Painted Words 2012 (8th Edition)

Painted Words 2012
An Anthology of Work by Students of Professional Writing & Editing at Bendigo TAFE
Painted Words 2012 is Copyright 2012 Bendigo TAFE Bendigo TAFE 136 McCrae Street, Bendigo VIC 3550 Telephone: 1300 554 248 www.bendigotafe.edu.au Copyright is retained by individual authors. The moral rights of the authors have been asserted. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
First published in Australia in 2012
Printed by: Griffin Press 3749 Browns Road, Clayton VIC 3168 Ph: (03) 9265 8252 web: www.griffinpress.com.au
Cover illustrationColleen Gale. Tsunami, acrylic on canvas, 2004.
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Foreword
his has been a big year for Bendigo TAFEs Professional Writing and Editing Programa watershed year in many respects. April saw the announcement of large funding cuts to many of Victorias TAFE institutes. Inevitably the fall-out has been significant for regional communities and arts educators. In among all the gloom, however, a band of local journalists, writers and academics managed to realise a long-held dream of Bendigos writing communityhosting a well-funded, nationally publicised annual writers festival. Our writing program contributed strongly to the overall success of the threeday event and those current staff and students who volunteered their skills to the cause responded magnificently to the challenges the festival heralded. PWE staff and students (ex- and current) featured constantly throughout the weekend, with many taking centre stage as writers, panel members and event convenors. Backed by John Rossi (in marketing), David Wallace (TDM for Art, Music and Writing) and Maria Simpson (the institutes CEO), we also sponsored and ran the concluding event of the festival, the Bendigo Poetry Slamtouted as a communal celebration at festivals end. The event featured many talented performances and was judged by two of Australias pre-eminent poetsEmilie Zoey Baker and Professor Kevin Brophy. Staff and students also worked long hours between March and August to produce, launch and promote the groundbreaking literary anthology Scintillae 2012the most significant writing anthology to come out of this region for many years.
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Many of our regions top writers appeared in the 330-page book alongside established national and even international figures. The result was a showcase publication designed to serve as an introduction to central Victorias many literary riches. In reviewing the anthology Rosemary Sorensen at the Bendigo Weekly described it as a lovely smorgasbord of creative writing of a high quality, confident and engaging. The Bendigo Advertiser went further, declaring Scintillae 2012 A milestone for the arts in Bendigo, a world-class publication. The anthology is available through the institutes library as well as through Collins Booksellers in central Bendigo and Stonemans Bookroom in Castlemaine. Painted Words 2012 is thus the second large-scale publishing project managed by Bendigo TAFEs PWE staff and students this year. In the two publications combined, close to 100 writers and poets have seen around 140 pieces published this yearmaking our program the premier launching pad for up-and-coming writers in country Victoria. This is a major achievement and all involved should feel justifiably proud. Having selected, edited, proofed and designed nearly 600 pages of high-quality writing across the year it would be understandable if staff (particularly Peter Wiseman and Tom McWilliam) and Diploma students (especially those enrolled in Project Management and Advanced Editing) were beginning to feel slightly fatigued as the academic year concludes. I thank all of these people, as well as the contributors and PWE teacher Tru Dowling (who set aside her post-grad thesis at a crucial moment to assess work for Scintillae 2012), for their extraordinary efforts this year. Both publications stand as permanent testaments to the hard work of all these staff and students. Painted Words 2012, though being a little more humble in scope than its sister publication, manages to delight and provoke its readers at every turn. The fiction and non-fiction material is of a particularly high standard and is all the better for having been thoroughly workshopped and edited in a range of PWE classes,
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e.g. Tru Dowlings Popular Fiction class, Tom McWilliams Nonfiction class and my own Myths and Symbols class. Although we didnt offer Poetry as a study discipline this year the reader will nevertheless encounter some genuine poetic gems among this years poetry offerings. Finally, the great joy for staff in publishing Painted Words each year is the sure knowledge that some of the writers showcased will go on to establish professional writing careers. Painted Words thus represents a small but important early step along the road for many. As an example, a story published in Painted Words 2011 by Geoff Brown (aka G.N. Braun) later featured in Horror for Good (an international publication). Likewise many of the local writers, journalists and poets who fronted the public at the writers festival in August had been published in previous editions of Painted Words. I have no doubt at all that some of the writers in this years publication are at the start of long and successful writing careers. Whether you read this book as a print offering or as an e-book you are in for something specialsomething engaging and unique. Because of the festival Bendigo is finally on the countrys literary road-map. From here on in, I suspect, Australias literary intelligentsia will be more and more interested in what our regions writers, poets and creative thinkers are saying. The excellence of the new writings featured in Painted Words 2012 will be worthy of their interest. Dr Ian Irvine PWE coordinator 2012.
Contents
Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii
Flash Fiction
Am I Crazy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Sarah Mooney
Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
G. N. Braun
Shoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Corey Danian
Fever Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
by Sarah Gale
The Art of Breathing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

by Jaime McDougall
True Inheritance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
By Gena McLean
Noises and Expectations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

John Murphy
Not So Youd Notice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

John Murphy
Audition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Gail Remnant
Thinning the Herd . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Kev Stacey
The Peninsula . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Anthea Matley
Short Stories
Bright Lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Hugh Sayle
Frog Prince . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Marilyn Tangey
And Then You Die . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

Jessica Burrows
A Chance Meeting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Corey Danian
On the Crest of the Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Colleen Gale
Slippery Dish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Colleen Gale
Divine Protection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Michael Leach
Raindrops on Cellophane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Jaime McDougall
The Wars Within . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76

Jaime McDougall
The Big Bad Wolf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

David Roach
Hermes Coach Tours . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

Mark Slattery
Taking Care of Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Mark Slattery
The Chair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Mark Slattery
Poetry
After The Floods Castlemaine 2011 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Debbie Fox
Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Jasmine Sundblom
Gilded Web . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104

Jasmine Sundblom
Muse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Fiona Kilgower
Our Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106

Katherine Sepping
Unheard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Geoff Brown
Longing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Di Fisher
Where Ravens Fly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

Ralph. L. Morrighan
The Banshee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

Sara Gale
Breaking News . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

Jacqueline Rozenfeld
6am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Jaime McDougall
Kangaroo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
Gail Remnant
Pallmark Cards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Speak softly lie still. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

James WF Roberts
The Front Gate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122

Katherine E Seppings
Spiders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
Colleen Gale
My Place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
Colleen Gale
Novel Extracts
pLayIng with fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
Sarah Mooney
Chimera . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
G. N. Braun
All that Shines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

Corey Danian
Echo Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

Jaime McDougall
Heart of a Dragon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146

Julian McKeon
Blood, Sweat and Tears . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

David Roach.
Speedy Delivery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

David Roach.
Gwenynen at the Altar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

Mark Slattery
The Battle for Dyndengar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170

David Roach
The Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

Mark Slattery
Non-Fiction
A Mothers Worst Nightmare: My Mothers Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184
Sarah Mooney
Excerpt One from Hammered: Memoir of an Addict . . . . . . . . . . . . 186

Geoff Brown
Excerpt Two from Hammered: Memoir of an Addict . . . . . . . . . . . . 190

Geoff Brown
Fathers Day & Family Breakdown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

Barb Evans
Tales from a Chinese Laundry or The Cynics Guide to Shanghai. . . . . . . 200

Suzette Hartwell
Volcanoes I have loved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207

Anna Macgowan
A divine feeling of love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214

Gena McLean
Non or not? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216

Gena McLean
I had a dream one night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218

Lorraine McMahon
The Growth of a Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220

Lorraine McMahon
The Promise of Maggie George . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226

Lorraine McMahon
Greening Charlton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233

Gail Remnant
The stuff of dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237

Jackie Rozenfeld
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Introduction
he production team would like to thank everyone who contributed to Painted Words 2012. The standard of submissions was very high and the Painted Words team had great difficulty choosing pieces for publication. Dr Ian Irvine, Dr Tom McWilliam and Tru Dowling all deserve a mention for training students to the high standard evidenced in this publication. Peter Wiseman rates a special mention for beating and whipping us into shape. We have all enjoyed the process and have learned a great deal about how to manage a professional project. Enjoy. Geoff Brown Maddi Cooke Sarah Gale Anna Macgowan John Murphy Colleen Gale Sarah McVeigh Painted Words 2012 team
Flash Fiction
2 | Painted Words 2012
Am I Crazy
Sarah Mooney
hey are always staring at me. They are waiting for me to crack. Im going to prove them wrong, but right now they need to stop looking at me. Stop looking at me, I say, making sure I look sane and calm. Honey, no one is looking at you. Mum, get them to stop please, get them to stop. Im fine. She thinks that no one is watching us, or she just wants me to think that. I know the truth. People are watching me, monitoring me. Behind the glass, they are watching, waiting. Im fine; there is nothing wrong with me. I am going to prove them wrong, but first they need to stop. Im bored; there is nothing to do in here. They have paper and crayons for me to use. But they are going to analyse my work, they are going to prove Im crazy from my work, and then I would never get out of here. I want to get out of here; I need to get out. Mum, I want to go home. Soon, sweetie, soon. Can we go now? You know we cant just yet, soon though, soon. I watch Mum pull out her phone. They are calling about me, I know it. They are telling her I can never leave. Sweetie, I have to go now, work needs me, but I will come back tomorrow, I promise. She was lying; she wont come back tomorrow. She rarely
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comes to see me; she always goes back to her. The other girl. She doesnt love me. She only pretends, she only comes so she doesnt look bad. I grip her arm. Mum, dont leave me. Baby, I have to go to work Ill be here tomorrow. No you wont. I want to go with you. Ill be good, I promise! She tries to pull away, but I grip her harder, Angela, youre hurting me. Please let go. No! I yell. She keeps trying to make me let go. I dont want her to leave me here. I hate it here. It is boring. Im sorry! I yell. Im all better, Mum. Please take me home. I dont like it here. A man in a white coat comes in and pries my hand away. As soon as she was free Mum runs from the room. She isnt going to be back tomorrow, now. She thinks Im crazy too, now. I will never get to see her again. I try to pull the man off my arm. He wont let go. He holds on tight. Too tight. He made Mum leave. Its his fault Im in here. The bitch has gone. She is the crazy one, she should be here. I hate her! Im going to kill her when I get out of here! Let me go! I scream. He was too strong. Im going to kill him too. I yank my arm free, pushing the man onto the floor. Jumping on him, I continuously punch him in the face. I dont stop; I keep going as I watch blood trickle down his cheek and into his mouth. I hear a crack. I broke his nose. But he deserves more. He deserves to die! Angela, let go of the doctor! A group of men surround me and pulled me off. They are all going to die for stopping me. Angela, calm down, the doctor says. I scream at the top of my lungs. Im not Angela! The stupid doctors can never tell us apart. We look the same. But we arent the same person. How can they not know it was me? I hate them all. Rebecca, is that you?
Of course its me, how could it not be, Im the one in control. Angela is a stupid little girl and I hate her too. She was too soft. I helped her. When Daddy hurt her, I helped her. I saved her. I crumple to the floor; they are all staring at me. I want Mummy. I say. Maybe I am crazy.
Life
G. N. Braun
mpty coke bottle, syringe wrappers blowing in the wind. I sit and watch as junkies stagger past, either stoned or hanging out; morphine stare or desperate for it. I live in a daze as people die around me; fast or slow, Im not sure which is worse. Nadia vomits raspberry soft-drink in a bilious puddle, pale and drawn out of her mind. Shane struts; hes off the gear right now, but only for a while. Money talks and bullshit walks. I hear the furious call of an ambulance, racing to help someone who doesnt want to help themself. I remember watching a body tumble from the sky, twirling in the wind like a screaming kite, hitting the ground like a dying swan, limp and rigid at the same time. Burst open for the entire world to see. I wonder if any of it is worth living, worth dying for. I sit and feel the same as I always do. I want to score, I need to score, and I want to score again. Life as a junkie is life in a circle; stoned, not, stoned, not; locked up, not, locked up, not. Arent we always locked up, locked in? Locked in the cycle, locked in the desire, locked in the need. I feel locked in, locked up, locked out...
Shoes
Corey Danian
do not have a pair of shoes, I have a pair of boots. Black, heavy, with slippery soles . My boots are old. I long for the day I can afford to buy shoes again. I wear these boots everywhere. Work, class and volunteering; friends, town, Melbourne, dinner and roleplaying. They are used for everything. They have no grip now and I skid across lino floors or slip down stairs. These old boots are so annoying and heavy. The sneakers that I used to love, with their velcro straps, silver crests, and their comforting feel, are in the bin Damn my stomach for demanding I buy food, when I should buy shoes. Damn me for not buying containers and snack foods that cost less than five dollars. Damn my stomach! I should trade it in for the twenty dollars I need to buy some shoes. Let us not discuss my sandals. A fifty dollar pair from Rivers, discounted to thirty and they break in the first rain storm. Now they sit on the floor beside my chair waiting to be repaired, if I ever have the time. I blame work for calling me, and myself for no money. How I wish I had shoes once more. These boots hurt and theyre hot. I hate them so much! I have to wear them everywhere, which means that I have to wear jeans on 30+ degree days. Damn, damn, damn. What must I do this week in order to get more money? Shall I starve myself ?I may as well. I need sneakers by the end of this week, or Ill be ordering a new pair of feet. Rant over. Back to what I was doing.
A Week Later I have shoes again! Black, with velcro straps and silver crests on them. Comfortable and forever mine again. And all I really had to do was spend my money wisely. Shoes are comfortable.
Fever Dreams
by Sarah Gale
he sky is red. Trees are the dull silver of an old blade. New grass shoots, almost painfully green, nose out of the earth. A small boy walks the perimeter of Ethans property, And Ethan watches from inside his fever. The boy is a fever dream, no more: Ethan merely a host for his sickness to inconvenience. As his fever increases, so too do the wanderings of the boyhallucination. So he sits out here, upon his back veranda. And he watches the boy. And he wonders how the birds find the energy to fight within the branches of the old ghost gums. He stares at the naked trunks. They are a better reflection of his pain. Coloured like ill flesh; like the face that greeted him this morning in the mirror. If only the boy would leave. His vigour is an offence. And why does he walk so, his head poised between his shoulder blades; that moronic grin? Ethan goes inside to read in front of his empty fireplace. He will read something that allows him his misery. Read until the footsteps of the boy disappear. The next day, the fever has lessened. But still his head pounds in tune with the boys footsteps. His throat is tender. If he had a wife, she might give him pills and liquids, but he is on his own, he is all alone, but for the boy and his dirty feet. So he sits on his veranda and watches the sun set. Its bloody effulgence is comforting. A mirror of his own internal sun. When the moon rises tonight it will be gibbous and appropriately doleful. The boy has begun his trek through the naked trees. He
spirals inwards, in ever tightening lassoes towards the house. He measures each footstep with a swing of his bare arms. Undergrowth twists about his ankles and climbs his legs. They climb with the aid of the boys flesh. Sometimes he reaches down and strokes the uppermost leaves as if in encouragement. Ethan finds this somehow obscene. This naked affection for something he walks underfoot every day; something that he clears and breaks and burns. The boy does not avert his eyes from his feet. Maybe he moves by smell, Ethan thinks. Or perhaps the trees move to accommodate him. The leaves fall crisply about the boys head. The boy doesnt notice. He just stares at his feet. Hey kid, Ethan calls, and breaks into a wet cough. His ribs contract and he struggles with the pain for a moment, eyes teary. He wraps his arms about his chest and seeks out the boy. He has paused mid-step, his eyes focussed on his toes. Even the landscape pauses for a moment. The wind has ceased shaking the leaves. The birds have ceased their bright goodnights. The boys tongue slips out over his top lip and leaves a sheen like fresh glaze upon his mouth. Hey kid, Ethan calls again, after spitting out a mouthful of snot. The boy advances a couple of steps with the tread of a stray dog accustomed to stones. Closer up, the boy looks underfed and overcautious. His hair is as dirty as his feet. He smiles shyly at his toes. His lips open to speak, and Ethan hoists a chunk of firewood at his head. It falls short. The boy raises his face. His eyes are the milky colour of paua shell. But these are just another pair of eyelids, Ethan sees. When these membranes part, his eyes are like dusty black pebbles. Ethan reaches for another hunk of firewood. The boy retreats into the trees and Ethan lets the wood fall from his fingers. He closes his eyes. They have lied to him. As he sits there, blind, he hears a rustle like dry grass restless with a breeze. When he opens them, the boy is gone. That night Ethan throws his blankets back and spreads his body out. The cold moves up his thighs and down his arms.
Circles his belly and cups his balls with chilly fingers. Something slips through a knothole in the floorboards beneath Ethans bed and slips free of its boy skin. It coils into a spiral and rests its head upon its tail. Ethan sighs as his fever eases. Beneath his bed, a snake closes its milky eyelids.
The Art of Breathing

by Jaime McDougall
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
ll he had to do was keep breathing. Steady, even breathing would bring calm, steady his heartbeat, and keep him thinking clearly. He struggled to remember what he had learned to fight off panic attacks. One; breathe. Two; look at your surroundings and name everything. He looked around and began to name. Door. Window. Moon through the window. Dresser. Closet. Desk. Computer. Chair. Little table. Lamp. Bed. Three; establish where you are in the room in accordance to the things you listed. The door stood mostly closed behind him and the closet was to the left of the door. Delicate lacy curtains were closed over the window on the wall to his left, spilling down onto the small wooden desk underneath. A long dresser nearly the height of his armpit ran nearly the full length of the wall to his right. Directly in front of him was a small bed, painted white with small purple flowers on it. A lamp on the bed- side table cast shadows on every surface, giving the pretty little room a sinister air.
Three steps. With three steps, he would be at the foot of the bed. Four; repeat for as long as necessary that you are not in danger. He smiled. No, he was not in danger. He was not in danger. He repeated the phrase in his head once for every step he took, until he was at the side of the bed in front of the little bed-side table. A pretty little table with a pretty little lamp, with the same pretty little purple flowers. Turning toward the table, he gritted his teeth, got as close to it as possible and stared down through the hole at the top of the shade, at the light bulb. He continued to stare until his eyes watered and he couldnt take the pain. Maybe. Maybe if he just couldnt see, then everything would go away. As a child, hed loved putting his hands over his eyes. If he couldnt see it, it wasnt there. Yet, when he looked back to the bed, everything remained the same, despite the large, grey spot in his line of sight. The grey slowly faded and still everything remained the same. Bed. Blankets. Pillows. Sister. Light purple pillow stuffed thick with batting. Frowning, he took the pillow and examined it; the same lilac and lace pattern on the lamp echoed along the edge of the pillow. He stared at the pillow until he could calm his breathing enough to look back at the bed. At Adrianna. At his sister. His perfect, pretty little sister. He let his hands drop to his sides, nearly dropping the pillow. His other hand danced, his fingers counting out a strange rhythm on the tip of his thumb. No, nothing bad ever happened to his pretty little sister. No one hated her. She did good things. She was a good person. She was everything everyone ever wanted her to be. No cracks, no tears and no scars to speak of. An angel, maybe. A sleeping angel. He cocked his head to one side the dance of his fingers on his right hand slowing. Hed been perfect, too. Before. When he was her age. Hed been a good person, a good son. Everything everyone wanted
him to be. Then he stopped. He wouldnt let that happen to his pretty little sister. His decision made, he rested the pillow over her face and slowly began to add pressure... Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
True Inheritance
By Gena McLean
nother storm is looming, and Im not surprised. Its potential ferocity is unnerving and I become more unsettled as the darkness sets in. Taking refuge in my grandmothers old tapestry chair I sit in silent terror, waiting, wondering when this one will pass. The downpour comes, and its relentless. Every tear falls with the heaviness of lead, as the weight of the past six months loosens its restriction. There is nothing left to do but write, so I surrender to the words that long to be released. The woes of my world spill onto the page; feelings finally given the chance to speak. The tears subside as the words take over, my hand barely keeping up. Then she arrives, and we talk on the page. She is not invited, but always welcome; her presence grows as her wisdom flows. She is calm when I am despairing. She is discerning and knows exactly what to say to bring me back to the present. She is my hope, when I feel like there is none. Her voice is firm but gentle, her intention clear always to remind me that I can. We relax into our familiar roles, mine of seeker, hers of sage. I trust her even though I know nothing about her, yet deep within I sense that she is part of me. Her mysterious showings began about a year ago. For the first time, I wonder if she has a name. The goose bumps come and I instinctively know they are a joyful recognition. Her name is Elizabeth. I feel shy even after all we have shared on paper. Marvelling at her timely presence, I thank her for being there when I have
felt so alone. She replies fondly, declaring that she does what she does out of duty and devotion. I flick through my journal, pausing to reflect on each of her offerings. I am astounded. Line after line of support, insight and intelligence. Where does this voice come from? The answer arrives magically, spontaneously on the page. She is me. The wise, all-knowing, eternal me that is beyond the physical. Its time I took notice. Calm restored, I move from Nannas chair to sit at my desk. A wistful sigh escapes as I slide the window open. I am aware of a resignation within, a determination to do what I need to do. A life of contentment could be mine, if only I had the guts to go for it. So why not? What have I got to lose? Only the most successful newspaper business in the country my fathers baby, the one he birthed long before I was born. His desire to bring light to the social ills of society drove him to be a journalist. That and his passion for prose were all he needed to create the great Australian icon that is The Daily Times. Weve always been close, Dad and I. We share a love for words, a talent for writing, and a passion for the truth. He groomed me, lovingly, skilfully, doggedly to take over the paper. I was ready, revered...reluctant, remorseful. Once upon a time I wanted what Dad wanted, but a niggling doubt grew into an absolute certainty I did not want to run the paper. Id always believed that my true inheritance was Dads empire, but lately Ive been questioning my purpose. My passion for telling the truth is still strong, but somehow its different. Ive become more interested in feelings than facts, realising that its not what we see with our eyes but what is felt in our heart that matters most. I could ignore this burning desire to write about the human condition as I have done for years, but at what cost, whose expense? Dad will be devastated if I turn down his succession, but living his image of perfection is taking its toll. The paper is everything to him; I actually believe he loves it more than he loves me, but
how can I deny my real inheritance any longer? I still want to write, I still want to report the truth, but my truth what I feel in my heart, what moves me, what connects me to life. What I want for myself and what Dad wants for me are two different things I dont have the energy to hide my true feelings any longer. I want to write about the stuff that matters; I want to be more of who I am, on and off the page. My true nature yearns to be free. I glance down to see Elizabeths affirmation glaring at me from the page. I can. I have to.
Noises and Expectations

John Murphy
he sounds collide with each other, making it hard to separate them in my mind: waves crashing against the cliffs and up into the inlet; wind rushing through the Norfolk Pines above the beach across the road; rain driving hard on the galvanised roof. I lie still in bed and listen. Mum and Dad are still moving around sorting things out for tomorrow and murmuring to each other. Mum still sounds upset; Dad still seems exasperated. Its too late to worry about that now, he says. The other noise is breathing; deep, regular breathing in the dark, from my brother on the bunk above, and the other two in their bunk across the room. They have no trouble sleeping. Youd think they might be a bit upset. I guess their time will come. Mum will miss me anyhow. Im going to miss things. Ill miss the cliffs, the beach, the river; riding our bikes up to the back road and looking out across the cliffs towards Tasmania and Antarctica. Moving here had made geography a bit more real to me. Some of it, anyway: being able to listen to radio coming from Tasmania as clearly as the radio from Warrnambool made it seem more real. Ill miss crab hunting on the rocks; going out with Dad to the farms every Saturday to deliver grocery orders. Ill even miss the school bus into Timboon catching up with everybody as we go, stopping in at farm gates, the end of lanes and delivering us all to school. Ill miss all that. I remember when we first got here and Dad took us into the
shop. Wed never owned a General Store and lolly shop before. Right, he said to us, you can have a lolly any time you like. Just dont guts yourselves. So we didnt. He took us around the town on our bikes; around the cliffs and even to Beacon Steps, which go from the top of the cliff down to a rocky outcrop at the bottom. The steps are steep, wet and slippery, and when we stood on the outcrop at the bottom, the wind buffeted us and the waves crashed just below our feet. He told us that a boy had fallen off into the waves; his father had jumped in to save him and both had drowned. We couldnt imagine how a Dad wouldnt be able to save his son from drowning but, as the waves foamed and crashed on the cliffs beside us, we were impressed. Right, he said to us, you can ride around and play anywhere you like around the beach, the rocks, the river and the top of the cliffs. Just be sensible, look after each other and dont go down the steps. So we didnt. Primary school is over. High school is here. But not here. Ballarat. When we went to the boarding school before Christmas, it looked great: lots of kids, lots of playing fields. The headmaster was cheerful and so were the teachers and the housemaster. But Ive seen that before, as weve moved around. New teachers always seem reasonable when you first meet them, while parents are around. Wait! I wont be home for my birthday! For six years! Six years. Then what? The splatter of the rain grows heavier. Dad clips my new suitcase closed and puts it down in the hall, near the front door. The light in the living room goes out. Mum and Dad go to bed. Id better go to sleep too; big day tomorrow. Their murmuring stops. Their breathing joins the family. I can hear the breathing despite the other noises a family sleeping and breathing together. The waves, the wind, the rain. Dad expects me to make the most of high school, of boarding school. He doesnt expect me to whinge or make a fuss. So I wont
Not So Youd Notice

