. I got to my feet and went outside to calm myself, under the guise of smoking a cigarette. Half way through the menthol Margaret came outside and joined me. She neither produced a cigarette of her own nor asked for one, a fact which bolstered my confidence. There was something about her presence that filled me with comfort. We leant against the wall and watched a continuous rabble of pseudo glitz and glamour pass by in both directions.
‘This place is silly,’ I said.
‘Yes it is.’
‘The north side of Melbourne feels so much … easier to be in.’
‘Yes it does.’
My last remark escaped the mouth a little awkwardly. I felt as if I were – in some way – givi
ng too much of myself. I decided to tone down Mr Smits’ personality a touch. Margaret looked at me, and I felt something those of my disposition claim not to.
‘If you’re in town a few days maybe I can show you my neighbourhood,’ said Margaret. ‘I think you’d like it.’
I imagined what her bedroom looked like. For some reason it was impossible to shake the image of lanterns and origami. As we stood there silently, I dreamt of our leisurely chats some months in the future. Of us laughing together at the hilarious circumstances under which we met. She would forgive me for my lies; this much I was sure of. So too was I, that she didn’t dress like this normally. In my mind Margaret was a lost intellect, a writer of comedy, someone who didn’t want to parade her alleged dark side like so many others in this town. I pictured her in an oversized t-shirt and track pants on an overcast Melbourne morning, shuffling to get coffee from the cheapest place within reach.
‘It just so happens that I am,’ I replied.
We looked one another in the eye a little too long. Once this had occurred to us, both glances retreated bashfully. I decided to speak before things got too awkward.
‘Let’s go inside and see what develops.’
She flashed me a smile as we wandered back inside, revealing two rows of slightly crooked teeth. This set her even further apart from the others in my mind. I find people with perfect teeth untrustworthy. They are no different to me than those with breast implants, nose jobs, or fake tans. Inside, Margaret’s old high school friends chatted feverishly amongst themselves, casting hungry glances in Edgar’s direction. The object of their discussion was leant over the bar, shamelessly flirting with a male bartender. I took a seat next to him, incredulous yet amused. Margaret returned to the booth.
‘Mr Smits, this is Enrique,’ Edgar said, passing me a glass of cognac. I gathered from Enrique’s body language it was on the house. We shook hands, during which I was given what can only be described as a look of homosexual interrogation. He turned his back on me abruptly, pretending to busy himself with rearranging bottles. Edgar put his arm around my shoulder.
‘The blonde bitch has a room at Crown casino,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘Take your pick of the other three and we’ll blow the rest off.’
We clinked glasses. Hippopotami no longer meant a thing to me. I had to hand it to him.