John Murphy
here he is again. I didnt expect him here. He tends to turn up when I dont expect him. He hasnt been showing up much lately. When he does, I freeze up. Why is that? Why dont I go over and talk to him? We always used to talk; he was always easy to talk to. What would I say now?
He doesnt seem to want to talk anyway just to be here and look around. Thats probably best. If I try too hard, he might just take off again. But perhaps Im missing the chance to recapture the way things were.
Its a great day for it; bright and sunny. Nobody looks upset; not so youd notice. It seems strange to be having it in Mums front yard, particularly strange, but I cant put my finger on it. Wheres he got to? There he is, talking to George. Hes wearing a chocolate brown, three-piece suit; more seventies than eighties. Did I notice that before? He seems a little over-dressed for the occasion. Why would I say that? Its a good crowd, a good family gathering. I should catch up with all the uncles, aunties and cousins, but theyre just a blur in the background really. I keep focussed on him. He looks thin, but not at his thinnest; no moustache either. It makes him look younger than his thirty-two years. The other times that we caught up, it was less crowded just me and him, sometimes Bob as well. The locations were never as familiar either; they were his turf. They had a familiar feel; just the sort of place you would have thought hed have. Bob and I
would exchange glances, wondering what to say or do. Well I was wondering. Last time he turned up in his pyjamas. He was much thinner then, fragile and somehow ephemeral. He hasnt been turning up so much lately. I wonder what brought him today. Hes still over with George. Maybe he just wants to catch up with everyone and with whats been going on. No. That doesnt seem right; why George? As a kid, he was always closer to Alan Beppo and Boppo, Dad had called them, afterthose cicrus clowns that rode the wonky bikes. Dad said thats who they looked like as he taught them to ride and they kept running into the clothes line. I cant see Alan or the others around. Are they in the blurred background? Even George has disappeared. Its funny how people fall into set roles, especially in a large family. Kids were left more to their own devices in those days. I wonder if brothers bond now, as much as we did then. Probably not; smaller families. Ohhh, right. My dream is clearing and fading. Morning. Im awake. What brought him back? Is it the anniversary? Right August, 1988. It had slipped my mind. Well I guess it hadnt. Not fully. Hed be 56 now. Thats a lot to miss 24 years and counting. I havent missed him really. Not for years. Not so youd notice.
Audition
Gail Remnant
ook at that! Excuse me, please. Is this seat taken? Doesnt suit you, love. Skin-tight lycra over tummy rolls. One too many for lunch. What time is my audition? Fifteen minutes. Why did I get here early? More time to get nervous. Go over last verse again. Keep forgetting last line.
Tell him to buy me an acre of land Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme And sow it all over with one peppercorn Once he - for once- for once he was a true love of mine.
Hope CD doesnt stick again; keep going over and over second line. Give impression of a cracked record. Not really funny! What time is it? Ten minutes more. Time flies when youre having fun. Not when youre auditioning. Oh-oh, one more lamb to the slaughter. Good costume. Singer as well. Reduces the chances. Wont want two. If they dont keep those dogs apart, therell be a fight. Make a mess. Blood and gore everywhere. What time is it? Only been two minutes. Must be running late. That guy with the budgie- before me. Worse than the dentist. Root canal last year. Dont think of it. Do exercises to relax or I wont sing a note. What time is it?Should make a quick visit. Or have to go in the middle. Doesnt mix. Ask receptionist! Excuse me, I was just wondering how you are running for time. I believe Im down for 2.15. Do I have time to pop out for five minutes? At least another quarter of an hour? Oh good
Ill be right back.
Audition
Now, wheres the Ladies? Oh, excuse me. No, no, you first. Not another clown. Hope its female. Wash hands. Run cold water over wrists. Calm Down! Deep breaths. Back to waiting room; so stuffy. Whats the time? Ten minutes. Here forever.
Not another one! Oh, no, its the girl-clown. Never know!
Oh, Im so sorry. No, it was my fault, I tripped you up my legs were all over the place. No, Im fine, really! Phew, that hurt. Big toes probably broken. Wont be able to stand up. Clumsy enough to be a clown. So stuffy in here. Someones wearing sneakers. Whats the time? Cant be long now. My turn next, get it over with. Looks like theyre ready for me. Remember CD player. Deep breath. Youre on!
***
Well! That went better than I thought it would, sang quite well, really. CD didnt even stick. Really, Mr Berenson, you liked it?,,, You would like me to sing in the opening ceremony? Thank you very much. Id be happy to come in to a planning meeting next week. Wednesday at 3:00pm? That would be fine. Ill see you Wednes-- Bip-bip, bip-bip, bip-bip, bip-bip, bip-bip... Click! Rotten alarm!
Thinning the Herd

Kev Stacey
ow did I end up working in a place like this? Its simple enough Im a qualified butcher but the abattoir pays more. But this isnt about me. Its about Phil and Danny. Phil was a couple of knots in a piece of string, just a skinny bloke, not exactly the athletic ideal; so he was just floor staff instead of on top-tier, boning carcasses. He was given the job of sealing portions of meat in a cryovac machine. He was a quiet, easy-going sort of bloke, and from what I could tell, a bit smarter than the average employee in this place (definitely smarter than some of the bogans up boning with me). He had once been an office worker, but had been let go due to budget cuts. So, needing the money, he took a job in this dump. Danny Wichser was the resident shit-stirrer, and your classic case of the cocky little flogger who thinks hes bulletproof when hes got his mates around him; but get him alone and its a different story. Plus he always needed someone to pick on I guess to offset his own butt-hurt at being stuck in a grotty abattoir job his entire adult life. One day he set his sights on Phil. He and the other heroes thought theyd demonstrate their manly credentials by bravely throwing blobs of meat and fat and coagulated blood at him when his back was turned, with Danny saying things like At least I do a mans job, and other primaryschool-standard insults. Danny, or one of the others took what opportunities they
could to fiddle with his machine. Phil was too smart for them though. He always checked and set it, right before starting. On it went for weeks, but Phil bore it all with a perfect poker face. Then one day Danny didnt turn up to work. The next day the only appearance Danny Wichser made was on the front page of the local rag. His picture accompanied a story about him being found dead, and how the cops were baffled. No one could prove anything, but people kind of left Phil alone after that
The Peninsula
Anthea Matley
ohn rings. Its time, he says. Sue, Jan and Mum are already here, he says. I look over to Pip and Nick. Sitting cross-legged; glued to The Simpsons. The television light flickers over their faces. I sigh. See you tomorrow then. The hospitals down on the Peninsula, by the beach. A hospital for dying quietly. No nurses rushing to save lives. Just easing them through to the other side. Peaceful. I pause at the open door. Hear the wheezing and cracking; coughing as if hes trying to empty his whole insides. Finally its quiet. Im about to step in, then he says thats what I didnt want Rachael to see. In I go. Hes lying slumped against a mountain of pillows, breathing heavily. A sweat-sheen on his yellow face. Mum slips past, unseeing, with a covered cup. I hold his hand. Sorry we couldnt do more for you. His voice seems restricted to a rasp. But you seemed so self-sufficient, so contained. You didnt seek the attention. The others needed so much more from us. He closes his eyes with the effort. Mum rushes back in. What are you doing? She pushes me away. Tucks his sheet back around his neck. Wipes his face roughly in her agitation. Cant you see hes not up to it. Her voice cracks. Mum, I plead. You cant stay here, she says. Youre upsetting him. I want to say good bye, I say. She stands guard over him. I wont have a chance with her in this mood. I go to the waiting room.
And wait. The others are there, staring vacantly. Already said their goodbyes. I think about that grey, drizzly Saturday. Sitting innocently on my boyfriends knee, in the bungalow. Mum entering suddenly, going ballistic. Pulling me off, shoving me towards the house, screaming at me to GET INSIDE THE HOUSE. And to my boyfriend DONT EVER COME BACK. Oh, that scene still turns me red with shame. I ran inside, through the house and out of the front door, into the rain. I ran, anger propelling me until I realised I had nowhere to run to. I had to go back. I dragged my feet, as I headed home. The house was deathly quiet. Too quiet. I stepped into the sitting room through the side door. The fire was lit so it was warm in there. I stood dripping in front of the fire. The door opened. I stiffened but saw the kind, concerned face of my father. He embraced me gently. Glad you came home. You upset your mother, but she was worried too you know. Then I burst into tears at his kindness. I think about that one moment of tenderness. Why hadnt there been more? Maybe I could ask. Eventually, I see mum leave his room. I slip in. But his eyes dont open again.
Short Stories
Bright Lights
Hugh Sayle
asino lights, glittering and bright, did nothing to ease my mood as nearby pokies spilled rewards while my machine accepted donations with wicked tenacity. The bubble enclosing my world wobbled when an elderly woman to my left sat back, sighed with satisfaction, and watched as her free spins galloped onwards. Today is exactly ten years since my husband passed away, she said, as if continuing an earlier conversation. Ten long years I miss him so. Thats only natural, I murmured; the response perfunctory, but in this age and at this venue enough to allow communication. Its also my birthday. Would you think me eighty-seven? She seemed pleased at the way my eyebrows lifted a good inch above my usual scowl. I thought not, she continued. I walk a lot, though today I came here by taxi. Had I told my family they would have insisted I waited for them to take me to the RSL. My friends are long gone yknow? I nodded in understanding, yet thought this casino offered scarce opportunity to be alone with ones memories. With envy at the tally of her freebies, I grimaced when her machine again moved into frenzied movements. John, um, my late husband, loved a flutter, especially the horses, yknow? We met at a barn dance in Bagshot, near Bendigo. Oh, how he set that floor alight, she said, and primped her grey well-cut hair with a hand that showed a wide-band wedding ring snuggled behind a single large diamond and a smallish, pleasant
eternity ring, all buffed. But that was before the war. World War Two yknow? Her parrot-like yknow? grated. I tried not to be rude, but turned away. A Commando, she said, Johns early naval training was on Port Phillip until he was sent to New Zealand to gain additional water skills. Wellington, I understand, has the most treacherous of all harbours. At one session, five men were swept overboard. Luckily, they were tethered, yet could not make it back to the boat. John, with rope around his midriff, jumped into the sea, made it through huge waves, and eventually they were all reeled in, half-drowned, only to continue their drill. An eyelid flickered, and she reached into her handbag for a lace handkerchief. He was with the Second-Sixteenth Independent Company formed in May of 42 when they sailed to Port Moresby, she said with much pride, and I conceded her attitude justified. Although she was lovely, it was a one-sided conversation I preferred not to have. Face neutral, I returned to my task, but the womans machine entered another spasm of complete wantonness while my screen displayed a greedy glint. Shoulders slumped, finger poised, I remained in my cocoon and thumped the blasted machine rather than converse. When the Kokoda situation deteriorated and the ThirtyNinth Battalion fell back, John and his group were brought into the Seventh Division and moved to Mount Eirama. As part of the Divisional Reserve, they were moved to cover the Goldie River Valley where they ranged through Papuas jungles. Without looking at her screen, the woman smoothed a crease from her dress, which was patterned with spring flowers. Oh, she said. I know all his war activities by heart. Each Anzac Day, I listened whilst he and a few cronies talked out old battles, and ever since he died Ive continued the tradition. After a pause, she laughed. Not with his mates by myself, yknow? Yes, I pull out a tattered atlas and trace his war movements with my finger. A smile curved my lips, definitely not in encouragement, but taken as such.
The Commandos moved then to Buna, in fact they led the way through terrible conditions while the Americans followed. Engaged in heavy fighting near a new airstrip, John was wounded. Only a bullet crease across the head, but he was pulled back to recuperate. The following March, his group returned home on leave and then reassembled at the armys Jungle Warfare Centre in Queensland. By now, she had my attention for I had a brother-in-law who fought with the Commandos. Some of his war photographs show a team of men that had fought against tremendous odds. Fuelled by my attention, the woman sat comfortable, and although some of her words became lost amongst the noise, the gist of her story came through. John and his team sailed from Townsville to Moresby, and in September, to Leron, as support for the Seventh Division in the Ramu-Markham Valley Camp. They provided flank protection and reconnaissance and long-range patrols. Once, they captured a village, held ground, and repelled a large Japanese counter-attack. We accepted fruit juice from an attendant. Perhaps, I hoped, the monologue would lapse, or maybe the excitement of winning at the pokies would ease her reminisce, but no, the woman placed her drink aside, touched the screen, pushed a button, and talked on. They went ashore at Balikpapan on the second day of the July 1945 battle, and for three weeks supported the Brigades advance along the Milford Highway. To think that John fought through all those battles unscathed, only to receive a terrible wound while cleaning up after an ambush along Popes Track. But, then, so many men suffered ordeals. We have no idea. Thank goodness our grandchildren have no such experiences. Small in frame, she looked the epitome of all well-caredfor and well-to-do gentlewomen, although with a sweetness in expression and speech that reminded me of my mother at perhaps the same age. I turned to my machine, plunked another dollar, but looked back when the womans machine rolled with
yet more free spins. It came as a surprise to realise that she had not acknowledged any of the hefty payout. John, poor dear, came home a different man, she continued as if I was her personal and captive audience. It was a terrible war, she said, as if all wars are not terrible. I was only a slip of a girl when we met. Oh, how he moved on that dance floor. I was well and truly smitten by the time he shipped out. Of course, I promised to wait. His letters never arrived; mine returned. He came home an invalid. We married and lived with my parents. At first, John had nightmares. Often, I awoke to his frantic attempt to escape whatever was in his dreams. Once, I touched his shoulder and he rolled over, pounced as if on to a Japanese soldier, and pinned me down with his hands around my throat. My attention now caught, I noticed her semi-smile of tenderness. However, when I looked again, her lips were harsh. Oh, poor John was well on the way to throttling some Japanese aggressor without realising it was me writhing beneath his bulk. My mother had experienced similar when my father came home after Gallipoli. Well, she heard my struggles and rushed in with a mug of water, threw it in Johns face, and pounded him with a pillow until he came to his senses. You said he was wounded? Darn, I had not wished to add fuel. A splinter in his left foot turned gangrenous. Doctors in a makeshift hospital amputated it above the ankle. Although barely out of my teens, it was up to me to help him adjust to civilian life. It was difficult, but together we beat many odds. A wonderful man, we had a lovely life. I miss him so much. The woman turned to her machine, clapped her hands together at sight of her accumulated winnings, and played on. Glum, I fed more dollars and thought of her late husbands experiences, which must have happened while, aged about four, I was at kindergarten. Because of such men, I thought, my generation had grown up free, without hindrance, without care. Although inexperienced in war, I have seen consequence in the way it affected some returned soldiers. Even after sixty-five
years, memories still surface of a father more accustomed to the screaming of shells and bullets than of four young sons wanting to establish some sort of relationship. My thoughts instinctively shied away from unhappy events and turned to those more pleasantly vivid. I fed the hungry machine and felt as if I was on the verge of travelling back in time. *** The four-year-old sensed his mothers anxiety, which he guessed was caused by her men-folk, who had been sent off to war before he was born. He wondered about these men never seen: her husband and her eldest son. Told they were in some funny-named place, which the boy later learned was New Guinea; he hated it when she fretted. He hated it more when she became teary-eyed and stayed away from the kitchen stove. At times, it was hard for him to attract her attention, but when told that she was waiting, he accepted it as something mysterious, something exciting, something wonderful. However, nothing wonderful happened when his father returned. All this stranger did was head for the pub and never once referred to the war. The boys uncle, too, visited, but he at least played with the boy and allowed him to don his army hat and to touch the stripes on his uniform. Whereas his uncle remained cheerful, his father did not. After a few days, the boys uncle went to a girlfriend far away in the city. Meanwhile, the boys mother waited at the front gate, but when the postman passed by she just stood and stared up McIvor Road towards town. The boy remained at her side, his nose the same height as her apron string, and waited until she eventually walked inside and made lunch or scolded one or other of the boys, usually him, for getting in the way. One morning, while his mother belted the hell out of a carpet square hanging over their single-wire clothes line, the boy wandered out on to the street. No longer a baby, he ventured from home, the sun warm. Cicadas chirruped. Bees buzzed the flowers tended by a stooped and elderly neighbour who called the boy over, picked a mandarin from a tree, and peeled it for
him while asking where he was headed. To the shop, the boy replied. Okay, but nowhere else, he was warned. The boy entered the shop and the door closed with a bang. He sidled up to the counter and rubbed his nose against a glass display stand, stared at the array of confectionery, and drooled until the shopkeeper, wiping the snot from the glass, gave him a broken all-day sucker and told him to scram. Once outside, the boy dawdled along the footpath to the local garage and watched as a mechanic, Joe, served a customer. Octane fumes burned the lads nostrils. He sneezed, sat on a concrete step, and watched as Joe cleaned the windscreen of one of the few vehicles on the road at that time. He admired the cars dark sleekness, the heavy wheels, but was pleased when the noisy thing chugged down the road. Hi, Joe, he said when the mechanic squatted at his side. Hi, Youngun, Joe said, and what might ya be doin? Waiting! And what might ya be waiting for? For what Mum waits for, I guess. Youngster, does your ma know where youre at? The boy did not respond. Unnoticed, the lolly in his hand dripped goo while he stared at three men who walked into view. Of the three soldiers, one had his trouser leg pinned high above where his knee should have been. The second soldier had only one arm. The third man seemed well, robust, and as he turned to answer the one-legged man his face seemed friendly, fresh, and far too young to have been away at war. Thats my brother, the boy yelled and ran towards the men. The mechanic reached out, clutched thin air. Hey! Youngun, dont be silly, he called. You aint never seen your biggest brother. Without heed, the boy grabbed the trouser leg of the ablebodied soldier. Youre my brother, he said and looked up into the soldiers face. Youve come home. The lads face beamed. Oh, by gum, wont Mum be pleased.
Run away, kid, the soldier said. Im not your brother. You are, too. I dont have any brother your age. Howd you know, the one-armed soldier said. Letters from home rarely made it through. True, but Id know if I had another kid brother, huh? Possibly, but he does look like you. Maybe hes the offshoot of one of your going away presents when you enlisted. Not likely. Shoo, kid, move away. Now look what you did! The soldier bent to wipe lolly goo from his lower leg and before he knew it the boy had climbed up on to his hip. Youre my big brother, the boy said, and now youve come home. He was quickly placed on the ground, but before the men could move he wrapped his arms around the soldiers leg like a koala to a tree trunk. The soldier tried to dislodge him, but the boys grip held tight. Cmon, mate, give the kid a break, the one-legged man said, his tone tearful and covered with a laugh. Find out where he lives. Give him a piggyback home. Mervyn knows where we live, the young boy said, quite adamant. He knows your name, the third soldier said. The men turned to where the boy pointed and saw a house with a picket fence. Mums out the front. The soldiers saw a woman move from her letterbox. The woman turned to look up the road, raised a hand, and shielded her eyes. Cicadas fell silent. The boy wondered why no wind moved the petals in the neighbours garden. To him, it seemed as if the light of day intensified as his mother stepped forward. Mum, he hollered. Mervyns come home! There was no way his mother could hear his words from that distance, but she seemed to stiffen, sway, take several steps forward, and again stop. After another hesitation, she pulled her
apron away, threw it across the fence, raised one arm as if to wave, lifted her skirt with the other hand, and rushed forward. The boy heard her words. He felt her surprise and elation. Sunlight glinted on her tears. He felt good when she reached out, and her love was warm and fierce as it passed over his head, encircled the three men, and settled around his soldier. See, he said, excruciatingly honest. I knew you were my brother! *** Befuddled by generation-old images, I had forgotten to push the button on my machine and realised there was enough credit for one last spin. I hoped like hell the darned thing would clang and bang, but my spin petered out. The woman sat without movement, her machine also quiet; her peace belied by tear-stained cheeks, her damp handkerchief. My nod goodbye acknowledged, she touched her machine, which again sent off a winners tune espousing the magnificence of the spin and how it was the players lucky day. I touched her shoulder, and leaned close. John, I whispered, amazed at my cheek, is at your side. Oh, yes, I know. I feel him near... he didnt forget my birthday, after all.
Frog Prince
Marilyn Tangey
s she lay in her bed, snug under the blankets, Jeanette thought about home. The grass would be cloaked in frost. Jeanette began to contemplate how she was feeling, away from home for her birthday for the first time. Her mother always made a cake and her favourite meal; pork chops with apple sauce, and for dessert, chocolate pudding and custard. Her much younger brothers would be first to blow out the candles and her stepfather would look on, amused. Life had not always been so idyllic. Jeanette could not recall any good days prior to her eighth birthday when she lived in a house dominated by the dark cloud of her own fathers alcoholism and violent outbursts. This year, Jeanette had started uni and was living with her Aunty Anne, in the city, far away from green pastures and carolling magpies. Jeanette slipped her feet onto the warm, wooden floor. In the bathroom, she noticed that the shower base contained a large plastic basin. On closer inspection, Jeanette saw tadpoles swimming around and a rock to one side. Cousin Joshua was always collecting creatures and bringing them home to study their habits. He would release them again when he thought they were ready. Joshua, she called out. Can you move these animals, please? I have to go to uni early today. Nice of you to remember my birthday and get me a presentI love tadpoles!
Joshua sauntered into the bathroom. He was covered in mud, his hands red with cold. He wore a beanie on his head but he was wearing shorts and t-shirt. Alright. I put it on the floor. Do you know what its called when a creature changes to look completely different as an adult? Im not sure. It happens with tadpoles and when caterpillars turn into a butterfly, Joshua replied. Metamorphosis. Another word for Joshuas scientific repertoire. Josh, you had better have a shower after me. Dont bother telling me that you had one last night! Joshua was only seven and would wander about the neighbourhood at all hours. He was a strange little boy with a mop of untidy blond hair, a large nose and wide-set, beady eyes. It was his serious speech impediment that was of most concern. Psychologists could not establish a reason for his learning problems because he was assessed as having normal intelligence. Joshuas knowledge of animals was incredible. One day he was looking through Jeanettes Invertebrate Zoology when he exclaimed, Thats a polychaete worm! Jeanette was amazed. His speech was difficult to understand, but Jeanette knew exactly what he had said. He also told her the habitat and the feeding mechanism of the creature in the book. How did he know about polychaete worms, or segmented worms for that matter, when he couldnt read? While Joshua was in the shower, Jeanette went to the kitchen to organise her lunch and to prepare their breakfast, as she always did. A bowl of Weet-Bix and milk, toast with Mothers home-made raspberry jam for them both, followed by coffee for her and a cold Milo for Joshua. When Joshua reappeared, hair dripping around his shirt collar, everything was ready on the bench. Joshua slipped onto the stool and asked, Will I metamorphose into a handsome man like Paul Newman? Jeanette had a lump in her throat but she was saved by Anne, still bleary-eyed, in dressing gown and slippers, Youre both up. What about Aaron? I better wake him if he is to get to school on
time. Oh, happy birthday, Jeanette. Thanks, Anne. I have a prac session this morning so I have to leave early. Do you want me to drop Josh at school? Theres an assembly this morning and I have to present the reading certificates, so Ill take both the boys. Youll be home tonight? Jeanette nodded. Where else would she be? Well have a special dinner for your birthday. Anne moved to the fridge and brought out a box. I brought you a cake. I thought youd like to share it with friends at Uni. Jeanette didnt know how to respond. She picked up her lunch and went to her room to collect her bag and books. Suddenly Jeanette remembered that the bathroom needed to be cleaned up and Joshuas dirty clothes taken to the laundry. Werner, Joshuas father, would be furious if he saw the mess. Now Jeanette was running late. Rushing back to the kitchen with bag slung over her shoulder, she balanced the cake box on one hand. Thanks for the cake, Anne. See you tonight. Bye, Tadpole, Jeanette said mischievously, ruffling Joshuas hair as she walked past him. His mother raised an eyebrow and Joshua shrugged in reply. The Beetle was sluggish on cold mornings and chilly for the first few Ks. Jeanette sung along to the music to try to blank out thoughts of the farm, parents and little brothers; she was perplexed as to what to do with a cake at uni. Once on High Street, she was too busy concentrating on gear changes and watching for any maniac drivers to consider her dilemma. Jeanette pulled into the car park and remembered the cake. It would not spoil in the car on a cold June day. Jeanette headed for the laboratory. Today they would be looking at the nervous system of a frog, dissecting its legs to examine the muscle movement when electric current was applied to the large tendon. She wondered if she could make money on the side supplying the frogs for dissection. Joshua would not like the idea of his metamorphosed tadpoles being sacrificed for uni students to cut up into jelly-bean sized pieces. Animal experiments achieved nothing, according to Joshua.
Janis, Ian, Helen and Jeanette always worked together, Janis being the master, or should it be mistress, of dissection. Toward the end of the two hour session, Jeanette casually asked, What are you all doing now? Janis had to meet her boyfriend; Helen said she had a Chemistry tutorial; Ian had a doctors appointment. Ah well. I guess Ill go to the library until Dr Richard Williams next exciting instalment on Phylum Chordata. Jeanette gathered her thoughts and disguised her disappointment. The cake would have to wait. Alison, whose nickname was Pudding, would be up for cake at lunchtime. The thirty minutes were well spent. The frog practical was written up and ready to hand in during tomorrows tutorial. No doubt Ian would be asking to borrow it by the end of the day. Plagiarism did not figure on Ians moral radar; neither did sleeping with a different girl every weekend. The Biology lecture was as fascinating as ever, with Dr Dick being as deliberately obtuse as possible to confound 220 students sitting in wrapt anticipation, hoping he would give answers to exam questions. The usual students were sitting in the third row. As the lecture finished, Jeanette nonchalantly asked, Anyone for lunch in the caf today? There was an instant barrage of responses. Oh, no. Im finished for the day so Im going to catch a movie. Yeah, we have to go to Chaddie to look for an outfit for the Union Ball. Im going to meet up with a guy I met at Notting Hill Friday night. What about you Alison? Jeanette said with all the positivity she could muster. A few of the crew at Halls are having a Jam session so Im going over there. Besides, I have to get a book I need this afternoon. Jeanette dropped her head. OK. Ill be off. See you in Maths Tute this afternoon. Everyone was running between buildings to avoid the drizzle, but Jeanette meandered across the lawn, wrapped in her
loneliness, hoping a hot chocolate with her sandwiches would be a little festive. At least the cake wasnt melting, but how was she going to explain to Anne that it was untouched? The tutorial dragged on. Alison hadnt returnedobviously the music, or the cute boys, was too inviting. At last it was 2.30 pm and it was all over for another day. Jeanette headed for the car park and away from the place full of people but conspicuously lacking in friendspeople who knew enough about you to know it was your birthday. As she turned into the court, Jeanette recognised Mrs Olivers battered old car in the drive. Usually she cleaned the house on Thursday and it was only Tuesday. Why are you here today, Mrs Olly? No, dont worry about why. Can you please, please have afternoon tea with me before you go? Anne gave me this cake to share with friends at Uni. Mrs Oliver could sense a sadness in Jeanette and tried to sound cheerful, Ah, many happy returns, Jeanette. I would be only too pleased to oblige. She peered into the box. Chocolate. Thats my favourite. Jeanette cut two large slices and they both savoured the smooth dark chocolate taste and fudge centre of the log, without speaking. Mrs Oliver broke the silence when the last crumb was consumed. Yum. Anne rang saying she couldnt get away from work and asking if one of us could collect the boys. Anne will be here at four to take Joshua to speech therapy. OK. Ill get the boys. See you next week. Jeanette took the box into her room before she headed for the door. Anne was often in a rush with her work, school council commitments, running the boys around and providing a taxi service for her sedentary husband to the station, only a five minute walk away. By the time Anne arrived, Mrs Oliver had gone home and the house was sparkling, all evidence (except for the basin of tadpoles) of Joshuas early morning escapade to the creek eliminated by Mrs Olivers meticulous cleaning. Joshua, Aaron and Jeanette were sitting at the bench, admiring Joshuas pencil drawing of a lizard.
Hello, all. Anne didnt notice the drawing. Josh, ready to go? Do you want to come, Aaron? Aaron shook his head as he simultaneously turned a pleading face toward Jeanette. You can stay with me but I have to work on an assignment. Aaron was all smiles. He would play with his Meccano set without interference from Joshua. The brothers often had bitter battles when Joshua tried to interfere with Aarons construction. Thanks, Jeanette. Ill see you two at six and then we can begin the birthday celebrations. Anne returned, whooshing around in a whirlwind, packing away the groceries she had bought, pinning Joshuas speech exercises on the notice board, heating the pot of minestrone from last night and preparing garlic bread. She was off again at 6.20 to collect Werner from the station. Wont be long, she yelled as she slammed the front door. There was a terrible bang and metallic scrapping sound from the carport, followed shortly by Annes pale face in the doorway. The car has had an accident. Will you go and get Werner? Jeanette collected her car keys, having a quick look at the car as she passed. The back passenger door was mangled. It was not going to be pleasant. Werner did not appreciate any interruption to his routine. As Jeanette pulled up at the station she could see Werner and the surprised look when he recognised the distinctive Beetle. He ambled up the footpath. Wheres Anne? Why hasnt she come? Isnt she home yet? What about the boys? How did you know what train Id be on? Why were you late? Firstly, youre on the same train every night. Secondly, Im only two minutes late. Anne is fine. The boys are fine. Jeanette was terse. So why isnt she here? Almost there but not close enough. The only thing thats not fine is the car. No-one was hurt. Wheres the car? In the driveway. Jeanette turned into the court and hoped she wouldnt need to answer any more questions.
Werner dragged his heavy body out of the car and moved slowly down the driveway as Anne came out the front door. He began talking very quietly and slowly. How could this happen, the door is wrapped around the post. Who was in the back last? The quietness could not disguise the anger. His face was reddening. Anne launched into an explanation, Joshua had his speech lesson. I was getting shopping bags from the boot and I didnt check that he had closed the door prop The boy is seven. You dont have to check on him all the time. Werner picked up his briefcase and headed inside, loosening his tie as he went. Joshua, his voice was threatening. Come into my room. Anne trailed behind. Werner, it was just a mistake. We can bend the door back with a crowbar and then it will shut. I will take it to a panel beater tomorrow. I can manage without it. The boy has to learn not to be so careless. Jeanettes heart sank. She made sure the soup wasnt catching, put the garlic bread into the oven and tried to read a chapter of Invertebrate Zoology but it was difficult to concentrate as muffled sounds came from behind closed doors. Aaron had retreated to his room, relieved that he wasnt in the frame. Werners words, calm and reasonable, were all that could be distinguished, What must you do when you get out of the car? Whats more important than collecting a toy from the back seat? Explain how you will pay for the damage you caused, not to mention the inconvenience. Then the thud, thud, thud. Jeanettes mouth dried and tears flooded, pouring down her face. Joshuas bellow resounded. Thud. Thud. Any prospect of a jolly birthday celebration was now extinguished. At the farm, no one dwelt on a damaged object. It was unthinkable that her stepfather would ever have beaten her brothers for a misdemeanourfor anything. The noise of the strap had dredged up long-repressed memories for Jeanette and her whole being was in shock. A long
walk was needed to sooth Jeanettes hostility toward Werner and to push the memories back down into the dungeon where they belonged. While walking with vigorous, furious steps, Jeanette devised a scheme to make it up to Joshua. After dinner she offered to read Josh a story before bed. The two went to her room, Jeanette closing the door behind them. She placed her index finger over her lips and mouthed, Shhh, before beginning to talk. Once upon a time a lonely Princess sat by a pond. As Jeanette told the story of The Princess and the Frog from memory, she placed two candles on the cake, lit them, closed her eyes and blew. Jeanette made a silent birthday wish: for Joshua to metamorphose into a Prince and for his father to become worms. One day the Princess... She cut a slice of chocolate cake for them both and continued the story as a chocolate-laced smile spread over Joshuas face.
And Then You Die

Jessica Burrows
rom a window one can see the whole world as it rotates slowly, ever so slowly, on its axis. If one watches long
enough they might even see it change. They might just witness evolution in the process. Like a DNA strand or the Philadelphia Chromosome morphing into something quite different. However, they would gasp and say what a sight! and thats supposing they actually cared much for the world around them. Many people wouldnt even take a second glance out their window, let alone look at what is staring them right in the face. The mirror is better suited for their sense of vanity but not for all; many dont want to view their image. But for those who do, what could be more important? Surely not the same old grass they see every other day or the blue sky or the sun pounding its shine into the sea to create an alternate reality. Water isnt really blue, we all know that. But what is originally plain and boring can be brightened with just one beam, whether it be a smile or a ray of sunshine or even a miracle in the form of a little blue pill. Just as the ocean experiences every day. And wouldnt that just be absolutely wondrous? If just the sunshine could make us appreciate everyday? Hey, I am alive for another day! I havent been taken during the night, I am still able to make an imprint on the world. Even if one is deathly ill and there is nothing left but a Chronic mess. 10, I say. The level
of pain is 10! Unfortunately, the ruins of an abandoned school, penetrated by every colour spray paint, cant look radiant. Sure, it can be a work of art if captured within guidelines, but otherwise its just a pathetic, drunken mess that slaps tourists in the face. People may do silly things while being induced but when analgesics have failed then what else could work? It gets you to sleep, lessens your care for vomiting but also lengthens healing time. May as well get the needle out and prick yourself to withdraw some thin blood. When did the world become so selfish? Surely, it couldnt have always been so? The window is never selfish. It doesnt rape all the attention from the wonders that lay beyond. Windows dont discriminate like a human does. They urge you to see what they see. A world painted by Peter Booth, Salvador Dali, Brett Whitely, Cezanne even. Who are you? What is your true nature? And how do you perceive the world? A butterfly passes by my window and I marvel. I lace my fingers over the sill and just stare at the delicate creature landing from daisy to little white daisy, stretching its patterned wings. It isnt overly colourful, quite dull really, but still something I wont forget. Strange as it seems, I even stare at a fly. I wonder how, with such a tiny body, they manage to encase a whole digestive system. I wonder if they have white blood cells I wonder if they deal with allogeneic crap. My vision seems to become more and more precise, like it used to be, as I concentrate on every little thing that passes my eyes as I scan the outside world; things I have previously taken for granted. How does one finally manage to override their selfish behaviour? That is the question I wish someone could answer. Why me, why me, why me? But I know it is a terrible vice. My mother always told me not to succumb to such dreaded things, but how can one not be vain? She also told me that if I ever touched drugs she would slap me. Too late, I suppose, and she was the one to make the decision.
Its all blended together in a centrifuge. So many questions with no answers, and the world only wants to take care of themselves. Unconditional love doesnt exist unless one is seriously damaged and terrified of the repercussions. Even the kidnapped fall in love with the kidnappers sometimes. Love, what a funny word; dont you agree? A word that is used too much yet not enough. What does it truly mean? Is it only a chemical reaction in the brain as everything else is or is it so much deeper than that? Who knows? No one is able to see the forest for the trees. Or the world for their reflection. Hey, world, I am still alive! I shout into the silence. The silence responds. I can hear light sobbing before I realise my eyes are watering. I smell the perfume before I have sprayed it. Such a crazy world we live in. Everyone dies; everything dies. I will, you will; the world will. Whether the latter will come before you and me, I guess we will have to wait and see. Myeloid. Having to survive on bone marrow transplants with no real known history of the disease. So tired. I return my gaze to that single butterfly and hastily wipe a tear that has reached my chin. That insect is the lucky one, it is free. Free from society, hatred, jealousy, pain and suffering. It works for a living just to sustain itself and its community; it never whinges about the hard labour because it knows it has to be done. No one else is going to take on the job so it can lay back and be lazy. Even, in the bible, God punished those who disobeyed his reasonable requests. We are all suffering through working for our whole lives just to take care of our families. And that doesnt include medical costs. Sometimes working as hard as possible doesnt give us enough money to pay for the everlasting hyperinflation, so we pay in other ways. People steal just to eat. Maybe a bit of bread, maybe a bottle of water. Some may even walk past an empty table at a restaurant and pocket food off plates to live. Poverty is all around us. The rich have money; the working man works;
and the poor die hungry. We attempt to fix problems in every other country but the prime minister doesnt even look at the death that decays, hollowed eye sockets, before them. It makes us sick anti-emetics will become the new illegal drug being pushed on the street. I blink rapidly a few times to moisten my eyes. Please, dont let it be what I think it is. My mouth is dry, I need water to keep me clean and neither problem can be solved. But what can anyone do about the politicians? Nothing. They say leap and what do we do? Leap; but not before we pay a tax for the act. So, many people are homeless and the government are giving grants to artists who drive around to certain areas of the street, set up a couple of bricks, call it art and call it magnificent, and then leave to start all over again. Since when has art been considered that of Dadaism in the 21st century? I think to myself that I ought to sign a toilet to symbolise the ever growing ridiculousness they call art. Hell, its been done before. I sigh; a loud sardonic whisper. But again, I sigh; more quietly this time. In this frame of mind, I no longer perceive the world outside my window a beautiful thing. Instead, I see large factories pluming their pollution into the sky; man-made clouds. One day the world will be full of it. Why go green, however, when you could go back? If we could forget our selfishness and turn off our large plasma screen televisions and may be our iPods too then we could go back to a time of happiness, of love. Peace and prosperity. If only. I blame my donor for this. Why me? It is all their fault! My mother has thrown a lot of my stuff out. She says I wont need it where Im going. She believes I am good, but no one is worthy of Heaven these days. I dont want anything to go though, doesnt she understand? It reminds me of a better
time. A time when I wasnt a burden. I look away from the sickening image of the world and close my eyes. The butterfly is still there, yes, but it is black and coated in sludge. Its times like this that I become anxious and fearful. Another vice, all because of the consciousness. My older brother, back from the war, opens my door and sits by my chair. He talks, I listen. But I never respond. He tells me he loves me. At least he followed through with his promise. He promised he would be back and no amount of words can express my happiness. I dont smile, though. I dont even nod. I only blink, breathe and feel my heart lurch, ready to make my mouth expel loud sobs. I am a wax statue, I know. He hugs me before leaving, it is warm and comfortable. When he leaves the room I sniff and hold myself, finally moving, and let those damned tears fall. They stream hot and heavy over the edges of my eyes and slip down my gaunt cheeks. I keep my eyes closed, I cant open them. I need the past too much right now. My mother comes in a little while later but I dont hear her until she is beside me. She places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and squeezes ever so slightly. She tells me she will put me into bed now. I want to scream at her no, please, anything but that! but I let her, the window has been betrayed and it will no longer let me see beauty through it. Instead I have to think of beauty. The bed is hard and doesnt dip when I am placed on it. I imagine it sneering mercilessly. It is laughing at me. Even on the most comfortable thing, I cannot rest. I want to cry again but I have already shed too many tears. Instead I work to be passionate once more. Hey! You havent got me yet! Repetition was becoming boring. One after the other, after the other. Everything is boring and I am becoming selfish. But anything plain and boring can become wonderful with one beam. Remember that! I tell myself.
Slowly I pull the edges of my lips up and, after a few seconds, I find myself laughing. It is hoarse but no less amusing. I understand I must sound quite like a donkey suffering a cold but I dont care. For yet another magnificent moment, I am happy. I giggle until the tears of devastation become that of happiness. I am breathless and very sore afterward though. I cant help wonder if I have become insane, spending too much time with myself. It is a vibrant white cabbage moth that once again lifts my dreary heart. Leukaemia. It flutters at the open window as if to say the window isnt offended, you deserve this beauty. My pain is 10 but the morphine will be here soon. I imagine the insects little spindly legs working to land on the sill where my fingers had been. It crawls onto my thumb and turns, inspecting the creases forged by operations. It looks closely at me with slightly bulging eyes then wiggles its feeling. It is communicating with the butterfly in my imagination; they feel sorry for me. The veins along its translucent wings are standing out vividly as it investigates my nail. Why cant something so simple be imagined by everyone? Cant people stop thinking about their schedules to view such wonders. I wish I werent so bitter but what parent in the 21st century actually loves their children? Oh, I have a meeting Yeah, I will play later Promises, promises, promises. It is a word that is a lot like love. Everyone wants to hear it but no one wants to commit to it. Yet another vice coating the earth with a thick layer of torture, like smooth peanut butter on bread. No one wants to actually care about another. Altruistic behaviours dont mean anything to a world of sex, drugs and metro-diversity. Altruism, for your information, actually has a dictionary meaning. It isnt just a word people made up. It is a noun and nouns are important. It means: unselfish concern for the welfare of others.
Altruism noun. Altruist noun. Altruistic adjective. Altruistically adverb. Something so real seems so fake. It cant truly exist. Something as nice and unselfish as that couldnt still exist, surely? But no one knows really what it means. I will check the dictionary, I hear them say. Out comes the phone or the Kindle. What happened to the dictionary in book form? I ask. They stare stupidly. Book? It sounds foreign to them, they are almost frightened. Frightened of the unknown. People arent scared of sexually transmitted diseases, vampires or the bogeyman. They are too common. But the person that lives in the land of technology, paper is nothing but an ancient artefact. I suppose that could be a good thing. Maybe the Amazon forest being replaced by Amazon.com would be a good thing. But alas, the news changes my mind. Our main supply of oxygen being diminished by machinery that creates own form of oxygen. Man-made clouds. Yes, I have become passionate once more but I am quite angry. Wrath, they call it. I fall back into the factory-depression. It is dark and scary and I am alone. No one can save me and I am so alone. An ache constricts my chest as my heart struggles to pump blood. Something it was created to do, just as Adam and Eve were to take care of the Garden of Eden. Nothing lasts forever and in the end we all become alone and oh, so scared. I dont want to be taken without them near me. I want to love, live, laugh but I cant do anything. I see the blankets shuddering before I feel my anxiety. I know nothing lasts forever but I want just a little longer. I want to say goodbye. I want to force my heart to keep going. I want to cry out for my brother. I want to scream as the fear wrecks me. I feel it destroying my entire being. I lift a shaking hand, weakly, and stare at it. I dont want it
to be my last memory. I dont want to go! Hey! You cant take me now! I scream silently, without my mouth moving. I still have so much to learn. So many mistakes to make! I realise one last thing before my eyes bulge and my heart clenches for the last time: cancer is a bitch and then you die
A Chance Meeting
Corey Danian
he oak folded its gentle hands around Hallem. He shivered in its shade, but he knew it was being protective,
holding the young Halban close to its bark. Hallem had felt these feelings before. It was his first memory. As he lay in the giant oaks arms, Hallem thought back to his childhood in the forests of Pelo. *** Hallem remembered being five years old. He was walking away from the main cluster of huts that was home for the tree-dwelling Halbans. The little boy liked to walk out this far from the village, but his parents didnt mind. Somehow, they always knew where he was. Hallem walked towards a small stream and knelt on the bank. He looked into the stream. It was like looking into a mirror. Hallem could see his green- hued skin and short, blondish brown hair. He could see his golden-hazel eyes and the little white teeth in his mouth. He could see his sleeveless, satin green top and the leaves tattooed up his arms. He could see him; Hallem. Hallem, came a whisper from behind him. Hallem turned his head away from the water, towards the tree line. Hallem. Slightly louder this time.
The boy got to his feet, ignoring the brown stains on his knees, and turned towards the noise. Hallem walked towards the source of the voice, in amongst the trees. Hallem! The little boy walked closer. He was without fear, for he knew what was calling him; it had been at the back of his mind since he was born. This was supposed to happen. The call kept coming, drawing Hallem onward. As he walked through the trees, Hallem felt eyes watching him. He stopped in a small clearing, drew in a breath and turned around. I know youre there. He called into the trees. Come out! Hallem fell backwards onto the ground as a blur of brown fur jumped in front of him. He looked at the yellow teeth of an adolescent male wolf. Its golden eyes were fierce and saliva drooled from its mouth onto the ground. Standing up, Hallem looked at the wolf. Going to be like this, is it? he asked the wolf. The wolf replied with a growl. Hallem sighed. Youre a fool. The punch to his nose surprised the wolf just as much as it often surprised Hallems fellow Halbans. The wolf yelped and jumped back. You should stay away, little fool. Hallem said smugly, a wicked smile on his face. You should know better. The wolf howled mournfully, full of pain for his bleeding nose. After staring at his intended prey for a brief time, the wolf retreated into the foliage. Hallem watched him leave and then felt the pull of the voice again. Taking one last look around, Hallem continued towards the voice. Eventually, the young boy came to a large oak tree. It was big and old, and its voice was very wise. This tree had seen the days of the ancient kingdom of Wandara; its great fall, the ascension of the mountains, the
forming of the Eastern Empire, the founding of the kingdom of Pelo, the Halban massacres, the treaty of King Knox of Pelo and Lady Mura of the Halbans, the Broll-Pelo War and the recent Lem murders, which had plagued the Empire until just before Hallem was born. All of this was kept inside this great oak for all to see, if you knew what to look for. Hallem approached the base of the great tree, grabbed the lowest branch and swung into it. He eventually made it up the tree and sat on a branch. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the trunk. Im here. Hallem said quietly. So you are, said the old oak. Welcome young Hallem son of Haddon and Shalla of the Halbans. Hallem smiled. The oaks voice sounded kind. Opening his eyes, the little boy looked into the trunk. Can I stay with you a little while? he said. You must be very lonely? Im never alone, little Hallem. replied the old oak. Im surrounded by many voices: trees, birds, squirrels, wolves, an occasional horse and rider. I study all that come. Not many of us come here? Hallem asked solemnly. Tree Dwellers, I mean. I have a partner, but she is old and blind. the old oak said. For someone to live as long as I have will take its toll. Thats a long time. Im only five. Hallem replied. I have lived for over a thousand years, young boy. the oak said calmly. What I see, I pass on. What I dont see, I hear. What I dont hear, I touch. When I cant do either, I seek my connection to my dear partner. I fear we have many lifetimes to go. It isnt that bad, is it? Hallem asked with a look of surprise. You see what others cant. You are young, little boy, the tree said, amusement creeping into his voice. You may not fully understand the
bond between the trees and the dwellers. Can you tell me? If you wish, young Hallem, the oak replied. The Halbans were human once. Then came the days of Peko, the ruler of the forests who made a pact with the trees. In exchange for longevity, the trees would have protection. Thus we are bonded. The Halbans draw nutrients to survive from the trees, and form telepathic bonds to hear what we say. Thus you are long-lived. Wow, Hallem said, feeling drowsy now. That sounds really good. Hallem curled up next to the trunk and closed his eyes. As he did so, the trees branches formed a bed for him, making Hallem glad. Before he finally fell asleep, he remembered saying this. I promise to visit you every chance I get from now, until you pass on, said Hallem. Hallem could never remember the oaks reply. The old oak knew of course but it kept it to himself. The young Halban even had a feeling that his own tree which was a small growing oak, knew what the old oak had said. These things came naturally, especially amongst the trees. **** The years turned and Hallem grew and matured over time. He learnt to read and count from his human grandmother and trained as warrior in the art of crossbow under his father and uncles. He learnt to pray and honour the world creator from his grandfather and understand his history as a descendent of the great Peko from his mother. Still, he would often go and see out the old oak tree, occasionally bringing treats for the animals that lived there. Now he was fifteen, tall and stealthy, keen and athletic. He was a true Halban warrior. It was a bright and beautiful sunrise this morning. The sun was a bright, shiny disk that pushed
back the night and brought forward a new day. Hallem smiled in its wake. Every sunrise brought back that memory and every time, Hallem and the old oak tree were glad to have met each other. As the night was pushed back by the new days light, Hallem continued to sit with his back on the trunk. The old oak then chuckled. Is not HalLem the father creator, a master of beauty? Hallem nodded. He did create the universe. But Im sure that he loves the ugliness, especially amongst humans. Dont forget youre part human, the old oak said. Even that part has its beauty. I guess so. Hallem said. For now, lets just watch the new day begin You never have been good at conversation, young Hallem, the oak said with amusement. But I agree. This beauty must be remembered, for tomorrow could be our last day together. Hallem let out a short laugh. Havent you heard? Tomorrow never comes. The old oak didnt reply. Instead, his hand-like branches moved towards the sun. Hallem stood up and placed his hands out to mimic the trees actions, smiling as the suns rays warmed him. It felt good, and they continued this action for a long time, drawing in energy and opening their minds to the possibilities of the future.
On the Crest of the Moon

Colleen Gale
he reckless water shifted upon the shore. It had been a year of solitude for Josie, but now he was ready to venture
out into the plentiful landscape of a world, where he had previously remained hidden behind a heart strung too tight in its complexities and sensitivities; a heart that was perhaps too strong to let go. Distant memories of a past long since forgotten had led him on a path of self-discovery, in search of a better place, and now in the brilliance of the light shining across the water, from a blue moon ringed in gold, it sent shivers down his spine; his hair prickling upwards towards the ash-encrusted sky, black as his heart was ready to move. Slowly he steadied himself, moving towards the edge of a fallen log, quieting himself away from the shores edge. Covering his body with a well-worn blanket, wrapped in coils of light beacons, he felt reassured that he was safe and had nothing to fear. He fell asleep nodding on and off, dreaming of oceans deep and wide, and the inklings of his dreams, of the ocean, spread out a cast of whisperings, of lightless days and endless nights, drifting into realms of calm and equilibrium. At day break, Josie, awakened, picked off bracken and loose green algae, and smoothed his rough, biting skin. The light cast a glaring glint in his eyes, as it brightened the way of the sea. He found a conch shell, its vibrations permeating through his strong, broad hands. Inside he cleaned it; pearl-white and
sharp. He made a leather strap and attached it to the conch, filling it with water dripping from his knapsack, wet from the nights moistened air, like the sweat from a dream licking itself clean off ones face. Josie wandered the lengths of the sand-banked dunes, and shortly came across a makeshift hut. He hadnt seen anyone in his travels for a very long time, and even the humble abode of the hut was a surprise to him. It stood in isolation, bar the long threads of grass which tugged at its sides, causing it to slant. He could still hear the sounding ocean, and the air was thickened by fog, but for some reason, the shrill oceans air was causing his heart to pound. He looked around but no-one was there. The huts roof had seen better days he thought, and just then, it appeared. Through the whitened glaze of air, sounding like the tip-toe of a brazen dancing elf, a little white man appeared, jumping to and fro on his spindly legs. He had a loin cloth covering his lower body parts, and his body seemed small in comparison to his larger-sized head, which was wrapped in a turban. For some reason Josie did not jump backwards. He simply stood still by the hut holding his breath. The seas calming presence had vanquished all signs of fear, and a lucidity of sea-light brightness enveloped the cockles of the air. Josie was mesmerised, and as the little man moved closer, approaching in a surly, somewhat familiar, manner, Josie took just one step back and then stopped. Josie felt his fingers and palms go numb. His body ringed with long-pressed memories of the blazing sea, reddening its sky; the luminous green of the grass on the distant hills; the oozing, milky froth from a stream of thought, akin to lavish beauty and light; an untainted heart, with shadows dispersed in the depths of his mind. He bore witness to the opening of an aura; to the magic of a place he couldnt readily touch, and he felt free to go.
Just then the figure moved closer still, its shape becoming more pronounced. Josie held tightly to his conch as if holding onto a profound treasure. The conch was exuding waves of brilliance, as if he could feel it rising through his heart and his body, tempted with new ideas and possibilities; seen through the silken sands of time; sending a sky-light through heavens maze; capturing the wondrous renewal of a lost space in time. He figured time in essence was changing, or about to change at least. Then, as he looked up from his slight downward gaze, something short of a miracle happened. The little white man, gleaming down the length of his long, pointed nose, with golden beads hanging down past his knees, vanished as surely as he had appeared, as if into thin air. Josie wiped at his eyes, clearing them of left-over sea debris, and the clouds above him whitened sending out a glorified mist of light resting over his head. He was surely taken in by this, but he seemed immediately drawn to the spot where he had last seen the sprightly elf. As he approached, he bent down to where the little man had been, to find that the golden beads, now awash with no colour and not simply ordinary beads, were the beads that had once belonged to him at the beginning of his journey. The token of the beads left behind brought a tear to his eye. He felt he had always been safe and looked after. He now knew what he must do, and that he must return to the sea. He gathered his beads and his conch, took a lasting sip of fresh, cold water, and slowly turned back along his path towards the sea. Josie returned to the spot where he lay on the beach, near the log. He placed his conch down carefully, and placed the beads around his neck. He felt a quiet calm, yet was quite exhausted, and gave in to sleep, rocking in the bridge of the curved branch, linking his arms tenderly around his body. As he slept the sky became a tremendous display of magnificent threads of yellow-gold. The moon rose, and
revealed its blue majestic face. Slowly the tide would sneak its way back in, sneak up to his feet, inching at his toes, curling them into its mouth, savouring the sweetness, enveloping his body and playing a tune with his heart, freeing him back to where he belonged; in the magical, flowing, blissful place of his dreams, where the days were lightless, and the nights were endless Josie was finally freed, and the little white man closed his face with a wink, and a surly white grin.
Slippery Dish
Colleen Gale
or a moment there I thought I saw a fish. Not one but two. Burlesque characters of bubbling eyes, mouths frothing at
the seams, an unwittingly sorry sight except for the drooling expression cast from their periwinkle faces. One may think they were having a bad day. Like flotsam and jetsam, they are along for the ride, the pair of them, all squishy and squashy, playing in turns for the round. Around and around the hourglass of time, ticking and tocking to the beat of their little hearts, like a pulse readying itself to jump unprepared into a splashing mirage of water. A little nose dive here, a curious and subtle bend there, all the while paying extreme care and attention not to bend the rules. Play safely. Have fun. It doesnt seem like much fun as they hit the sides, but with their tails swathing and splashing they ride on home and travel well. I wish I was a fish, all soft and swishy with enough air to fill my lungs and go another round. My time is like misspent youth left pondering and wavering, thoughts like huge pocket-filled air bubbles ready to burst. I wonder how it came to be that these fish, on their road less travelled, found it upon themselves to be so brave and tackle the unknown, sliding the slippery depths to a life encapsulated by chance and perhaps a little romance too. I wish it was just so easy and uncomplicated. I would swim like the rest of them, all cool and carefree. Did my fish always have it so easy? Maybe their bubbling eyes are testament to a life
that was not always so clear. Maybe they were swash-buckling cowboys in a past incarnation, and the swivel of a bullet hit a soft spot. Who knows? God if I could have been clever enough to escape a hit and miss who knows what I might have become. It was a chance meeting for my two fishes. They were bred separately and look slightly different. But each with golden flecks and swagging tails, they both mean the same to me. I really watch them closely and I observe what I call their good sides and their slight imperfections. I think its all a matter of timing really. I like to think they are always moving in sync, but like my life, its not always the case. They can cleverly disguise this matter, I have noticed, and this is what I look for, paying special attention to any quirks which might be of interest to me at the time. I watch my hungry little fishes as they seem to follow their noses, hoping I will feed them. I test them by clicking the surface of the water and I watch their reactions. They dont seem distracted by any impending noises, and I am all the more curious, as I get distracted and despondent by even the slightest of sounds; my concentration haphazardly turning corners into realms of disquiet. I am at peace presumably, only when I close my eyes or stare into space. For some reason my fish float on the top of their glorified tank of worlds and almost estranged to their own body weight (which cant be much) just drop. They remain still for a moment or two, then slowly as if coaching each other, give the okay and resuming their positions take off again. The funny thing is, the other day they just stopped moving literally in their stead. Their bodies and tails stopped short of another round. I thought Id lost them. Or did I just catch a marvel amongst the diamonds, their skin glowing in a golden trance of light stopping to be admired? I think as much. It scared me a bit really to think they were dead meat, or should I say dead fish. I pay great homage to that which I care for and look after, and besides, they lend me a great amount of satisfaction and amusement allowing me into
their little fishy worlds of follies and foibles. I think all this movement and meandering is cyclical, really. Well, since my fish have names (and just for the record I have called them Wax and Wayne), III let you know that the moon has been doing some very weird jibbing lately. It has left me quite confused. I am mesmerized by the fish you see, and since I also follow the stars (through the roofs skylight), I am posed with a few questions. It seems that when I head off to bed in the evening on a waxing or waning moon, a cloud cover settles over my tired head with fluorescent tickles of pink and austere yellow. My dreams have become a tremendous kaleidoscope of colour reminiscent of vivid expanses of water reaching to the horizon. If I tilt my head back as far as it will go, I seem to be able to connect in the most amazing way. This gives me a sense of hope and vitality. As I sit and wonder about my two fishes and the colour they add to my life, I ponder the idea that these fish are but incarnations of Planet Earth itself, and the lucidity of constantly changing and evolving patterns of growth. The constant circling is a reminder to all fish that breathe and to my curious self, that life is not one straight and narrow road but a blessed, well-arranged journey, in motions of sickness and health. So, in cycles we breathe, in and out. These fish, a highly developed species (you may not have guessed) who happen to belong to a greater part of the food-chain, also have the knowledge contained within to adapt. Sadly my fish are circling as a means of survival, fearing theyll get sucked into the bottomless pit like the rest of us. It is quickly becoming evident through their insipid eyes, which melt down like wax, and which alludes to me, a hapless pool of water crying at the seams of life inherent to them. I think my fish are breathing for me, and for all of us. I feel totally connected to them, and this seems to grow the more I am able to understand and relate to their circumstance. For at the
end of the day, they do not make me feel anxious nor gloomy, but quite the opposite in fact. I am enriched by them, and they give me something to think about without totally clouding my mind. I engage with them, and their apparent solitude. And they, with knowingness (and these fish do know!) liberate my soul and I liberate myself and become unbound by desire, as I become as one. I shake my fins, fold back my scales, turn over the hourglass and watch the sand disintegrate amongst a pile of rocks by the sea, to the bottom of the ocean, where I sink rather than swim; transported eagerly into otherworldly realms, and not afraid at all. I find an inner calm, and my feelings and thoughts parody a slight motion sickness but nothing I cannot wade away.
Divine Protection
Michael Leach
distinguished gentleman he obviously was. The elegant attire enveloping his body indicated his wealthy stature beyond doubt. Black hair was tied back in a neat ponytail behind his head, a popular style amongst fourteenth-century Parisians. A top hat adorning his handsome face was tipped in a congenial manner as he greeted passers-by. This middle-aged man managed to blend in with the masses of people walking along the cobblestone paths. His appearance, like his nobility, was impeccable. The heat of the morning was unexpected, causing Jean to perspire beneath several layers of clothing. He undid the top of his bulky coat in an attempt to cool himself. In doing so, he inadvertently revealed something that shimmered enchantingly in the mid-morning sun. From around Jeans neck, a red-coloured cross necklace dangled and bobbed over elegant ruffles. It appeared to be the same as an ordinary cross, except that all four of its arms were noticeably curved. Was this cross in fact the symbol of the infamous Order of the Knights Templar? It was difficult to tell. As time passed, the temperature of the morning gradually continued to rise. A single drop of sweat trickled down the side of one of Jeans cheeks. He wiped it discreetly from his face,
ean Verdi walked purposefully down the archaic streets of Paris. His pace was swift, if not presumptuous, for the
before slowing his pace considerably. He stared strangely at the liquid resting on his finger as recent memories coalesced in front of his minds eye. Jeans thoughts were instantly focused once more on the events that had transpired three days ago. He vividly recalled the apprehension he had felt whilst in his estate at Le Mans. An anonymous individual had delivered a letter to him just before sunrise. The letter had been slid surreptitiously under the front door, going unnoticed for some time. Eventually, the sight of the letter prompted Jeans muscle-bound servant to retrieve two broadswords and join his master for an extensive search of the grounds. All that the pair found were smears of crimson blood along a section of tall, spiked iron fence. The blood still glistened in the light of the rising sun. Returning indoors, Jean used a letter opener to cut carefully away at the mysterious white envelope. Scrawled in the exact centre of the letter therein was the word Paris. He was clueless as to what this was supposed to mean. It was only when he was about to discard the seemingly pointless message that he realized the true purpose of the letter. Stamped on the envelope in irregularshaped red wax was a seal. Jean recognized the symbol instantly as one that defined the course of his adult lifeit was a Templar cross. The anxiety he felt inside resulted in sweat coating his face as it did now. Jean believed that somebody in Paris was in grave danger. The now distressed man was interrupted from his introspect as he walked blindly into a lady. Both of them recoiled, the woman more violently than Jean. She cried out in surprise as she stared reproachfully at the individual standing awkwardly before her. Forgetting his manners amid his mental turmoil, Jean ignored the lady and kept manoeuvring his way through the serried crowds. His dawdle transformed into a swift jog as he considered just how important his presence in Paris was. ***
An eerie silence filled the almost deserted nave within the Notre Dame Cathedral. This ornate example of Gothic architecture continued to amaze Parisians, even though two centuries had passed since its construction began in the 12th Century. Huge piers rose up towards the vaulted ceiling, watching vigilantly over the cathedrals most sacred space. Lifelike statues of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus shared the nave with a small army of stone angels, kings and saints, Beautifully designed stained glass windows allowed scarce amounts of light to filter through them in order to illuminate the darkness. The only other sources of light evident in the whole area were several lit candles blazing away upon a central stone altar. Before the altar, many aisles of wooden pews utilized a majority of the naves space. For centuries, these sturdy rows of furniture had provided rest for the Godly. On this day, it seemed their purpose was completely opposite. Seated in the front row of pews, seemingly in prayer, was Dragus Maldetti. His head was bowed, disclosing long, dishevelled strands of pure-white hair. A long scar encrusted the old mans left cheek from the corner of the mouth to just below the eye. Bloodied cloths covered parts of Dragus right lower leg and right forearm, with traces of yellow Soldiers Woundwort on the surrounding skin. A tattered brown robe cloaked a majority of his large, muscular body. The life of a soldier had rewarded Dragus with immense physical strength, but had stripped him of almost all humanity. He had spent the past decade exploiting his latest position as a Roman Catholic Inquisition soldier, often acting unscrupulously and without a priests supervision. He was a renegade bounty hunter rather than a champion of the Catholic faith. Dragus continued to sit alone in silence as he had done all morning. His thoughts were not on God, but instead on something most sinister. Thoughts relating to the fall of the Knights Templar replayed themselves continually within his twisted mind.
The Order of the Knights Templar was abolished exactly nine years ago on this day October 13, 1307. The inquisition was instructed to hunt down all members of the order so as they could be punished for alleged heresy and immorality. A majority of captured Knights Templar were cruelly tortured. Ultimately, they were resigned to live out their remaining years in disgrace, serve lifelong prison sentences or, in cases where members did not confess to alleged crimes, burn at the stake. It seemed that a small number of knights, however, had somehow evaded contact with any inquisitors. These lucky individuals were still leading charmed lives comfortably in many European countries. Their skills at hiding had allowed them to live as free men for nine years longer than their unfortunate brothers. Dragus had one recurring desire within that obsessive mind of his: he wanted to play an integral part in the final chapter of the Knights Templars destruction. Achieving this malevolent goal would provide him with wealth, fame and satisfaction of the liked he had never experienced. Time was running out though. The sixty-two-year-old man craved the opportunity to relish these auspicious rewards before his life ended. Out of desperation, the furtive individual had dedicated the better part of two years to tracking down Jean Verdi. This man was one of the few surviving Knights Templar in France. He was a courageous individual, a man who other knights rallied around following the death of the last Grand Master two years ago. Dragus had written to Jean in a discreet code that only members of the order could comprehend. He then travelled all the way from Milan to Le Mans in order to hand deliver the letter. This letter was essentially an invitation to Notre-Dame; one that Dragus knew would be accepted. Jean would travel unsuspectingly to the great cathedral, intent on a harmonious reunion with a surviving knight like himself. Instead, the complete eradication of the Knights Templar would be foreshadowed by the death of yet another of its key
members. This could be seen as a fitting way to mark the nine year anniversary of the orders abolition. As the sun approached its zenith, Dragus sensed the time of Jeans secret assassination was imminent. He raised his head ever so slowly. Reaching into his robe, he pulled out a necklace with a medallion and a cross. The medallion contained an image of Saint Peter of Verona, the Patron Saint of Inquisitors. He ignored this and took a moment to glare pensively at the cross. It was undoubtedly a Templar cross. There is no deception here Jean, Dragus thought to himself. I may have used false documents to enter the order days before its abolition, but I still went through the same initiation ceremony as you. Never mind all that has changed since then. I trust that you will continue to follow the sacred rites and meet me here, brother to brother, at noon on the third day after summons. The old facial scar lifted upwards with a malicious smile. Dragus eyes then diverged almost instinctively towards the very front of the nave. He saw, as he had numerous times in the past, the resplendent form of the primary stained glass window. The frighteningly realistic biblical scenes depicted therein told their ancient stories radiantly before him. Most of his attention became devoted to an image of Jesus carrying the crucifixion cross up a hill. Although it was only a few minutes before noon, Dragus became transfixed by the sight and all but forgot about Jean Verdi. The stained glass window touched something deep inside the man in a way nothing had been able to before. He felt peace, serenity and love begin to rage in one powerful torrent within the very inner depths of his soul. For the first time since his youth, Dragus was experiencing the warm glow of real emotion. The fiendish man despised the unusual sensation he felt inside. He leaped up and cried out in rage, as if these actions would dissipate the waves of emotion afflicting him. Both his face and the cloth around his lower leg reddened. Dragus
body seemed to be staging a battle between darkness and light. Drawing his broadsword from its scabbard, Dragus charged towards the source of his angerthe primary stained glass window. In one fluid motion, he flung the large steel weapon in the direction of the naves sacred focal point. The unmistakable sound of shattering glass resounded throughout Notre-Dame cathedral. It was followed shortly by the clatter of steel and glass on cobblestone. Dragus Maldetti was no longer just a fiend, now he was a sacrilegious fiend. Every muscle in Dragus body suddenly froze. A thick veil of incredulity and regret had engulfed his mind, forbidding any further movements or sounds. The sensation was even more unwelcome than the warm feelings stirred up by the now-broken window. As the old man stood still by the naves altar, the statues in his line of sight seemed to pass judgement on him. His eyes met those of a stone saint, followed by the Virgin Mary, and then Jesus Christ. The feelings of shock and regret intensified enormously. The blood drained from his face, threatening to never return. Time seemed to stand still there at the scene of the crime. The seconds crept by slowly until a very loud noise erupted from overhead, piercing the silence. Notre Dames bells were heralding the arrival of noon in Paris. The sound broke Dragus out of his daze, before leading his mind towards its inevitable conclusion. Dragus finally managed to register the enormity of his crime against God and the cathedral. What have I done, and why now? Dragus thought to himself. He knew all too well the severe punishment pronounced for an act as shameful and foolish as sacrilegious vandalism. Someone could enter the cathedral or descend a tower at any moment the bellringer perhaps, or a worshipper, or maybe even a soldier. Jean Verdi would no doubt arrive soon too. Dragus felt utterly powerless without his sword. He briefly considered retrieving it, but thought it might already be implicated in the
act of vandalism. He would now struggle to defend himself, let alone assassinate a young hero of the Order of the Knights Templar. Dragus closed his eyes and stifled a cry of frustration. His nefarious plan had completely backfired. Now acutely aware of his predicament, Dragus began to panic. His frenetic mind abandoned the thought of assassination and focused instead on self-preservation. He needed to get out of Notre Dame immediately. With the air of a frightened child, Dragus fled from the vandalized scene as fast as his injured old body allowed. The would-be assassin ran down the cathedrals front steps just as the bell tolled for the twelfth and final time. It was like the sound of trumpets from on high. Only seconds later, Jean Verdi walked solemnly into NotreDame cathedral. He was alone; he was safe from danger.
Raindrops on Cellophane
Jaime McDougall
single, fat raindrop landed on the clear cellophane with a dull smack. I watched it navigate the cracks and
crevices of the cellophane before launching off the edge of it and onto my lap. I stared down at the dark grey circle left on my trousersthe last remnants of the dead raindrop. I began rubbing at it, the sudden need to make the remnants of the drop disappear overwhelming everything else. I rubbed and pressed, my jaw clenching as I willed the circle to go away. Movement to my right brought me back to myself, and I smiled apologetically at the young woman sitting next to me at the bus stop. I looked at my watch, and then down the road to see if I could catch a glimpse of the bus. Late. I shouldnt be going. Not to this. Not today. No, I wont go. Ill stand up right now and walk back home. No one would blame me. Not if they knew. I released the breath I had been holding and slumped back against the bench, hugging the package a little closer to my chest. My breath briefly clouded the cellophane and I had a sudden urge to draw pictures in the condensation. But it disappeared too quickly, and I was once again left with the thin layer of plastic. A feeble barrier, a smile on a sad face. Still, it kept the contents safe from any predictable harm. Not for the first time, I wondered if Id done too much.
Gone too far. Was the basket too full? Too elaborate? Will it look like Im compensating? Of course not. How could I be seen as compensating if no-one could see me in the first place? At least, not in the important ways. People could look at me. Would look at me. They always did. But they wouldnt really see me. No one knew and no one had to know. Besides, everything could be fine. It could all be a mistake. The cellophane crinkled as I released the basket, earning another wary glance from the woman to my right. My sisters baby shower, I said, nodding to the basket. As if the woman wouldnt understand the purpose of a basket filled with baby clothes, nappies, soothers, teethers and all other manner of baby necessities. As if the bright yellows and blues of the gifts didnt already scream Someone in my life is having a baby boy! I could scream to the world. I could scream or shout or stick a label on my forehead. Or wear a t-shirt. They have a t-shirt for everything these days. I saw my gynaecologist and all I got was a cold speculum. I smirked at the thought, happy I could at least be a little bit clever at a time like this. The woman next to me gave a halfhearted smile before putting on a set of headphones. And what would you know? My eyes narrowed as I looked over at the pristine vision of female youth. You think youre so young and that youve been through it all. You think you have felt the height of every emotion there has ever been to feel. And the stupid thing is, you think youre invincible at the same time! Youll wake up one day and see that the world owes you nothing. No one owes you a damn thing. I forced myself to look away from the woman. She might already think Im crazy, but I didnt have to promote the idea. I sighed, suddenly feeling sorry for her. One day youll wake up and something precious will
be gone. Something you didnt even know was precious. Something that is gone before you even got the chance to fight for it. I blinked away the tears forming in my eyes, refusing to shed a single one. It wasnt the strangers fault any of this had happened. It wasnt anybodys fault. At least, thats what the doctor said. Id give anything for it to be someones or somethings fault. People can be persuaded. Things can be fixed. With no one and nothing to blame, my thoughts and feelings wrapped around me in endless circles with nothing to do but consume each other. Useless but there. Like cellophane. I let my head drop back and took in the sky. The sky didnt give me any answers either. Solid without so much as a cloud edge to break the monotonous grey, the sky felt like my insides: empty and there. Just there with no real purpose, stuck between one point and the next. The sky and I were alike in that way, waiting for the catalyst that would save us from the empty spaces wed turned into. Damn buses are always late, the woman next to me muttered. She looked down the road, checked her watch and then went back to pressing things on the screen of her phone. Damn buses, I said, nodding as I glanced down the road. Today of all days. Today had to be the day that the bus ran late on the day the sky had gone grey and the day raindrops waited by the thousands to disappear onto the planet. The universe hated me today. At least, thats what I would have believed if I believed in any sort of higher power. But I didnt believe, so I was stuck with feeling that I just had crappy luck. Maybe it was time for some belief, though. Maybe a higher power held the answer for getting out of this and getting what was rightfully mine back. If you make everything right, Ill start believing in you.
No, that didnt sound right at all. If you make this right, Ill know you exist, so I can believe in you. My hands began to shake as I looked up, as if up held all the answers. Up was where God lived. Up was where you could find heaven. Up giveth and up taketh away. How dare you? I screamed at the sky. How dare you take this from me? This is my right and part of my being, and you have ripped it away from me! Its not fair. Its not right. Why punish me? What did I do wrong? I ducked my head, all the anger and confusion melting into engulfing sadness. I still didnt believe, and that meant I had no one left to bargain with. Why? I couldnt stop myself from wondering. Why, of everything, do I have that one thing taken away? A single tear escaped my left eye, trailing down my cheek to hang precariously onto my chin for a moment. I left it there to do as it pleased. Who was I to end the life of a raindrop at my own whim? I looked down at the package in my hands, wondering if it would slide down the cellophane like the rain had done. I granted myself that one tear, that one show of all the emotion that had been swirling around inside me. It would hold everything Id been carrying that I couldnt bear to carry anymore. Finally, the tear dropped away from my face and I closed my eyes rather than see where it landed. I reached up to my cheek and wiped the evidence away. The sound of a bus engine working its way up the gears caught my attention just as a raindrop fell on my forehead. A faint smile graced my lips as I reached up and wiped the water off before it could trickle down to my nose. I looked up at the sky and whispered, If I can hold it in, so can you. My gaze shifted to the cellophane wrapped basket. At least for a little while longer.
The Wars Within

Jaime McDougall
o on ahead and make yourself comfortable. Shell be in to see you soon.
I stepped inside the small, empty office and looked around,
making sure not to make eye contact with the short, plump receptionist, Tammy, whod let me in. She waited at the open door as if she expected something, but I couldnt think of what and ignored her. I sat down on one of the two chairs facing the desk, both covered in aging fake leather. I stared forward and said nothing, willing Tammy to leave. The sound of her wheezing breath became agitated for a few moments before I heard her shuffle off and the door click shut. I immediately stood and began examining the room. The offices never seemed to change much. Even alone they were always like boxes trying to contain god knows what spewing out of the mouths of those who came in to talk. Pictures of vibrant, coloured flowers or vast peaceful landscapes usually hung on the walls, and this office proved no different. I couldnt escape the mountains, rainforests and views across lakes at sunset. All meant to make me feel peaceful, Im sure. The steady ticking of a small clock on the desk caught my attention as I settled into the silence of the room. Next to it, an inspirational quote calendar faced toward the patient rather than the doctor. Todays quote? Always look on the bright side.
Louise giggled, and I let her. I probably would have giggled too, but I knew what being in that room meant. Sighing, I sat down again and looked at the desk situated, as always, directly opposite the door. A few knick-knacks and a blue box of tissues decorated the desk. They never had family photos on display. I assumed they were afraid. I would be. Id never display family photos in an office like this. Not with the kind of people who made these appointments. Someone knocked softly and I spun around, my jaw and fists clenched. A woman in a red skirt and jacket walked in. She stood about my height and had her blonde hair neatly pinned back. I relaxed and came back to myself. She looked nice. Gentle, even. Hello She looked at the file she held. Allison. Im Dr. Santia. Please take a seat. She gestured toward the chairs and then walked behind the desk to sit. No handshake. No physical contact at all. I like that. Louise did, too, but she usually liked meeting new female friends no matter how they chose to greet her. I sat down in the chair and crossed one knee over the other, folding my hands in my lap. I looked down at them for a moment, focusing on the dirt under my fingernails, and took a deep breath. Then another. Unlike some of my instant defences, Julia took a little coaxing. Theres no need to be nervous, Dr. Santia said. She smiled. Im not very good at these first appointments, either. The buddy-buddy route. Havent had that one in a while. Id been through it before, so I only needed a few moments. One or two more deep breaths would shut Allison off and bring out Julia. Julia, the social queen, domestic goddess, and gracious hostess the world has always loved to think I truly am. I dont remember when she first appeared, but I think it was sometime after starting school. Before that, I didnt give a damn about being social.
She would be horrified at the dirt under my fingernails. I had others I could choose from who would come out with less coaxing than Julia, but people I dont know seem to respond the best to her. Shes polite, quiet, agreeable, and everything else a real princess would have been trained to be. Dr. Santia would like her, and I needed Dr. Santia to be at ease. All I had to do after that was sit back and watch. Or go to sleep and let Julia hold on as long as she liked. I chose to watch, this time. I usually do for these appointments. Dr. Santia smiled. Why dont we get started? Tell me a little about you. Julia worked her magic through most of the session. She laughed softly at the right times, handled important questions with all the seriousness any slightly bubble-headed twentyyear-old should. She even skilfully paused and occasionally babbled on to push the time as far as she could while they were in the realm of pleasant questions. Yet another reason I liked having Julia up front. Dr. Santia nodded along, listening more than taking notes. A good sign. And Ive always dreamed of doing something that helps people, Julia said. Words from my mouth that werent entirely untrue, though less true as the years passed. Im not sure if I want to try going the charity route or just do what I can day to day to help. Ive been looking into becoming a social worker. She topped that off with a sunny smile and a little shoulder shrug. Nice touch. Excellent, excellent, Dr. Santia said, mimicking the habit of repeating words that Id noticed among psychiatrists. Whether those few seconds were all that valuable or not, I dont know, but almost all of them did it. Now Id like to come right out and ask you a more personal question. Have you ever been abused? Julia faltered.
She didnt deal with abuse. Abuse didnt come with subjects like knowing who to seat next to whom at a party or the best way to talk to people when you want them to do something for you. The jolt of being pushed to the front felt almost like a slap across the face, and I looked at Dr. Santia, wondering if she had somehow noticed. Julia skittered away to wherever it is she goes when shes not up front. I had to remind myself to swallow and breathe deeply so I didnt panic. I just barely moved my fingers and toes, adjusting to the sudden full control. Did the others feel that way when I called on them? Any kind of abuse, Dr. Santia said. It can come in different forms. Emotional or mental... So many memories tried to flood into my mind at once. Knowing at a young age I should have been born a boy. If only I had been born a boy, life would have been so much better. I wouldnt have caused any problems. I would have made my family happy if only for that one detail so out of my control. I felt Alexandra enter the edges of my awareness as I began to clench my teeth. None of the others had asked me this. The others had been content to chat with Julia and send me on my way, sometimes with drugs and sometimes not. If Id known she would ask about this, I could have prepared. Physical... Dr. Santia continued. I swallowed. I didnt dare glance at the clock, lest it give away my desperate need for this appointment to be over. For your health, they had said. Thats what they always said. Why wouldnt they just take me to the doctor? Why did they have to beat me so hard? Why didnt they help me up when I collapsed onto the floor after they were done? At least I had learned how to stand on the edges of the bath without disturbing the shower curtain. They never found out and I learned how to avoid the boiling hot bath water. When I got older, they noticed my drinking, but they didnt care so long as I left some for them.
Alexandra slammed forward to shove the memories away, and I finally began to calm. Sexual Images of Uncle Bo taking me for that walk when I was a little girl popped into my mind. The little copper button on my blue corduroys. How easily the button would just pop off and the matching copper zipper could be undone. Alexandra immediately shoved the memory away as Louise started to whimper. Abuse? I asked and then licked my lips. I... Next came the memories of the tall man in my nightmares. Tall with brown hair. He used to shove up my shirt and make me hold onto the cheap, metal headboard of my bed. Things werent clear beyond that, but he was reason I slept in the toy box or under the bed. He made me call him my prince, I think. The memories had become so fuzzy, and I didnt want them to become clear. I struggled against the details. Id lie on the bed during the day and know my prince would come again soon. There was no love or hate in it; I simply knew hed come. Allison? Alexandra came forward with full force once again as Louise began to cry, trying to shove all the memories away before I could become fully aware of them. I could feel her preparing to take over completely if she felt the need. Julia sat in the corner, cuddling Louise and crooning to the little girl softly as they both tried to bliss away the chaos. I submitted to Alexandra, giving up my hold on the memories as they slowly faded from my mind, but I did it too late. From the black depths somewhere within, Maia woke. The torrent of memories had stirred even her in the faraway place I had confined her tothat we all had confined her to. Yet the memories provided more than enough to give even Alexandra pause.
Maias screams bubbled up inside me, causing the memories to flood in again. People. Places. And the anger; all the anger. I tried to catch glimpses of the pictures before Alexandra shoved them away or Maia tore at them, sickly fascinated with the horrors of my past. Maias rage and yelling made me physically cringe. I looked at Dr. Santia and Maia raged all the more. She had caused this to happen. She had disrupted the peace and sent it all into chaos. She had released what had been carefully tucked away for so many years. Maia screamed for justice and revenge, making me want to hold my head and cry. Allison? Dr. Santia looked concerned. A little afraid, even. A pleasurable shiver flew up my spine. So much. There were so many memories. So many things pushed aside. So, so much. Even things as recent as a few days past... Alexandra stopped pushing things away. Even she could not protect us from a memory so fresh. The cane, all steel. Mothers face, full of disappointment. The pain. Shock. Dr. Santia asked the question again and I looked at her. We all did. But Maia was the one who answered. No, I have never been abused, Maia said and licked her lips, as she scratched the fake leather along the arms of the chair. Maia took a deep breath, taking away the last remnants of control from Allison. It had been so long since Id had the pleasure of being in control, had the pleasure of saying I. My body. Dr. Santia nodded once again and began writing as fast as her hand would allow. I watched her, cocking my head to one side, then to the other. Everything had gone quiet. So quiet.
I cracked the knuckles of my fingers, one by one, and wondered if the noise made Dr. Santia nervous. It shouldnt have. After all, she had caused all the noise just moments ago. The noise that woke me up. Noise I stopped. She went and stirred up everything all over again and then expected things to be okay. She paused when I started, but only briefly. As I watched, her hand shook slightly and she began to write. The corner of my mouth jerked upward for a moment. Id forgotten how much this bodymy bodycould act of its own free will. I began scratching the arms of the chair again. I didnt like the noise the woman in red had caused. Neither did Allison. But Allison never did anything about it when people did things she didnt like. She couldnt protect the others like I could. Im almost finished writing, Dr. Santia said. Im sorry, but could you not scratch the arms of the chair? Something about that noise... I almost laughed. Something about that noise. She didnt like noise? Well, I didnt care for noise either, and soon shed learn what happened to people who were noisy. I understand, I said and smiled. Allison began to cry, knowing exactly what I had in mind for the woman in red.
The Big Bad Wolf

David Roach
he walked past the kitchen, unaware. Good. The last thing she needed to know was that she was being observed.
She carried a simple, reusable shopping bag, and the hooded jumper she wore concealed some of her features. With her hood up, there was no way to tell if it was indeed the target. It had taken some investigation to learn where this redcoated maiden was living. The hunter, simply known as Wolf to his companions, kept his distance. He had a short fuse and a destructive temperbut how could you not when surrounded by people who saw you as nothing more than a monster? Wolf kept in the darkness. His target seemed to pause and turn around in a slow circle, her eyes scanning the room. Wolf smirked when he spotted the girls face. What do you hope to achieve by stalking me? She had the voice of a young lady and now her back was to Wolf. I knew it was you searching for me from the very beginning. You are afraid. I can smell it on you. Wolf smirked. He wasnt afraid. If anything, he was thrilled and anticipating the chase. His hand played silently in his pocket with his switchblade. He licked his lips. ***
He remembered back over the last few days when hed been
tracking down his prey. It started with following the girl he called Red to a coffee shop. He loitered outside, occasionally checking through the window to see who she was talking with. She was chatting away with a large man in overalls. He had a strand of wheat hanging from his mouth. He needed to catch Red when shed be alone. The first task was to follow the farmer hed called Straw. Straw left not long afterward, cradling a flat white as he dawdled over to his ute. It was a simple, open-tray Holden with a tarp pulled over the back in a half-arsed attempt to keep rain out. It did little to stop someone climbing into the back. After an hour of waiting in the ute tray, the machine finally stopped moving, and the engine died. A heavy metallic door opened, the ute rocked, and then the door slammed shut. Crunching footsteps on a gravel road echoed, one after the other, until Wolf heard the creaking of a spring-held door. After that, the door pulled itself shut with a distinct wooden bang. Wolf pushed back the tarp over the tray and sat up, immediately overwhelmed by the smell of hay and cows. He jumped out from the tray and stretched his cramped frame. Looking around, he saw a dairy farm, just on sundown. Good. He would be able to use the shadows to his advantage. He scaled a nearby willow tree with ease. About ten minutes later, Straw came back out. He moved with a slight waddle. From this angle, it was obvious he was aging painfully. No matter; he wouldnt have to suffer for much longer. The cattle were already herded up into a yard and it didnt take long for the sound of milk pumps to fill the air. Wolf jumped down from the tree and sidled over into the cattle yard. There was a side door on the milking shed. Through it, the hunter could see Straw working away at one of the pumps. They seemed to be jammed.
Wolf crept up behind the man and grabbed him, covering the other mans mouth with a gloved hand and whipping out his switchblade. He made sure Straw could see it. Careful now, Wolf warned, his voice a slight rumble. Tell me about the girl in the coffee shopthe one in the red jumper. He let his hand shift slightly. Felicity? the farmer asked. Is that her? Wolf pressed. Red jumper, sounds about right the farmers voice was quivering. Shes a sweet girl, takes treats to her dying grandmother. Cute, Wolf commented. Wheres her grandmother? I dont know. Hospital, maybe. Wolf pushed the tip of his blade against the farmers chinny-chin-chin. Thats really no use for me. I tend to get rid of things I dont need. Straw whimpered. My brother Jerry knows her! And where can I find your brother? Wolf licked his lips and grinned. Furniture shop near the coffee place! How will I know your brother? He looks just like me! Were twins! Can he tell me anything different? Possibly. Hes in town more than I am! Well, thanks. What did you say your name was? The farmer stammered. M-Marcus! Marcus, you must not like your brother if you so easily give up his details to save your own life. It seemed to sink in, and Marcus shivered. Dont hurt Jerry! It wont hurt. See for yourself. Wolf shoved his switchblade into the side of Marcuss neck at an angle, severing his spinal cord and several other various neck-based things Wolf didnt care to think about. It took but a
matter of seconds and Wolf had gotten a step closer to Felicity. He smirked and dragged the body with him. After hotwiring Marcus ute, Wolf made his way back toward the town, whistling happily to himself. He loved it when things went his way. Hed been trying to get to Felicity for months now, and finally had a good lead. Once he got her alone, no one could stop him. *** The furniture shop was closed for the night, but there was a light on inside. Wolf watched as a man similar to Marcus walked about the store and looked at the various items of stock. He had the same walk, but he seemed a little younger. The man wolf had dubbed Stick didnt seem to be very alert when Wolf crept into the room. The craftsman had his back turned and head down, adding polish to a mahogany stick. It looked like a chair leg. Stick held it up in the light to admire it, and Wolf flinched the assassin could see his own reflection in the chair-leg. He had a moment to move before that chairleg came around at his head. Wolf didnt even have his knife ready yet. He dropped as the piece of wood passed over his head, and just as he attempted to recover, Jerry brought his knee up at the stalkers jaw. Again, Wolf avoided, but he was thoroughly startled. Stores closed! the craftsman roared. What do you want? Wolf was used to fighting with people who were surprised by him, like Straw, where he had the upper hand immediately. The craftsman had a weapon bigger than a knife, and was prepared to use it. Leave! Wolf decided he wasnt going to get much information out of Jerry in this way. He needed to disarm the guy at once. He kept his eyes on his opponent. Stick moved and jabbed with the leg. Wolf caught the blow and grunted. He instinctively lashed with his left hand and struck the craftsman in the side of the head.
Jerry staggered to the side, and Wolf used the movement to tackle him. He produced his knife and held it to Jerrys nose. Tell me about Felicity. F-felicity? What do you want with her? Wolf made a simple adjustment and let his switchblade rest with its tip in Jerrys nostril. Oh, just a bit of chat. He twisted the knife gently. Maybe get a drink and have some fun. Well, I wont tell you a thing! Marcus talked more. Sticks eyes widened. You didnt. Ive got his ute, and the blood on this knife might match. You tell me. All for Felicity? Stick closed his eyes. I believe Marcus said something about a hospital and a sick grandmother. Wolf stated. He wouldnt say about the hospital. Maybe shes at home? I-Im not telling you a thing about her! You dont have to. That seemed to strike a nerve. Jerry stammered. B-but I didnt say a thing! And youre worried? You wont get away with this! Sure I will. Im going to find Felicity. Why dont you make things easier on yourself? Even if you did find her, shes guarded. This caught Wolfs attention. Do tell me about her guard then. Jerry hesitated for a moment. It looked to Wolf like his words were being considered. The craftsman spoke: Marcus didnt tell you we have a triplet? Barryll be the end of you! Ive never seen a stronger man! And what makes him strong? Wolf asked casually. Hes been a brick-layer for years. Go see him, hell sort you right out! And how will he? Are you going to tell him?
You want to prove youre so powerful? Face him like a man! Im not into men, sorry. And with that, Wolf removed his blade from Jerrys nose and pushed instead against the mans neck. *** Straw and Stick had been quite helpful, and Wolf decided hed wait out the night and go looking for Brick, or Barry in the morning. He moved Sticks body into the ute tray with his brother. Now there was a third to add. Brick-layers normally started early on hot days. Wolf sat out in the ute Marcus had left him, and thought. As the sun was rising, a box-cab ute drove past. The tray was loaded with stacks of red bricks. The driver honked his horn at the ute parked by the side of the road, mistaking Wolf for someone else. Clearly, he recognised the ute. So, this was Barry? The ute drove straight down the road and kept going. Wolf licked his lips and started his own ute up. He followed at a distance. *** Just as it began to get busy in town, Wolf parked around the corner from his next target. There was a house undergoing renovation, and yes, a guy who looked like a muscled version of Wolfs last two kills was there, already unloading a few bricks at a time. He was dressed in a sleeveless shirt, and of the three, he looked the most pig-like. This would be harder. A tougher target in the daylight, but surely, as Wolf waited for the bus across the road, he only looked like a bored individual on his way to work. Red came out from the house with her hooded jumper already on. Wolf smirked, knowing his search was over. Red was carrying her reusable bag, perhaps on her way to get some things for her grandmother? If there was an old lady involved, Wolf had no desire to harm her. The brothers were self-supporting pigs who dobbed in their own if it saved their
own lives, but a sick elderly lady was no threat. Red waved at Brick and went on her way. Brick got to work on stacking some bricks up in the driveway. Wolf stood up and yawned. He shambled his way across the road, watching for movement patterns or signs of a weapon. Brick moved four bricks at a time and laid them in the driveway. He was humming to himself. Wolf didnt need to question this one. He knew where Red lived, but still had to make short work of this visitor. The less people who could talk about it, the better. Whats the time, mister wolf? Brick asked with a grunt. Wolf froze. Well, you got a watch, mate? The brickie turned around and stood up, cracking his back. Sure, Wolf looked at his bare wrist. Oh, I lost my watch, he lied. I bet theres one in the kitchen. Brick shrugged. He turned and waddled off around the side of the house. Wolf followed. Yeah, Id love to find out myself. I think I missed the bus. Out of sight of the world, Brick suddenly turned and scooped up a hatchet that was leaning against the back step of the house. Felicity told me you were coming and that I was to stop you. Wolf smirked. Smart girl. How did she find out? Im sure youd notice someone following you on a daily basis. The bricklayer cracked his neck. Drop the knife. Wolf casually produced his knife and dropped it aside. The weapon clattered against the concrete. She told me youd be showing up soon. Now, put your hands behind your back and turn around. Wolf sighed and did as he was told. Brick smirked and reached with one hand for the assassins wrists. Looks like I get a bit extra tonight. He raised his
hatchet. Your hands wont hurt anyone again! Wolf jerked, and as Barrys hatchet came down, his aim had shifted: he hit his own wrist with the sharp end of his weapon and let out a yell. Wolf pulled his own hand free. Barry swung the hatchet back-handed and just brushed Wolfs head. Wolf ducked to avoid injury, almost losing his head for the second time that morning. He moved and bit down into Barrys wrist. Another agonised grunt followed, and Barry dropped the hatchet and punched Wolf in the head. Seeing stars, the stalker released his grip and fell aside, his head feeling like a train had struck it. A second later, Barrys foot was down on Wolfs neck and crushing. Im sure your brothers would be rolling in their graves, Wolf choked. Barry spat, and said, my brothers are alive. Were. Go check the ute, Ill wait here. Youll see its Marcuss, and both of them died quickly. Once I finish you! Brick gave a shove on Wolfs neck again, and Wolfs vision clouded as he choked. He clenched his fist and twisted his upper body. His arm rose like a rocket, and his knuckles connected with something soft, and Bricks yell turned from a deep roar into a high-pitched whine. He fell away, clutching his groin. Wolf rolled to one side with a cough. The relief was only short-lived. Soon, the bricklayer was back with the hatchet. What? Wolf spluttered. Gunna cut me open like some lumberjack? Im not afraid of the big bad Wolf! Barry swung the hatchet down. Wolf shifted slightly and the hatchet struck concrete with a dull thud and a slight metallic clang. The end of the old weapon flew off when the wood snapped. Wolf felt his knife beneath him. He sprang up and collected it, the blood rushing from his head. He slashed without
aiming, and heard another of Barrys shrieks. When he focused, he realised the mans neck has been gashed. Barry had left himself open. Wolf made it quick and pounced, plunging his implement into Barrys neck and bringing him down. *** There was a bit more evidence than what hed originally hoped for, but when a neighbour came calling, they simply saw an old rusted ute and Wolf, rubbing his neck, had said that hed seen a spider. He began to describe it, but the neighbour must have decided that seeing a spider was excuse enough. *** Night fell, and in the comfort of Reds darkened house, Wolf helped himself to a shower and some food. He was quite hungry. Someone unlocked the door and made their way through the house in the dark. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder for a moment. She walked past the kitchen unaware. Good. The last thing she needed to know was that she was being observed. She carried a simple reusable shopping bag, and the hooded jumper she wore concealed some of her features. There was no way to tell if it was indeed the target with her hood up. Wolf kept in the darkness. His target seemed to pause and turn around in a slow circle, her eyes scanning the room. Wolf smirked when he spotted the girls face. What do you hope to achieve by stalking me? She had the voice of a young lady and now her back was to Wolf. I know it was you searching for me from the very beginning. You are afraid. I can smell it on you. Wolf smirked. He wasnt afraid. If anything, he was thrilled and anticipating the chase. His hand played silently in his pocket with his switchblade. He licked his lips. He walked out from the gap between the fridge and the stove, smiling sweetly.
Red smiled back. I wondered how long it would take you. Ive been lonely these last few days. Me too, Wolf agreed. He approached the girl with empty hands. She dropped her bag and the two embraced. Going by Felicity this time? Mm, Wolf Felicity sighed happily. You were slow. Everything takes its own pace. Wolf grinned. He rested his forehead against his partners. If you remember, it took you a few weeks to find me when it was your turn. Do you have enough this time? She asked, batting her eyes seductively. Ive got three, Wolf answered. We shouldnt go hungry for a while. Red pressed her hand against Wolfs chest lovingly. Should we eat now or later? I brought take-out. Wolf smirked. He licked Reds cheek. Were good to go whenever you want.
Hermes Coach Tours

Mark Slattery
e idly contemplated the day before him as he sat on the bus, ignoring the gaggle of women who were absorbed
in excited chatter outside. All of them were different in their own little ways; but all were the same to him; their herding behaviour a mindless beast which, this time, he decided, on a whim, to break. Thus resolved, he opened the door and stood back as they rushed up the steps to claim their preferred seats, within preferred seating groups. Welcome ladies, welcome, he began loudly, settling the high-pitched excitement down to a gentle purring; eyes forward and listening. I know you are all as excited as I am to hit the shops and factory outlets today, and we will get to that in due course. However, and with a mischievous glint in his eye he took them all in, his downwards pointed face acknowledging each and every upward tilting expectation, casting a little magic into their fluttering hearts, we will be taking a short and mysterious detour along the way. I guarantee it will give you all something wonderful to tell all your friends. With that he shut the doors and strolled down the aisle checking tickets, engaging them in light banter causing giggles and a few hesitant blushes. Once seated and on their way whatever momentary quiet was enjoyed in settling in, finding seats, shifting about till comfortable was exploded in cross aisle conversations and tellings of and listenings to previous trips.
After half an hour the bus turned off the Freeway taking an unnamed road largely unnoticed by the throng thoroughly immersed in themselves. After another ten minutes, however, the nudging of elbows, the nodding of heads towards the changing scenery, the lookings left and right and confused faces reduced the clamour towards a pall of indignation. Sensing, in fact, anticipating this moment, he clicked on the microphone and spoke to them in his engaging reassurance. Yes ladies, we are a little out of the usual way as I am sure you have noticed. But, not to fear, no, no, let me finally apprise you of our first mystery destination. He proceeded to speak at length, of things none of the ladies were able to quite recall, weaving a tale in monotonic rhythm till each and every traveller went through drowsy drooping eyed head nodding and finally to sleep. His language changed then in cadence to a tone more commanding, explaining what they would see and hear and experience on their arrival. He painted perfect pictures of exquisite gowns and dazzling jewellery, of wondrous cheap off-the-rack couture and, as he spoke, small rapt smiles appeared on every sleeping face. With a click of his fingers they awoke as one to find outside the bus wondrous billboards promoting Versace, Dior, Yves St Laurent, Dolce and Gabbana; the crme de la crme of fashion. With squeals of delight the ladies exited the bus and plunged into the building where they were assailed by visions; racks upon racks of suspended frocks and gowns, tray upon tray of shiny, shiny necklaces, bangles and earrings and row upon row of sandals, shoes and boots. They gorged themselves hungrily, running fabric through fingers, wrapping lengths and lengths of cloth around their bodies and squeezing toes and feet into the exquisitely crafted and presented hides of goatskin, sheepskin and leather. Jewellery they draped around throats, dangled below and beside ears, each glistening piece eliciting gooey ooohs and
aaahs as they were passed from hand to hand in the elation of discovery and sharing. It was a feast and the ladies ate their fill. At last he gently moved among them, a large hand in the small of many backs, soft words, time to move on, herding them out of the building and onto the bus where they mingled noisily back into their owned familiar seats. He stood beaming down upon them as they chattered and exclaimed completely unaware of him until a short, sharp clap brought their attention away from each other to him. They sat and stared enthralled. Yet he did not speak. They stared some more until some unsettling discomfort descended and they began to stir and peer about at one another blinking as if to bring reality back. Taking his cue he sat and started the bus. Which is when they noticed, on their hands, throats, clothes, legs and feet, little gobbets of fat, tiny splinters of bone, smears of blood, and patches of coarse, unhuman hair. The screaming began as the bus lurched through the gates over which dangled an old red rusty sign announcing Elphinstone Abattoir.
Taking Care of Mother

Mark Slattery
other, another cup of tea? Ive just warmed some apple sponge.
Ooh, yes please, Mother warbles from her chair in front of Mother spends most of her time in front of the television,
the television. these days. Which goes some way to explain the cobwebs behind the front door, underneath the bathroom sink, and in all of the corners of the toilet. Not nasty spiders, mostly. Though I do encourage those. Generally daddy-long-legs. Every six months I do a top-to-bottom dust, brush and vacuum, forcing pent up frustrations into bags and bins along with the dust and the dirt. Mother enjoys a cup of tea. And cake. With lots of cream. I pop in most days with lamingtons or a pavlova, cream kisses, even doughnuts. Those doughnuts are a winner. Each Sunday I buy six, have one, and leave her the rest. She loves them and they are always gone by Monday. Mother is of an age where her day begins with foil. Sheets of it, stamped into little squares. And small, brown bottles with difficult to open lids. Being a dutiful child, I have taken over that laborious part of her day. Also her fingers are as fat as short, pork sausages; useless at any of that small picky stuff. Each Sunday, I pick and tip and rip and collect her daily tablet in-take into special plastic cube trays with perfectly fitting lids labelled Monday through Sunday.
For the cholesterol tablets, I substitute a lovely, round salt one. Not sodium chloride; that would be too obvious, especially on her fat, salivating centre of existence; the disgusting slugthing that cascades over her bottom teeth and over her chins as she manoeuvres another indulgence towards her fat jowly face; little piggy eyes lost in waxy, fleshy folds of tightly squeezed concentration. The high blood-pressure ones are Tic Tacs. Minty? Really? Let me try one. Mmm, yes, they are, arent they. For thyroid, I use wizened little capers I leave outside for a week to dry. Goddess knows what crawls over them during the nights, but sometimes by dawns early light, a maze of slimy silver surrounds them. Theyre herbal, I say. The other four are similarly swapped, but always consistent. Mother is not stupid. Just fat. Enormously fat. So grossly fat that she cant quite get to the doctors anymore. She never liked him anyway and the feeling was mutual. Meanwhile I fill her prescriptions and make sure she takes her pills every day. Shouldnt be long now.
The Chair
Mark Slattery
ow, said the therapist enthroned in his position of authority, comfortably relaxed, Are you comfortable?
You listen but do not hear; your eyes a wall, not a window; your mind a prisoner in a fugue state of emptiness, soulless, alone. Cringing in the grey, flat expanse; you stare round at the nothing, the idea of an object a mote at the corner of the eye that suggests a shape as you are drawn towards it. A chair appears, though not really. More the mirror, of an image of what a chair is in your mind. It is benign. A suggestion of shape and function, static, stationary. Something to sit upon. But, as you draw near, the grey deepens, the nothing thickens, and the air you thought you were breathing, disappears. You awaken, and realise that you have been unconscious. Unsure of your surroundings, you sit up and stare about, seeing nothing but the endless grey, without floor, ceiling or horizon. Then you see a chair. The chair. More solid now. You stand, and with nowhere to go except towards the chair, you turn and run. Anywhere, but the chair. But why? Even as you are running: heart in your mouth, the thunder of blood at your temples, adrenalin soaking every fibre, a little logic shunts itself into your mind Its only a chair, becomes a mantra-like rhythm; something solid to hold onto against the endless grey nothing; a safe haven metronomic instances in a mind reduced to panic.
More slowly, the solid expands past time into space a crawl space, where a hint of calm reduces adrenalin flow and slows the running fear. You stop. The blindness of panic rises as you gasp for breath and straighten your back. Then the cold hand of horror clutches at your heart, for there, immediately before you, is the chair. Then the voices start. And the whimpering. Not in a whisper, nor loud, nor even very commanding, there is, nevertheless, a power in the voices. You look about to see where the voices are coming from, but you know there is nobody there. Other voices mock, taunt and jeer. The whimpering comes from you; a shuddering, sobbing gurgle of endless catching-breath, and runnels of snot and tears, uncontrollable: as pitiless as you are pitiable. Without volition, you sit in the chair. The visions begin. Memories of the deed which put you here; of soft pale skin rent apart by clamping, biting teeth and hard, killing fingers ripping through chest and rib and lung exposing the bright, red beating heart at last. At the sight of this, the blood-lust bursts anew as you rip and crush, severing artery and vein in elastic, gushing snaps; the first massive bite sends hot, iron thickness flooding round your tongue; deep reflexive swallows, drowning you in gore. In this moment you are complete. The next, when the cold, carmine jelly sets around your teeth and the numb tongue unnumbs to clots and sinew, the dread of what youve done and whats to come hits you, and brings you back from the grey. Back to the chair Which you are staring at. In a small, wood-panelled room. Blood everywhere. In the chair rests the remains of the therapist, looking anything but comfortable and relaxed.
Poetry
After The Floods Castlemaine 2011

Debbie Fox
Have you ever looked up on a Summers Day? To the skies above, azure and away And thought to yourself, How unbelievably clear. I throw water above me from the pool I stand in And it falls back around me Like jewels hastening It reminds me of diamonds, so beautiful they are The water I throw up Now comes back like stars Edged in a whiteness against the azure blue skies No clouds, no greyness, just endless blue miles And surrounded I am in the pool that I stand By hedges of greenness of trees that do stand And the grass by the pool side is extraordinarily green Thick and lush at the moment due to floods that have been Yes, All of this beauty and Natures fine gifts Have come out of harshness that has been suffered amidst The flooding, the rains, the destruction, the deaths Now end up by giving me this ultimate bliss The ponds full of water, the dams and the lakes The green growing grasses, the trees at full pace Yes, for me Ive been granted a gift after all But not for those who still struggle the wrath of it all.
Fear
Jasmine Sundblom
He lies in bed, sound asleep with nothing to fear. He is safely tucked in his freshly ironed sheets. He is alone, at peace. A screech rockets through the air His bedroom comes alight. You can feel his heart beating its going to get me its going to get me its going to get me Eyes clenched shut. A hand covers his mouth and tears rain like missiles. It grows dark. Two minutes pass and nothing. He begins to relax: Everything is fine Everything is fine Everything is Bright lights! Balls of fire bombarding the windows! The noise pounding and pounding at his ears. A last moment of screaming And then his world explodes.
Gilded Web
Jasmine Sundblom
A small web glistened in the dusks sunlight, gilded precisely as an artists brush stroke. Two worlds met, like a bolt of lightning without warning. Nothing more between them except for a silk thread chance meeting. Their eyes danced a frozen tango but their bodies began a dangerous waltz. Sparks ignited, while pulses grew faint. A distant rumble echoed from the heavens. Barely touching, they moved quietly out of the cold sunlit rain. Nimble bodies encircled each other once more, like clouds in the storm two strands of thread weaving fate, gone at rainbows door.
Muse
Fiona Kilgower
My muse is a freedom fighter And resistance is futile Armor-clad in words and memories He smiles his bloody smile Resistance is futile. And peace and words the warring sword rips apart and reassembles word pieces And refusal is an act of war Freedom is always forward clad in ink, wisdom and myrrh memories trapped in backward parchment Resistance is futile. And ignorance is not bliss Ignorance is empty Dark Fools are not suffered Lightly Trust me resistance is futile. And I turn Fight, his words, the truth And listen, and listen He smears the ink across my lip And sneers The words, the words Blood dripping from my mouth Metallic tang on the tip of my tongue Stinging clarity And then he is before me Eyes brittle hand extended Now listen, now listen Resistance is futile.
Our Bridge
Katherine Sepping
We have learned to bridge a chasm so wide and sudden so full of sadness and suspicion so empty of chances. We have learned to risk taking the next step, to test how close we could be by travelling towards trust, turning mortal peril into resurrection, returning to our bodies where words unspoken remained the link, open, still willing to be coupled, strong, through touch our bridge for understanding much of what we could not otherwise share nor speak of. No words could be that direct, that certain. No language could fill the splitting, aching gulf; only renewed love held in the quiet of our two beings restored. We may only have touch to bridge those dark, devastating, distancing rifts as they come to us as they do. We may only have us to reach out to.
Unheard
Geoff Brown
I sit in this room, the shadowed memories flying behind my eyes like moths darting at the flames of an open fire. High, vaulted ceilings rise above me like a narcissists self-regard. I remember Alone, I feel a tempest of recollection bursting at the seams of my mind, twisting it like taffy in a sideshow arcade and trying to come forth, to break free of the mental constraint that is me. Books lie scattered everywhere, a field of fallen dominoes waiting for another chance to inspire. I wish they could. The memories grow Grotesque images plough my senses: the smell of beast after a sudden fall of acid-rain, the colour of viscous viscera fermenting in a vat of vomit. This appeals to me in ways I cannot begin to define. I can hear the silence: the echo of my pain, like claws scraping down a fleshless spine as the spider-webs cling to the ceiling, drifting like dandruff from a diseased scalp; that, too, appeals to me. Was I going insane? Or am I already there, all this an imaginary friend thats not very friendly at all? I can taste the dust settling onto my skin, and it tastes like dry, dead beetles; scarabs scuttling down my throat to infest and ingest me from the inside. It tastes too good to not be true. The three windows allow marginal light, seeming as stingy as bankers with Gods own illumination. The carpet under my bare feet is gritty, more a collection of shards, splinters and sand than any man-made fibre. I feel the same; scattered and broken. I remember As I stare at the tattered pictures of fallen heroes bluetacked to the walls, I remember the events that happened here, the terrible things that no-one will talk of. Not to me, anyway. I remember the things that I wish I could forget. I mean it was me that suffered here, wasnt it? Was it? Or was it all just a dream? I remember?
Longing
Di Fisher
Your time has come they said To rest your weary bones And so came the decision To put you in a home. It wasnt what you wanted But they didnt want to know They thought you couldnt manage Living home on your own. So by the window in a chair You spent all your days Wishing you could escape And planning the ways. You didnt want to go there You thought you were doing fine So what if you forgot When it was dinnertime. So what if you couldnt hang Your washing on the line You liked living in your home You were doing fine. So what if you couldnt see To read the labels on the pills And taking the wrong doses Only added to your ills. You could get in some help You were sure you could cope With someone sympathetic There was lots of hope. You didnt want to leave Your home of many years It left your heart full of longing Your eyes full of tears.
Where Ravens Fly

Ralph. L. Morrighan
Cold winds have come, with colder days to follow. For I am the wild raven that lives only for tomorrow. Many winters have I seen and harsh, stormy skies I have travelled. Angered words we speak lay wasted, pointless and barren. A smile is worth much more, they shine true and light my darkening days. I summon hope and strength to see the storm through, Its my love for friends and family that keeps me going. A slow killing of my being by a poisonous thing, It lurks and spreads inside of me. So when I am at my end, and its my time to die. I hope that gentle winds take me to where ravens fly.
The Banshee
Sara Gale
I have passed about this house before.
My slurring shadow finds its mimic upon the doorframes and the lintels, beneath the moonlight, the cold light of fearsome wakefulness. At 3am, like a screech owl I draw parents from their beds with my howl. A death, a death, a deliverance from flesh, still young and dimpled, still blushing, pink and fresh from the birth waters.
I have passed about this house before
My bare feet bruise upon the same cold ground are caught upon thorns and sharp rocks, and bleed their bad news upon the doorstep. Whilst inside the mothers grasping hand leaves a tiny scratch upon the newborns cheek, and wakes him from his sleep, with blood, with pain that barely drags a cry from lips kissed so often with the image of another in his place
I have passed about this house before
My voice has found a sister behind this rough stone wall, this curtained window through which I cannot reach and tear him from his winding sheets, stitched by mothers hands, blue peonies and forget me nots she meant to reflect his fathers eyes, that once wooed and won by the rivers edge and now close in dread at my mourning I have passed about this house before.
My breath has caught with that tiny mouth. The faintest blush now, slack upon his mothers teat. A curling hand, soft and implacable between her breasts. His fathers hand rough from work, gently cupping the babes crown, the boy frowns, as if what was once simple has become complex. A breath, from one moment to the next. Just stops.
and silences my howling
Breaking News
When we both met but late last week, My heart it skipped a beat. I thought it of such chivalry, You offered me your seat. And when the band began to play, You took me in your arms, We danced and danced the night away, You plied me with your charms. Soon midnight neared, you walked me home, How handsome you, I thought, And as you kissed me neath the moon, I said not nay nor fought. My breath you stole, made weak my knees, You purred lets move inside No sooner had you stepped within, Yon bedroom door you spied. And all that I could barely do, Was keep my vision clear, You slipped my dress oer heaving breasts, Then took me from the rear. The steam from body heat and sweat, Fogged up the window pane, Your repertoire of poses shocked, Whilst teaching things profane.
For hours and hours, you tossed, I turned, Then in reverse you went, And worked me over and again, And left me sweetly spent. Now days have passed, yet Ive not heard, From you nor seen you still, I hope that you found pleasure too, Whilst granting me my fill. But Im compelled to send this note, No longer filled with glee, That sordid night we spent so well, Alas, gave me VD.
6am
Jaime McDougall
Dreams and nightmares needles and tracks, tourniquets slap that arm! The perfect vein sink the needle in, let that sucker find its mark. One small, sharp sting leading the way to a numb salvation. Peace and serenity found within dancing on the scales of life and death. Sweet release for the needle. Sweet release for me. Lay back, little girl, its okay, little girl. Lay back on the floor, little girl. Leave the needle in. Cant give a damn to take it out.
My heart beats a wild drum showing, proving, yes still alive. For the moment. That moment. All I ask for, all I crave with wild abandon the sweet nectar provides. One private 6am pleasure. Welcome to this world darkness, pleasure, pain, all of it everything and nothing gives a damn. Welcome, little girl. You are a statistic.
Kangaroo
Gail Remnant
Soft fur, ranging from grey-black to muted brown; hard muscle and sinew sheathed. It lounges on the damp grass in cooling, dappled shade; then stretching upright, alert, ears tuned to the source of danger, it bolts away. A male, protective of his brood, waits, facing me, watchful, until others are clear of harm, then follows, slowly, head twisting away at the last moment, as does a dancer performing a pirouette. He bounds through the brush with powerful strides, thigh muscles working, and dark- tipped tail dipping; then halts, swaying. Close by, Kangaroo
a Joey crops the grass; all is well! Lazily he coils his powerful frame to the ground and with eyes half- closed, he sits. After long years of drought the rains have come. Turbulent waters racing into creeks and rivers and spreading over flood-plains, bringing destruction, but also new life. Trees tipped lime- green and bronze with new growth prosper, and there is fresh grass a-plenty. A tiny creature no bigger than a human finger, clinging to hair shafts creeps up, up to the waiting pouch to settle and grow, longevity assured. All is well!
Pallmark Cards
I find it rather curious, An industry that thrives, Is making Pallmark greeting cards, To help us in our lives. It seems there is an urgent need, For printed words to tell, Of awkward times when we agree, We cannot say things well. Just think of matrimony angst, Perhaps annulment prose, My dear, I did not come, so went. A night of nuptial woes! Or Your velvet voice it snared my heart, With silken songs you crooner, But now youre a conceited prick, I wish Id left you sooner Id like to write for funerals, Yet with a snappy spin, The coffin of my mum-in-law. Please find the cow within.
Perhaps Marge, thank you for that meal last week, Youre rather like Nigella, So sad your food is not like hers, It gave me salmonella. Oh think of those occasions, When people find it hard, To dole out words they yearn to say, A cinch with such a card. How handy Pallmark words could be, To gently say whats true? Politely giving guidance, Go fuck yourself, PLEASE do.
Speak softly lie still.

James WF Roberts
Speak softly lie still. feel no harm float over you softly as the palms of night hold you gentler than candlelight close your eyes rest the weary mind and fall fall fall away from conscious plight Last night as we lay silent I felt that burning from your eyes that question that forever forever keeps away the nectar of moon tide
Lost in the river of indecision trapped in the consequences of life Do you now wonder? do you now shiver? At the very thought of us lying here. Silent forever. Forever Speak softly lie still. feel no harm float over you softly as the palms of night hold you gentler than candlelight feel that touch of my kiss desperately trying to re-ignite our previouswondrous feeling of bliss.
The Front Gate

Katherine E Seppings
I sank slowly at the front gate as you watched me, waving goodbye my brave new world about to begin beyond the clay-mirror puddles of a pre-negotiated path. I smiled for your camera, the new colour slide film, frozen like frost on the lawn. Eventually, we both shrank, me down our hilly suburb street mapping out my own way through twisted tree-roots of old orchard-border pine, amongst grass tufts of undeveloped blocks idly waiting burial by brick veneer. I crave green now where once I loathed it the colour of your house and all the painting, all the up-keep, all the maintenance of perfection that needed to be done. I got tired of painting houses, old ones on canvas, watercolours, pen and inks, my own creations of romantic ideals, and of homes that kept drifting from my sight.
It wore me out wondering who you really were on the inside the red inside the green, the protagonist exploding, the person impersonating god, imparting personal distortions in the name of truth, imposing perceived injustices in the name of being right, thundering, ripping through stillness, a hero fighting fires in the wilderness of our street, me tied to the front gate in fear, my sister screaming. I choose peace now, not at the expense of honesty, not because things shouldnt be said not because revolutions reek of blood as much as of righteousness but because I can choose I havent forgotten the hum of bees hovering over the sweet soothing scent of lavender cleansing and calming even complimenting the dark olive shade of your walls contradicting the conflagrations
that led to Christmas morning meetings with my father at the front gate. Eventually, we were all barred, one by one from re-entering our family childhood sense of home. And your desire for control in the world continued as confrontations beyond the front gate. Even when you moved. I have outlived your castle on the hill. A new wave of developers tore down the terrible ghostly secrets, dismembered our devotion and defence, ripped out all internal brewings, the intestines and lungs and whatever remained of a heart the lavender at the front gate perhaps deliberately planted to infuse tranquillity in all comings and goings through all openings and closings like a gentle eye gazing upon the soul.
Spiders
Colleen Gale
The walls of the confinement trickle out through her fingers And reach out into the streets and pass through the doors closed shut. The child no more than five squeaks in the corner near the box Of emptied out spiders and reaches for a toy. The back alley is empty; the walls are an illusion And the mirror opposite is telling its own truth. The child is eleven, and the hair on the doll is long and twisted With spans of yellowish thread curling the childs toes. Her mother bends down to calm the child but spiders Are crawling all over her face and she cannot see What is going on, and the walls lie to her, creasing her soul. The child is caught in a web of darkness And the spiders eat into her imagination. She is nineteen and reality knows no difference. Her body is light and awash with salt and scent; Of stinging perfume and itchy folds of skin Scraping at her insides as she dries herself in the shadows Taut and terrifying, amidst bruised memories cast in pain; Broken and dishevelled she sways to the sound of spiders Travelling at the speed of a locomotive; Derailing there selves to get a closer look.
My Place
Colleen Gale
The roses grew in abundance Like a guard of honour, Descending upon My Place; Willowy and rotten Pungent smells sent a putrid tinge Through the air as roses Pricked at our thorny sides Quelling all mystery and silencing the ear; No more a deluge to the senses. And in spite of the sacredness, The roses were pruned At regular intervals But they only grew so high And the gravestone shone out Like bricks carved in lead. Lain to rest, the dead Like flattened out meat Composed of petals And thorny compressed mesh. Roses, like the dead; Shattered and soft, Speak to no-one.
Novel Extracts
pLayIng with fire

Sarah Mooney
This is the first part of chapter one in pLayIng with firE. pLayIng with firE is going to be the first book out of four in the Fireborn saga. The book is set 500 years in the future when the world is taken over by people who were affected by a cure of cancer. It is known as The Plague. This is because everyone who took the injection had bad side effects that no one had foreseen. This is where my novel begins. Josie, my main character is the Fireborn and is in the prophecy. However in the prophecy it doesnt tell us which side she will be on, whether it be good or bad.
n eerie silence filled the air: not a living soul could be seen, animal or man. The road, cracked and broken,
hadnt been used in years. Rusty, broken-down cars lived on the side of the road, with grass grown around the metal rims of the sockets where wheels used to live. Houses lined up on either side with windows drawn and doors locked. Every night was the same. No one dared to go outside when the sun came down. A full moon rose in the distance, surrounded by burst of stars that are never seen, their beauty invisible to the human world. An empty field occupied a small space between two of the houses. Glass lay shattered around many of the lamp posts. Only a few of the lights still worked. The wind howled, not quite covering the sound of footsteps. A girl with flame red hair was on her way home. She crossed her arms, half hunched over as her leather jacket flapped wildly. Josie looked down as the wind blew straight at her;
making her eyes water. Straightening up, Josie ran her hands through her hair, brushing it out of her face. The large town struck midnight in the distance. What was that? Looking behind her, Josie quickened her pace. I thought I heard There it is again. Trembling in fear, she began to run, footsteps echoing behind her. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she pushed herself further, closer to her home, yet still so far away. Josie stopped. A misty vapour left her mouth with every ragged breath. She wiped away the dried tears from her cheeks and eyes. Slowly she turned around: all she saw was fog that surrounded her like a blanket. Josie relaxed. Imagination, thats all it was, thank God. Turning back towards the direction of her house, she squealed at the sight of an extremely tall figure. Although she couldnt see the face properly, she still saw its glowing red eyes very clearly. Suzan is that you? Silence. Come on Suzan, it isnt funny anymore. I get it, youre pissed at me, Im so She never got the chance to finish her sentence before the figure stepped under a flickering lamp post. It wasnt Suzan. It opened its mouth, extending its large razor sharp teeth towards her. This creature was unlike anything Josie had seen before. She was told monsters roamed the night, but she didnt believe it for one second. Now one stood on two feet like a human, hunched over like an animal before her. It lifted its bony head up; drawing its attention away from Josie, to howl at the moon. Josie stagged back as the creature focused back on her. She quickly turned around, trying to run away, but the
creature was too quick; it jumped over her head, landing in front of her. The creature prepared to pounce; it was like time slowed down. Its long skinny legs spread apart as it hunched further over, showing each individual spinal bone on its back. The hairs on the back of Josies neck stood up on end, making her feel uneasy, although it seemed strangely familiar. She stumbled over a clump of scattered rocks. Where did the rocks come from? Josie fell to the wet muddy grass in the empty field. It pounced on her. Landing on her chest, Josie felt her ribs cracking under the pressure. Closing her eyes; she cried out in pain. Blood sprayed out of her mouth as she coughed. The creature clawed at Josies face and upper body. She struggled to get away; kneeing it in the stomach she pushed it back with all her might. Josie staggered to her feet and tried to run away again as her upper body protested against the quick movement. Warm blood dripped down her arms. The creature barely had to chase her. It slammed her back onto the ground, her tender face pressed against the grass. It pierced the flesh under her now ruined jacket with its free claw. Ripping at her skin, she cried out in pain again. I cant believe this is happening, Oh-mi-god! Ahhh! Help! Help, please, someone, hel Josie managed to scream out. Her voice was muffled as it turned her face into the grass. She felt as if no one would come. She was out at night, she knew she shouldnt, but she still did. Now she was going to pay the worst price, turning, or she might be lucky enough to be killed. She prayed for death to come. Please kill me, please kill me, now. By the time two figures came out of nowhere, Josie had already given up all hope of living. They were shadows clocked in darkness. One was noticeably taller than the other.
But they were too late. She felt like she was floating. She shut her eyes and listened to the muffled voices. The tall figure yelled out to the creature, whilst hurling a boulder at its head, Hey, over here! The creature ducked its head just as the boulder grazed its scalp. Standing up, it jumped over to the tall figure. The short figure ran over to Josie: he moved with such grace he appeared to float. Im floating on nothing, Im nowhere and yet everywhere. Where is that bright light coming from? Warmth, such warmth. Take me, please! There was blood painted over her back and soaking the grass around her. The short figure called out to the tall one, Tom, why didnt she use her powers? I dont know! Tom hollered back, whilst wrestling the creature. Mum Im sorry, I love you, forgive me. She is drifting in and out and I can barely hear her heart beat! Do what you have to do, Luc! Luc turned Josies small body over and her eyes fluttered open as he leant over her. A razor sharp nail extended out of his finger and cut deep into his wrist. Using what little strength she had left she tried to pull away. Drink. No, she said as she struggled to shake her head. Grabbing her head Luc slammed her mouth into his wrist. The taste was like no other; it was intoxicating. Josie grabbed his arm with both hands, gripping tightly, as she drank with desperation. With every mouthful she began to feel her strength returning. She felt like her whole body was on fire, as her wounds began to heal. Luc pulled his arm away as Josie looked around dazed. Everything around her was blurring
with colour as her head spun, making her feel light headed. What was that? Where am I? Who am I? Who is that staring at me? She quickly moved her head away, pushing herself back with her arms. She staggered back as she took a look at his pale complexion, deep brown eyes and fine brown hair. H-who are you? Josie stuttered. Im Lucas Sidder, but everyone calls me Luc and I just saved your life. What did you do to me? Josie asked him, vigorously wiping her mouth and chin. I saved your life! Luc said, a little frustrated. How? I drank your blood, what will happen to me now? I healed you with it, thats all. Luc raised his hands up in defeat. Cocking his head to the side, he smiled and looked at Josie who was mortified. Its ok, Luc reassured her. You didnt make me like you, did you? Josie turned towards Tom and the creature, and what is that? Luc turned around and looked over to where Josie was pointing. Oh that is just Tom, Luc said, noticing the expression on Josies face he added, We are results of The Plague. And by the way, for you to become like me you need my blood in your bloodstream for the disease to take control... drinking just heals the skin and internal system that was injured. It wont fix the bigger problems like diabetes or mental illnesses, if thats what you wanted, so dont go around advertising what I did. I thought The Plague only made people like you? No, you were misinformed; not only did it create us; the nightwalkers, but it also created the daywalkers; the man wolves like this one and the shape changers. But how did it make so many?
Some people reacted differently to The Cure. He shrugged. But why was it after me? Why do you think? I dont know. Think hard, really hard. Youre different Josie. How di How did I know your name? Luc leaned in close, and whispered in her ear, Because you can change everything.
Chimera
G. N. Braun
Chimera Island a remote, top-secret research facility off the coast of Papua new Guinea. Cantrell Corporation a massive global corporation with many secrets. The corporation had dozens of facilities throughout the world in topsecret, isolated locations. Hidden facilities undertaking highly illegal and immoral genetic and biological experiments. Experiments on both animals and humans. When the Chimera Island facility suddenly ceases communication with the mainland, Cantrell sends in a paramilitary team to find out what happened. When the team lands on the island, it appears theres been a breach in security, and now the nightmarish test-subjects are loose to wreak havoc. All hell has broken loose, and for the soldiers now fighting for their lives, the nightmare has only just begun.
Prologue - SNAFU
ith only minutes to live, Charles Grevillea lounged on one of the form-fitting leather settees in the break room, trying
to relax a bit before he headed back to the labs. Well-decorated and comfortable, the room was nearly full of Cantrell employees on their dinner breaks. Sipping carefully on a hot cup of tea, he looked around at his co-workers and colleagues. Why was it that the most intelligent people really did look like classic nerds from the sitcoms and movies? Sure, there were exceptions, but more often than not looks and intellect didnt seem to be able to coexist. Such philosophical waxing was not uncommon for Charles, who considered himself a romantic at heart and often pondered
the human conundrum. Was the lower intellect so often found in beautiful people a result of a subconscious awareness on their part of not having to study to be successful, or was there a definite genetic link? The only pretty girls in the entire facility were office workers and bureaucrats; there were three women on the science staff, but all of them were dogs. The only thing to learn from this line of reasoning was to never marry a scientist. Hed have a biscuit while his tea cooled, he decided. Leave the abstract thought for his down-time. This was only a short break in what was proving to be a marathon of clinical trials. For now, he needed to work out a way to ensure that during the infection process the virion went untroubled by antibodies while travelling to the target cells of the host organism. Charles knew it was just a matter of time and hed work it out. He was good at his job. That was why Cantrell paid him so much. What was that racket outside the room? Muffled thuds and raised voices were barely discernible from out in the corridor. Probably guys from the security team performing their macho male-bonding routines. As he reached for the plate of shortbreads on the table, the door to the room flew open with a crash, revealing his worst nightmare come to life. Test subjects, three of them, rushed into the room, grabbing at researchers and admin staff with vicious swipes of their clawed hands. Dry and shrivelled looking, they appeared almost like mummies sans bandages but moved with devilish speed and aggression. Standing as tall as a man, there was no other resemblance between these horrors and what they had been before the infection had mutated their bodies and removed all sensation except hunger and blood-lust. How did they escape from the containment area? As one, the three entities attacked the nearest employees; a few had tried to back away but the majority stood and stared, transfixed as though convincing themselves that their senses were lying and the damned things werent even there.
Fat Franny, the haematologist from Brisbane, was seized by clawed hands, savaged, and then tossed aside like yesterdays garbage. Her internal organs hung from a huge tear right across her abdomen and her blood pumped freely, turning her white lab coat into a scarlet horror. Wenzel Baker, one of the virologists on loan from England, had his right arm torn from his body and tossed across the room, spraying more blood over the walls. Peter Georgiou, the security chief who hosted late night poker partieshe had invited Charles to many of themwas missing his head: the only way Charles knew him was by the fancy magnum pistol holstered at his right side, untouched before the unfortunate guy was eviscerated by claws too sharp and terrible to be natural. Leaping to his feet, Grevillea turned and moved towards the door at the back of the break room, fast but hopefully not so fast as to attract the attention of the entities. Sweat formed on his brow as fear ate away at him, causing him to tremble from the adrenaline his body was pumping into his system. Almost there... almost... As he reached for the keypad to open the portal, a great weight slammed onto his back, propelling him forward to smash his head against the door. As darkness and pain claimed him, Charles last thoughts were that this was so unfair. He shouldnt die like this! *** The stink of death hung heavy in the air of the break-room, the smell of evacuated bowls and pools of urine mixed with offal. The screams and cries of agony that filled the air moments ago had ended, abruptly in a few cases, and all that remained to be heard was the crunch of bones and the tearing of flesh as the creatures attempted to sate their hunger. No-one remained to bear witness to the feast, at least not in person. The closed circuit TV cameras high on the walls continued to whirr, transmitting
the devastation to horrified eyes not too far away. The entities finished tearing meat free from the carcasses; all the flesh had been eaten, along with soft tissue and internal organs. All that remained of the victims were piles of clothes and shoes that had been torn away and mixed with inedible body parts, such as skulls that had been cracked open to reach the gooey bits inside. The creatures lost interest in the room after that, creeping slowly back out into the hallway, searching for more prey. Outside in the corridor they skulked away, senses alert and questing as they shuffled out of sight. The cameras continued to pan the room as though nothing had happened, while unbelieving eyes stared in horror at the visceral mess shown on the screens half a kilometre to the north of the labs. Hell had descended on the facility, and no-one could hear the screams.
All that Shines

Corey Danian First Chapter
or Shannon, sleep was always over when the alarm went off, or in his case, when the rising sun hit his face. Feeling
the warmth across it, Shannons eyes blinked open as he rolled over to look at his low ceiling, dark and shadowy as the suns yellow rays slowly lit the room. Stretching his arms up, Shannon turned so his eyes met the clock face. Seven fifteen. He smiled. After a negative reaction to an alarm last year, which resulted in him throwing it out the window five stories above the ground, Shannon had trained himself to wake up when the sun rose through his windows. Quite a hefty task for an eighteen-year-old school student who was always up late finishing homework or working on assignments, yet he endured and it was now second nature to him. Sitting up, Shannon opened up a drawer and grabbed a fresh pair of briefs and socks. Dumping them at his feet, he took hold of his silk comforter and threw it back, allowing his feet to swing onto the floor, meeting with a pile of clothes hed left there yesterday before getting into bed. Grabbing his jeans, he tossed them next to his underwear before grabbing the rest of the old clothes and putting them in the clothing hamper. Tomorrow was laundry night so hed have fresh clothes.
He was running short again. He moved through the door and across to the bathroom where the warmth of a shower awaited. Stepping into the cubicle, the warm water washed over him, removing all remaining traces of sleep. Checking his mental calendar to see if he needed to condition his hair, it turned out he didnt need to until tomorrow so, after shampooing his hair and soaping his face and chest, Shannon stepped out of the shower to grab his blue towel off the rack, careful not to accidentally grab his roommates grey and black one, and began to dry himself. Normally, he wouldve just walked across the hall in the nude to his room and dress. But Shannon had a feeling his roommate was waiting outside and he wasnt into looking at anothers privates; he was a bit squeamish about that. Naturally, Daniel was standing right outside as Shannon opened the door wrapped in his towel. Finally, Daniel grumbled. I need to go. Shannon chuckled. You only just woke up I doubt you were there for five minutes or more. Daniel grunted and pushed past Shannon and began to strip. Shannon took the cue to leave and returned to his room. After he closed the door, Shannon tossed the towel into a hamper and put his briefs on. As he pulled on his socks, he hopped across the room to the wardrobe to locate a t-shirt. Since his own style of clothing consisted of jeans and dark coloured t-shirts, he quickly grabbed a black t-shirt with Pipping Hot written in green across the right side and put it on before retrieving his jeans from the bed. Despite being worn yesterday, Shannon had a limited number of pants because he never had much of a chance to go shopping. It wasnt as if people noticed. The shower had just stopped when Shannon stepped out of his room and proceeded down the hallway to the kitchen and lounge room. The apartment was a two bedroom unit located
on the fifth floor of the building in the downtown area of the city. Cheap rent but lousy neighbours. It was also full of gang violence and the occasional burglary. Luckily for Shannon and Daniel, they hadnt been ripped off or even robbed. They werent that nave. The car Shannon drove wasnt worth anything on any market, black or otherwise. They both kept only the least amount of cash needed on them and the apartment had been secretly renovated and secured without knowledge from the buildings superintendent. This was thanks to Shannons overprotective parents and an extremely bored set of uncles and aunts. Grabbing two bowls and spoon for each, Shannon moved across to the cupboard and grabbed a box of Nutri-Grain. After spending twelve and a half years living on Weet-Bix, Shannon had become adamant whenever it came to choosing cereals; Weet-Bix was off the menu. Daniel, of course, never complained, considering he couldnt cook for starters. Shannon always chose what they needed as well as cooked. Daniel did the clean-up, a suitable arrangement for the both of them since Shannon hated cleaning up. One too many dishes always ended up broken when he was cleaning. Shannon had just grabbed the milk when Daniel stalked down the hallway, dressed in black cargo pants and a plain red t-shirt, running a hand through his spiky blond hair and wearing a look of complete misery and anger. As he took a seat at the kitchen bench, Daniel grabbed the milk and poured it over his cereal. As they both ate, Shannon watched Daniel closely. Okay, whats wrong? Shannon asked. Nothing. Daniel grumbled between mouthfuls. Shannon dropped his spoon into his half empty bowl. Dont give me that bull. He replied, a serious look creasing his features. What is it? Daniel stopped eating and made eye contact, his blue eyes
full of anger. The neighbours were noisy last night. Daniels bedroom wall backed onto their neighbours bedroom. The roommates had met the couple living there a few times and found them to be loud and obnoxious, not to mention the fact they were all over each other, even with company. It wasnt unusual for them to also be sexually active and Daniel, sometimes only having a couple of hours sleep, would grouch like an old man all day. When they stop last night? Shannon asked as he returning to eating. One, Daniel replied. But I was still up till three waiting for them to start again. Think we should file a complaint? Daniel shook his head as he finished up. No point. The last one got ignored as well. Shannon finished up his breakfast and grabbed Daniels dishes as well before taking both bowls and spoons to the sink. Despite being terrible at actual cleaning, he did know how to rinse his dishes so they wouldnt sit all day and end up stinking. Both roommates were complete clean freaks anyway. Breathing out, he turned to see Daniel stand. You know, Shannon said. You could always switch rooms. It wouldnt bother me much. Daniel smiled softly. It took me six months to get that room in order. Besides, on weekends I always sleep in anyway. Shannon chuckled. True. Turning to the clock on the wall, it was hitting eight. Both roommates glanced at each other and smiled. What classes you got today? Daniel asked. Lit, Discussion and Drama, Shannon replied. You? Daniel gagged. Maths, a free and Physics. You have it easy. I wanna be a writer. Why do you think I dropped Maths? Daniel chuckled. Because you have no life. Shannon growled under his breath and moved around the
bench to fist his roommates right arm. Go get ready, blondie. Were out of here at 8.20. Daniel laughed; his grumpy behaviour all but vanished. Bite me, bitch. Anytime, anywhere. Shannon called as Daniel disappeared down the corridor.
Echo Falls
Jaime McDougall
Running from a nightmare stalking her every move, Phoebe Martin arrives in Echo Falls hoping she has finally found a safe place to stop. But trouble has a way of catching up and soon the signs are there. After a vicious attack in an alley, policeman Aidan OBryan is left with Phoebe as his only path to understanding why the Echo Falls werewolf pack - his pack - is being attacked. When another pack member is killed, Phoebe is forced to confront her past before she loses Aidan and everything she has come to love. Love and duty become one as Aidan strives to prevent Phoebe from becoming the next victim. But with Phoebe just as determined to protect Aidan and her new home, secrets from her past threaten to tear them apart. Will love give Phoebe the strength to trust Aidan and face her fears, or will her past destroy her future? (Note: Excerpt written with US English spelling.)
Chapter One
eep running, keep running, keep running. Phoebes lungs burned as her mind screamed the mantra. Keep running, keep
running. How many steps can there be? She should know. She lived in this apartment building. Tears ran down her cheeks and her lungs burned for air. Only the random irrational thought broke through the panic keeping her feet moving down the steps. Keep running. Keep running. The light of the emergency exit came into view. Almost there The door to the stairwell slammed open with a hollow boom. She tripped and clung to the railing to steady herself. Keep running.
The shock of the cool night air sent a shiver of relief through her body. Shed come out a side exit into an alley. If she could just get to the front Suddenly she was thrown to the ground from behind. She hit the concrete, what little breath she had knocked from her lungs. Blood began flowing from where her head hit the ground, and small sparks of light floated into her vision. How did he catch up so fast? Desperately she tried to gulp down as much air as she could, willing her lungs to cooperate. Instinct kicked in as the attacker slashed at her, and she curled into fetal position. A dog. Hed turned into a dog. A big dog with vicious claws and teeth he used to tear into her exposed back, thigh and shoulder. She slowly regained her breath but could only use it to scream her throat raw. Her vision faded, taking the small sparks of light with it. Searing pain ripped through her shoulder as a claw dug down against her bone. One last, long scream tore from her lungs before she was left gasping and sobbing, her fear slowly smouldering into rage. Things cant end like this. She opened her eyes as the dog stood over her, trying to get to her throat. A paw came into her line of vision and she saw her chance. She reached out, grabbed it and squeezed with all the strength she had. The dog yelped and tried to twist away, but she held on with all the strength she had. She knew shed only bought herself time. She couldnt move the dog off her and she couldnt squeeze his paw all night. He tried uselessly to bite her, his jaws having no strength so long as she squeezed his paw. But she could already feel her strength waning. Suddenly the weight of the dog flew off her, taking the paw out of her grip. Without thinking, she used her one working arm to drag herself toward the front of the building.
She shivered, her arm giving out, and caught a glimpse of a second dog. No. A wolf Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she listened to the dogs fighting, the battle just a few steps away. She tried her best to curl up against the building wall and willed the growling and snapping to go away. They sounded like they were tearing each other to pieces. The universe granted her wish, the battle ending with the sound of two bodies hitting each other and a sharp whine. She shivered and softly whined as well, dreading the approach of the winner as one of the dogs yelped and ran away. A few moments later, a warm, human hand brushed the back of her head and she screamed again. If it could be called a scream. Her throat burned and rebelled at her abuse of it. Ssh. Youre safe now. She tried to scream again and move away, but her body wouldnt obey her commands. She groaned as the full force of the pain washed over her. He murmured and she relaxed her desperate grip on consciousness. Sleep seemed so tempting, the black abyss singing a sirens song to her. Her rescueror captortried to soothe her, but something dark and dangerous in his voice betrayed him. He was different. She tried to bat away his hands but gave up after a few attempts, not sure if her good hand was actually moving. As she slipped into the darkness, she wondered if death had merely granted her a short reprieve from the inevitable.
Heart of a Dragon
Julian McKeon
Heart of a Dragon is a novel based around the duo Legion and Zaraya. Zaraya is an average adult dragon who has lost her only daughter to a killer. Her only goal in life is to find her daughters killer and simply ask him or her why they did it. Legion is the killer Zaraya is searching for, but he doesnt believe his reasons are good enough and therefore plans to help her find another killer who is most likely to do what he did for worse reasons. He is tortured by numerous voices in his head, each with their own opinions that guide him through his life. Hence the name Legion. He was once a wolf, but after killing Zarayas daughter he was transformed through the power that all dragons possess, given the form and strength of a dragon, but retaining the fur of a wolf. The story is built around an alternate Earth, where animals are anthropomorphised and humanised. Mythical creatures such as dragons replace humans as the dominant species on the planet, though the numbers arent as abundant.
igh in the Elorai Mountains, surrounded by forests and small villages, Zaraya looked out at the sunrise. Her
eyes were ruby red, matching the soul gem in her chest. It glowed healthily as her mood and mind were fresh and ready for the day. The rising sun reflected on her onyx scales, adding a slight glint to each one. A delicate yip from behind drew her attention, and out of the cave, brandishing a tiny emerald soul gem on her chest, came her baby daughter. Barely a week old, the little dragonling tripped and stumbled to her mothers side. Zaraya smiled at the pitifully cute display. The dragonling began to wail lightly, indicating to Zaraya that she was hungry. A gentle rumble from Zarayas belly travelled up her body, and escaped out of her mouth as a
chuckle. She brought her long neck down to her daughter and nuzzled her, causing the little dragon to fall over. Very well, my dear. Ill find you something to eat. But you must promise to stay in the cave where its warmer and safer, okay? Her daughter, though unable to speak, understood Zarayas words and nodded in agreement. With a quick smile, Zaraya spread her wings and leaped off the edge of the cliff, catching the wind. The little dragonling howled at her mother, trying to tell her goodbye. With that out of her system, she returned to her cave, her soul gem glowing with happiness. Suddenly, there was a scratching noise from behind her. The baby dragon turned around. The sound was new to her; Light, little feet, a higher pitch than her mothers usual scraping of knuckles along the ground. Through the dim light at the cave entrance, the little dragoness saw a furred silhouette with glowing green eyes. Zaraya landed not too far below the cave. Small sheep and goats saw her coming and began to run. She smiled as she began to have sport with them. She herded them with her fire, catching every single one in a well-made flaming ring. With their small bodies shaking madly, they knew their death was upon them. Zaraya smiled, picking off all but two. Those she torched with her flame. Satisfied that two sheep were enough for her daughter, she prepared to take them back. Suddenly, a cry echoed from her home. Her daughter was in trouble. Abandoning the two burned husks of lamb, Zaraya took to the skies as fast as she could. Desperate to reach her daughter, her angle of ascent was too narrow and she caught herself on the edge of the cliff. She dug her claws into the ground and tried to pull herself up. She stopped to look at whatever danger might be present, but all she saw was a puddle of red slowly trailing out of the cave from the shadows within. No! she gasped, forcing herself back up to the cliff. She
rushed inside of the cave, her eyes adjusting to the dark almost instantaneously. Scanning every inch of the cave, she came across the half-eaten body of her daughter. Her once green eyes were extinguished to white as her soul gem had gone missing. Whatever had killed her had eaten the gem. An rush of emotions flooded Zaraya at that moment: grief, anger, desperation, defeat, hatred, love; all these things filled her mind, body and soul. Unable to contain it any longer, she cried out for her daughter, her voice reverberating off the walls of the cave, booming out like a wave through the entrance for all around to hear. From outside, she could hear the echo of her own defeated roar. And not long afterward, as the last echo sounded, a response came. It was a pained cry, as if Zarayas sadness was responded by guilt. And for a moment, all the anger left her heart and she wanted nothing more than to simply ask her daughters killer: Why? Why did he kill her if he knew he would feel guilty about it? With nothing but a painful memory left in the cave, Zaraya left her daughters remains untouched. Standing on the cliff edge, nothing but a few feet of rock between her and the long descent, she called out again to the owner of that response. WHY? she roared, hiding no sadness along with it. Unlike before, there was no reply. Of course the killer wouldnt want to be caught and killed despite his guilt. With one more glance back at the cave, Zaraya shed a tear for her daughter before spreading her wings and took off into the sky in search of the killer. This would be her new goal in life. With the father already dead, it wasnt anything as simple as having another baby or even a cluster. At this point, Zaraya had no clue as to what to do once she found the killer. She did not believe her daughter would want her to exact revenge so coldly. She would ask again: Why? With a dragon flying over the forest trees, a young wolf clawed at his face as the gem hed eaten burned his insides.
Millions of voices screamed at him, telling him what to do in order to stop it. Most told him to throw it up; others suggested he drink something to cool it down. But the wolf was determined to bear the pain. Hed not wanted to eat that little dragon, that poor defenceless baby. He got to his feet and ran toward a tree. He brought his head down and collided with it at full speed. He knocked himself out instantly. Waking up to the night sky, the wolf noticed the pain had subsided. Swallowing hard, he felt his throat was sore and dry. The desire to go to the nearest water source was dominant in his mind and as he tried to stand, everything felt different. His first clue was he was standing up on all-fours, like his ancestors before him. The second thing he noticed was a pair of extra joints along his back, then more muscles along his tail, which was longer than he was used to. He stumbled around, searching for his balance. Everything seemed smaller to him, just ever so slightly. He lifted his head and looked down. He felt taller. Then he noticed his hands. No, not hands; they were transformed. They werent paws like his ancestors had, but claws, like a dragon. He turned his head half way around. What he saw frightened him. His body resembled that of a dragon, right down to the wings and tail blade. But unlike a dragon, instead of scales, he retained his dark grey fur. His chest brandished an emerald green soul gem with a slight crack in it. Oh no, he said, bringing his claws to his face. He tore into himself, scarring his features. The voices began to return once again, millions of them screaming at him, wondering what had happened. Why are we a dragon now? What do we do? That mother must have cursed us! All sorts of voices with their own questions and opinions began to rise. Trying hard to remove most of them, hundreds still remained. He tried to focus on helpful voices, asking them to aid him in learning to walk the way he was. Several voices spoke out greater than the others,
which turned into background noise. Some of the voices were male; others female as each personality eased and forced him into mastering the walk. Well done! The female voices chimed. About time! The males grumbled in contrast to their female counterparts. Now able to walk, he travelled to the nearest source of water to quench his thirst and wet his throat. In the distance, the roar of the mother dragon could barely be heard over the running of the water. Shed not gone far. She was scanning the area piece by piece. It wouldnt be long before she found him. You cant die! We need you and some of us didnt compel you to eat her daughter. One of the voices spoke up while the others fell silent. I have to keep living. But if I could put her mind at ease somehow All at once, every voice began giving him potential plans that could aid him in his desire. Some told him to leave her be and let her heal in time, others said to confess and hope she didnt kill him. But one voice spoke out more than the others. It was a new voice, one he hadnt heard before. It felt new too, like it had found its way into his mind of its own accord. Lead her to someone likely to have killed her. Someone nobody would miss. Someone famous for killing, hated by all. The voice was young; childish. That plan agreed with the wolfs heart. She would feel at peace with herself and he would be able to lay his guilt to rest. Yes. Thats what Ill do. I wont be able to live with myself otherwise, no matter what youd all say. Now someone tell me how to get her attention. Having compacted her search to areas inhabited by predators, none of the questioned beings owned up to having killed her daughter, despite her promise not to exact revenge. Wolves, lions, reptiles, all had no clue as to Zarayas target. Her heart pounded behind her soul gem as its light faded, projecting her disappointment. Feeling there was no useful
information in her territory and areas surrounding it, she set off in the direction of the moon: searching in the outlands was her next goal. She let out one more defiant roar, calling to the killer. Nobody responded, and with a defeated heart, she travelled towards the outlands in search of a trail. When she reached the border of the Elorai Forest, she heard the response. A pained roar coming from near her daughters resting place. In a hurry, she struggled to rotate herself around the way she had come from and pumped her powerful wings as the roar was repeated. The closer she got, the more agonized it sounded. Just a couple of miles from her cave, she landed near the source of the roar. It had dimmed down to a pained growling. Zaraya slunk between the trees, her sleek body twisting between them. She stopped at the edge of a clearing where trees had been broken in two and knocked over. She could smell blood in the air. It wasnt her daughters blood, but a strangers. She began to feel like she hadnt heard the guilty roar of her daughters killer, but instead the pained cry of this new being. She focused her vision, trying to make out the source of the blood and the sound. She couldnt see anything at first, but the sudden rise of a dragons body and his screams startled her. As she looked at him, clawing at his own head, she noticed the green soul gem, much like her daughters and mates, but cracked slightly. Narayu? she called, forgetting for a moment that her mate had died protecting her during labour. The dragon caught his voice and looked in the direction hed heard her. A... a voice! Outside my mind? No, cant handle more voices. Stay away! The strange dragon backed away from her as Zaraya emerged from the trees. She looked at the dragon with wonder. Was he mad? As she stepped toward him, the dragon gripped his head again and buried his head in the ground, clawing at his scalp. Why are you sad? she asked, like a small child. The
dragon opened his eyes and looked at her, his head and claws unmoving. Voices in my head all the time. They dont stop, they never stop. They tell me things
Blood, Sweat and Tears

David Roach.
Blood, Sweat and Tears is a story about Dean, a broke artist and university dropout who is just trying to survive. He cannot even afford pencils or drawing equipment, but as luck has it, he finds a pencil on the way home one night and his first drawing comes to life. Dean now has an avenue for making money, but he is not the only one who could use a pencil with that kind of power.
Chapter 1
is wallet was empty. No surprise there. It had always been empty since he left home. He couldnt live with his
parents. He had everything he wanted there, except freedom. When he left, he found he no longer had the financial support he had depended on, nor did he have the skills for any sort of decent job. His days consisted of a mop and bucket. There wasnt even enough money to buy himself a new set of pencils, and drawing was what got him through his lonely nights. Dean was a character artist. Hed watch shoppers at the local marketplace and get ideas. He was no writer, though. His stories came from drawings. Earlier, hed met an unusual hyperactive girl whod given him some loose change for lunch. He was torn between getting his pencils and eating a proper meal for once. Hed lost a lot of weight since he moved out of home. Quite quickly, hed learned what luxury was, and it seemed on his pay rate, that food came under that category.
*** On his lunch break, Dean spent most of his money on a meal. It left him with a few coins. Not enough for even one pencil when he counted the silver pieces. The end of his shift came, and Dean got his pay. It was cashin-hand, and while he was getting government support, most of it went on rent and bills. He happily counted his less-thanminimum wage as he left the office.. His boss gave him his weekly pay in a quartet of notes a yellow fifty, two orange twenties and a blue ten. He stashed them away in his wallet as he made a last-minute-dash for the supermarket. Pencils. He could afford some now. Well, after he bought dinner. But by the time hed bought some frozen goods he could throw in the oven, the store was closing. Dean ran for the stationery aisle. His heart sank when his eyes fell on the bare shelves. The store had been cleaned out of pencils. Labels hung from the shelves, all displaying a back to school clearance note. Everything was half price. He found the label along the rack where his favourite brand of pencils normally was. Three dollars for five HBs. He paid for his groceries and left, still counting his remaining cash. A single orange note and the coins from lunch. The night was warm. Not many were out. He was half way home when he stepped on something. It crunched under his foot and scattered. His ears registered the sound as a pencil rolling across the path. Dean glanced down. Hed just stepped on and snapped his favourite brand of pencil. He lunged for it, not caring about his injuries or ripping uniform. He had a pencil now! *** When he got home, the Dean slammed and locked the door behind him. He ran straight to the kitchen and flipped the light switch. The room flickered into a dim light that began to glow brighter as the fluorescent bulb warmed up.
His food was thrown into the oven and the dials cranked to the recommended temperature. He closed the oven door and stacked the boxes in the corner beside the fridge. There were still a few scraps of paper at the table. He reached for one and tested the sharpened end of the pencil. A smooth leaden line grew on the page. The item was too small to hold in his fingers. Dean slid the two ends together and held the pencil in one hand. He angled his arm so he could reach his elbow with his free hand, and ripped his bandage off. Hed cut his elbow earlier at work, but was able to find someone who carried medical supplies. They were for her kids who were about knee-high to a grasshopper, and the one hed stuck over his bleeding cut had a cartoon sponge from a television series. He winced at the sting of ripping hairs, but wrapped the pencil in the bandage. He was lucky it had splintered so that it slotted together neatly. His hands were sweating when he put the pencil to the same scrap of paper and began drawing. How long had it been since hed drawn anything? A week? It didnt matter, though. The pencil would run out in no time with the amount of work he usually did. Hours passed. Deans cramped hand still gripped the pencil. Hed found an old sharpener and taken about an inch off the wooden shaft. It didnt matter. He was drawing. His tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as he added detail. His eyes were stinging. He sat back and blinked, realising that it was probably the first time he had blinked since he started. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought about the girl whod given him some money. He opened his eyes again and changed his drawing slightly. He let his pencil rest on the table and picked up the drawing. Hed made, in his opinion, a gorgeous girl in nothing but briefs and a shirt, as if she was preparing for bed. Her eyes were closed, but she was grinning, a sort of manga style expression. Her hair hung
down to her shoulder-blades, and to top it off, hed added the ears and the tail of a cat. Truly this was the most adorable thing hed ever created. He looked for a place on the picture and chose the girls left arm. There, he squeezed in his signature in a small circle, like a tattoo. The artist leant back with a smile. Amy. That would be her name. It suited her. Almost like Zoey, the girl whod given him the money he now had left over in his wallet. Amy would make a great girlfriend, he thought. The chair-leg snapped and Dean lost his balance. He grabbed at the table and pulled it over with him instead of steadying himself. Something burst from his drawing. HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! A sweet but excitable voice tore through the silent kitchen. His drawing, now life-sized dropped onto him as he hit the linoleum-tiled floor. She was the colour of the paper she was drawn on, but she was very much alive, and staring him in the face. She had a definite weight to her and pressed down on him as she stared at him intently. A... Amy? he asked. His voice was weak from not having spoken since lunch. I died when I hit the floor, didnt I? Or the cut I got from that empty can did it. I bled to death. That has to be it. Amys tail danced about behind her. Im Amy! she said. Im Dean. He reached for the back of his head and felt for a wound. Nothing. How had he avoided it? Youre a funny colour! the cat-girl stated. No, you just havent been coloured yet. It was a lame comment. Im not coloured? Amy pushed herself up onto her knees. She was straddling Dean uncomfortably. Uncomfortably for him, at least. She looked at her hands and then down at her body. I look like I always have.
How long is that? Dean asked. I dont know. Always. However long Ive been around. I forget my age. Well, when were you a a kitten? Ive never been a kitten. Ive always been a cat-girl. Dean smiled and laughed. Hed pictured Amy as a sweet, innocent-minded person, and she was showing just that. Hed created her. You should know! Youre my dad! Dad wasnt what I had in mind, Dean thought. But I dont really think I could ask you for what I was after daughter it is. He began to speak. Are you hungry? I am! Hey, are you cooking fire? It sure smells like fire. Dean sniffed. Fire! He struggled out from under Amy and made for the oven. Grey wisps were streaming from around the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it down. It was like a dragon had breathed in his face. Heat and smoke. He choked and stumbled backward. In the hallway, the smoke alarm started screeching like the neighbours dog, which also started screeching. In turn, the elderly owner began screeching for it to shut up. Dean coated his hands with a wet tea-towel he had hanging from the sink and pulled the tray out from the oven. The source of the smoke was a pile of charcoal. I was heating some chips and potato cakes, he sighed. It would have fed two. Dinner and breakfast for me until you came along Now Ive got nothing. Im sorry! Amy cried loudly. I didnt mean to burn your food! Dean was silent for a moment and then let out a sigh. You didnt, okay? Dean turned around and set the tray on the bench. Amy, youll make my life much more fun! If youre real, that is. Oh, really? She was standing now, still where shed fallen,
and smiling. But now youve got no food! Dean reached for his back pocket and pulled his wallet free. He opened the leather pouch and pulled out the orange note. Ive got just enough for a pizza for us. Ooh, Ive never had pizza before! You probably havent had any food before. The smoke-detectors serenade came to an end as the smoke cleared. The dog and neighbour, though, did not. A loud barking and someone cursing in a thick Australian accent could still be heard. Dean stared at Amy. He smiled. If I died, then at least it was a quick one.
Speedy Delivery
David Roach.
Speedy Delivery is an adventure that follows Zoey, a hyperactive, teenaged, pizza-delivery girl with an energy-drink addiction. She is on the run from her own emotions and thoughts, but must come to terms with herself when she is forced to run from someone who cannot take no for an answer when it comes to romance.
Chapter 1
our vegetarian pizzas to go! Eugene pushed a stack of maroon cardboard boxes into his drivers hands. He wiped
his filthy hands on his singlet. It was one of those tight white Bonds pieces, and he was one of those men who should never be seen in one. The stopwatches around his neck suggested he might be an athlete if it wasnt for the fact that hed never even jogged once in his life. His mannerisms resembled those of a pig. Greedy, filthy, and he didnt care who knew it as long as the money came in. You got it, boss! the driver said. She was a third his age and a quarter of his size. While her uniform shirt was missing a few buttons from the collar, she was like a freshly-vacuumed house when compared to her boss. Eugene leaned over the counter. He pointed a finger at his driver. Beside him, the Indonesian kid who worked the till leaned away and held his nose as the hairy armpit of his boss came into sight.
The boss snarled. Zoey, he said. I know youre the fastest driver around, but I gave you that car for a reason. I dont need you costing me needless insurance. If you stack one more time, youre out of a job as well as a ride. Zoey grinned, like a kitten who was about to shred the curtains. Sure thing! She adjusted her cap. She took good care of her uniformmainly because it was one of about three sets of clothing she owned, and shed had to pay for it herself. Eugene grunted and sniffed. It sounded more like an oink. Dont come back without the money this time, kid! Whatever, boss! Zoey laughed and sprinted for the stores open door, out into the fairly chilly night. Shed forgotten her jacket, but at least her cars heater worked. Her car was parked where shed left it: right next to a blue station wagon. Close enough that she could just squeeze into the drivers side. There was a metallic thump as red paint left a purple scar on her bosss passenger door. She glanced up to see Eugene staring at her through the store window. She was aware that the only reason she kept her job was because she was the fastest driver in town. Eugene knew it, her fellow drivers knew it, and the police certainly did too. She got in and closed the door. It creaked for a second and the window slid down on its own. Zoey laughed and wound it back up. It did that an average of about four times a night,. Zoey set the pizza boxes in the empty passenger chair and pulled the receipt out of the box. The steam from her delivery had already dampened and removed most of the information from the slip of paper. Not the price, though. She and the other drivers thought that their boss had designed them that way; money was his only real interest. The address was barely readable in the evening light, but Zoey had a feeling she was heading to a regular place, since it was a frequent order. She set the receipt aside and twisted the keys in the ignition. The car took a few moments to warm up. Its engine
roared. The previous owner of the ride ran a noodle shop, but it sounded like hed cared for his machine. And then Zoey had received it and banged it up within the first week of driving it. The lights came on and the car backed out. It was a full-throttle reverse into another parked car. Almost. Zoey twisted the wheel and was out of the car park a second later. *** Speed. Some people had their video games or their artwork. Some even studied for thrills. The only time Zoey got a thrill was when she was driving. Life was too slow sometimes. Just like the traffic in a five-way roundabout. The evening traffic was tight that night. Barely a gap to squeeze into. A horn from another car hinted that Zoey might have entered the roundabout a bit dangerously. She found a gap and tailed a fast-moving Commodore with red and white Ps displayed in the windows. She chased it for a few blocks before it vanished down a side-street. She kept driving towards the traffic lights on the same highway. They were red as she approached. Cmon! she groaned. Turn green! The lights didnt respond. Zoey began chanting. GreengreengreengreengreengreenYES! The lights changed. There were two lanes. She slipped between them and for a moment thought shed lost a mirror. She checked and learned shed actually gained one. It bounced across the bonnet for a moment and then fell away to the road. She checked the speedo. Ninety in a sixty zone. Shed be there in no time. The place she pulled up at had a floral-painted Volkswagen van parked on the nature-strip. Two hairy looking men sat in the open back of it. A lava lamp sat further behind them, bathing the interior of the van in a green light. Zoey switched the engine off and immediately was overcome by the sound of The Beatles as she opened the door. She called
out, Got sick of Pink Floyd? Yeah, man! the one with a beard called back. Scooby didnt like it! he pointed at something on the road. It was an old shoe. Zoey shut the door behind her. The window slid down again. She carried the pizzas over to the van. Four vegetarians? Nah, only two! the guy with glasses looked at his bearded friend and laughed. Uh-huh Zoey thought aloud. She checked the receipt. Four large, and delivery comes to forty-six dollars. You got the money? Beard asked his friend. I thought you did. Specs commented. Oh, thats right, we got the lava lamp. Beard laughed. Scooby will have to shout us. He pointed at the shoe again. Really, your shoe has some money? Zoey wasnt sure if they were serious or not. We shoulda called him Shoebie! Specs chuckled. I dont have money, Beard sighed. He reached into his shirt pocket. But will this do? he waved a yellow note at Zoey. Zoey reached for it. Beard snatched it away. Whats the name of the song playing? I dont know! Zoey sighed. Im more of a Devo person. Good enough! Beard genuinely passed the note this time. Zoey traded him the pizzas. She fished in her pocket for change and found some coins. She counted them out. Four dollars in change. Nah! Specs took one of the pizza boxes from his friend. Keep it. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes. Like Shoebie! Beard roared. His chest heaved as he laughed. Okay, then Zoey backed away and got back into her car. She watched the pair for a moment before she started the engine. They sat laughing even as she drove away. *** She was back at the store in about ten minutes. Just as she turned into the driveway, a green Falcon flew past her and
parked across three spaces. The young weasel of a kid got out and flexed his muscles as his rival took a few more seconds to park properly back next to the station wagon. Scott was the thinnest, most rake-like teenager Zoey had ever seen. She was on the small side herself, but not like him. Twenty-two minutes there and back! Scott danced about. Thats what she said! Zoey snickered. Youre just jealous! Scott ran into the store. The first thing Zoey heard as her rival stepped inside was Eugene. For Christ sake, pull your pants up, Scott! We deliver pizzas, not prison-bitches! Zoey closed the store door behind her. All here, boss! She waved the note. Eugene appeared before her and snatched the money away. He sniffed it. Ah, 1992, good mint. Same year as you. He passed it to the Indonesian boy. Paka, put this in there. Whatever Paka pressed a few buttons on the old-fashioned till and the tray opened. He kept a stony, deadpan face as he deposited the money. Hows it feel being a till-bitch? Scott jeered. No police involved. Paka answered. The phone rang and he picked it up. He held it upside down, with the receiver to his mouth. Mau apa? he asked. In English! Eugene snatched the phone away. Piggees Pizza? Pay up, Zee! Scott pushed himself between Zoey and the counter. You bet five dollars youd be faster over the same distance. Zoey frowned. I was twenty minutes all up, even when the regulars tried to get a shoe to pay for them. ZOEY! Eugene slammed the phone down. Get ready! Therell be two cheese pizzas to go in fifteen. Boss! Scott whined. Who was faster this time? Eugene didnt even think about it. Zoey, as usual. You had to
spend a minute showing off before youd even left. Our times? Zoey asked. Their boss checked the stopwatches he kept hung around his neck. Scott: twenty-four fifty. Zoey: nineteen. Woo for being nineteen years old too! Zoey danced. You act like a four-year-old. Eugene stated. Well, I was born on the 29th of February! Zoey defended. She blew a raspberry. Her boss grunted and smirked. So, youre as old as the number of birthdays you had. Scott fished around in his pockets. I havent got change, Zee. Can I get you some later? How about a can of Red Bull? Zoey asked. I could do that. Scott sneered. How about I just get you the money to spite you? Zoey shrugged. Whatever, Scotty. I win anyway.
Gwenynen at the Altar

Mark Slattery
Synopsis: The Fferyllt, legendary alchemists of the Isle of Britain, have distilled their knowledge into four heavy tomes; the Books of the Lore of Air, Fire, Water and Earth. Within the books they have placed spirit aspects of their learning, to act as sentinels, guides and guards. Kedrin, a most promising student, is corrupted by vanity and ambition and the books become closed to him. He steals the books and in secret, establishes his own school seeking to regain access to the knowledge via his students. When Aled arrives showing more promise than any before him Kedrin skilfully manipulates him into becoming the tool he hopes will open the powers of all four books to him. Aleds mother is a priestess to Brigit and leads a group of nineteen women and girls in sacred reverence. They are trained in martial arts and also possess a single magical ability, that of shape-shifters. They are charged with a very specific mission: to watch over the Keep and prepare for Kedrins departure. They are well aware of the prophecy of the eventual coming of the Keeper of the Lore of Earth and have interpreted Kedrins final leaving of the Keep as a sign of Keeper of the Lore of Earths imminent arrival. This chapter begins the chase
Gwenynen at the Altar.
fter Aled and Kedrin had escaped from the village, Gwenynen gathered her women about her. They performed well, she thought. She had asked for a brutal, sudden, short attack aimed at both Aled and Kedrin. She could not, at this first stage, show any fear for her son, nor any shirking of responsibility. She had trained her women to perfection over many years. All were aware of their ultimate mission. All shared Gwenynens love for her son. But none of them felt their devotion to Brigit compromised by that love. None except
Gwenynen. How it tore her heart apart when she was told she had to let him go. Brigid was firm and resolute. In the depths of their devotional cave she had appeared in the flames, an avatar of fierce determination. All were stretched out face-down in obeisance save for Gwenynen standing at the point of the circle nearest the altar. Steadfast before her acolytes, she felt fear race through her at what she beheld. And though all heard Brigits declaration of war, only Gwenynens heart stopped at the sudden realization of the dangers her son would face as a direct result of their orders. And now they had begun. Her only consolation was the pride in her sons quick thinking and deft use of magic in deflecting their attack. It was what she had expected and hoped for. And it had determined their strategy of short, sharp ambushes and retreats. Come to me, my women, come and enjoy Brigits embrace. The nineteen, standing singly and in small groups on the edge of the village under the first over-hangings of the forest, lifted their heads at her words and moved towards her, arms finding waists and shoulders as they merged into a close circle. Deeply drawn breathing was the only noise as shared warmth enveloped them, Brigits love, Gwenynen, at their centre. The breathing calmed into a rhythm, a murmur in their throats, and sent sensuous threads of belonging coursing through their blood. Synchronized in breath and heart their becalmed minds opened as one onto Brigits sublime realm. She came to them then, a touch of flame on each forehead above eyes closed in humble submission. At its first touch their auras vibrations attuned to a single heartbeat, a single breathe deeply indrawn and held before, in unison, an exultant ululation erupted from them. Energy from the cosmos rushed down as a column of fire from the heavens and, with it, images of the transformations, the shapes of other life energies, opened to them, merged into their minds, as power flooded the very cells of their being. The next inhalation of their still attuned breathing was silent in awe at their chosen status,
honouring themselves, Gwenynen, and Brigit, ending in a long held pause. Still in their tight circle, even more tightly bound in the metaphysical realm by the ritual of meditative breathing, they let forth a sound, a pure chorus of affirmation. They were visited then. Creatures emerged from the forest and fields bereft, for the time, of humans. The world that they lived in had ceased to be, slowed and then stopped by the sacred rite. Only nature itself in its primal forms had volition here. Bees were first, in clouds of adoration which shrouded over the woman in millions, welcoming them into their domain and granting them their skills, shape and colours. As they dispersed in a sudden upward billowing mass, stoats crept through the grass. Their bellies were low to the ground yet their bearing was all stealth and power, their movements sinuous, their desire intent to imprint their essence upon the women. As one they leapt and flowed around and over the womens bodies brushing them with their fur and scent before flooding away and disappearing through ranks of badgers, simply there, a massed wall of striped fur and bared tooth and claw. The women, all facing inward, did not see them but felt their presence as intense extensions of themselves. Maintaining their ritual of long held pauses between breath and exhalation they slowly bent at knee and waist and shifted apart, falling to hands and knees. The badgers remained still as death, eyes glazed, a feral concentration directed at the womens mimicry of their form. After long, long moments nineteen badgers, all males, shuffled through their ranks and, emerging at the front, threw themselves upon the backs of the women, covering them in a fury of motion. The sound of a lone wolf howling into the night scattered the badgers in an instant and brought the women back to their feet, faint streaks of white, black and grey leaking from the skin on their arms, legs and cheeks. All the women now faced outward, their circle still complete, though expanded. Gwenynen turned at their centre, eyes closed, maintaining the
sacred breath, keeping them all focussed. Finally facing east, she stopped and opened her eyes. Beyond the women, at the very edge of the forest under a huge fir, the wolf met her gaze and held it, unblinking. Innately she knew her breathing matched his and that of the group. They were already one. She emerged from the circle and approached the wolf without fear. As she knelt before him she raised her hand and cupped his muzzle in her open palm still staring directly into his eyes. This was bold, she knew, for the wolf was an avatar of Brigits lover and should have ripped her throat out at such a display of impertinence. But he did not. With her other hand she did something even more inviting of the wolfs fangs at her throat. She slowly and meticulously plucked nineteen hairs from between its unflinching ears, their eyes still locked in silent communion. As she began to withdraw her hand he lifted his jaw from her open palm and clamped his teeth around her wrist, stilling her. She sensed movement from behind and, at the same time, noticed her breathing had become a ragged pant, though not, as might have been expected, from fear. Had they noticed, she thought. The wolf had tightened his grip on her wrist, drawing blood and pain. She could not move. Nor, strangely, could he. Brigit was among them, not as herself but as mischief because, just as the Ritual of Breath had been broken, so to had the time of humans begun to flow again. Finally breaking contact with the one eye the wolf still had trained on her, she looked toward the village and saw the stirrings of a crowd gathering, curious at the attack on Kedrin and Aled. She must not be seen thus; the thought had barely entered her mind when the pressure on her wrist ceased. She did not look. The wolf was gone and the blood would soon dry on the small wounds around her wrist. Shrugging Brigit off with all due deference she resumed her habitual posture as mother and wife, and joined the scattered groupings of the village as
they beheld, in growing wonder, at the focussed destruction brought about in the attack. Carefully joining them, staring about, she was pleased but not surprised to note her acolytes similarly blending back into the reality that was the villagers response. Casting a glance to the sky she saw a moon, half-full, tilted downward like a bloated eye, watching. My love is with you, Aled, she thought in defiance, and sent that thought into the locket at his throat.
The Battle for Dyndengar

David Roach
The Battle for Dyndengar is a fantasy tale of a young knight whose town is threatened by a cult known as the Holy Order of Herald. This escalates into a war, with Driphtyr and his friends becoming targets of this cult, who want to bring their god back to the world from which he was banished. Driphtyr is still inexperienced with life, conflicted with teenage emotion, and on top of this, thrown into a religious war.
Act 1. Chapter 1.
26th Midsummer, 5/21.
he young Catonan Knight stood by the Precinct gates. The heavy oak doors were open, and between them stood his
contact. Your first mission, hey? Jaida asked. Look at you, the big man now. She kept up a fierce gaze with her yellow eyes. Everything about her pointed to a tiger. Yellow fur on her catlike ears and her tail, littered with black stripes. Driphtyr gave a polite smile. It was hard to tell when Jaida was being sarcastic. Ive been waiting on this for a month now, last time the Princess was here. Like Jaida, he was also Catonan, but his fur was ginger and his stripes were more scattered. The last time she saw you, you were still a sidekick to a big hero. Jaida crossed her arms. Hows it feel to be the youngest knight? She managed to look dangerous, from her gaze, to
her mop of golden hair, to her black tank top and shorts. The only part of her that wasnt covered in skin, black or yellow was her hand and feet wrappings. They were blood-stained, but it wasnt fresh. Shed posed Driphtyr with a difficult question. There was a lot of honour with being a knight. At the same time, he was only seventeen. Most other squires were at least twenty before they were knighted. It was an awful lot of responsibility for anyone. Id really rather just get on with things, Driphtyr answered. Princess Sialla said to meet her here on the twentysixth of midsummer at noon. Jaida responded with a snort. Its only eleven. What else am I going to do? Driphtyr gave a shrug. I thought Id come in early. Jaida sighed. Punctualitys great and all, but Siallas not here yet. She was supposed to be on the first train from Harboura this morning. Driphtyr sighed. Since when has a train ever run on time? If shes going incognito, she mightnt be using express. He adjusted his armour. He wasnt quite used to wearing it, and the pauldrons he had strapped over his chain upper were uncomfortable. He admired the armour plate that served as a shield for his left arm. He found he couldnt use one on his right at the same time as a sword. Again, it was uncomfortable. Jaida pressed her point. A train only takes two hours to get here, even when it stops at every town on the way. Ive been to the station twice to see if shed arrived, and was just going again when you turned up. Driphtyr grimaced. You think something happened to her? In the distance, an old steam engine sounded its whistle. That would be her ride. Jaida grinned. She uncrossed her arms. Since youre looking for something to do, why not escort her back here? I can get some training in with the other monks.
The knight adjusted his uniform cap. He lowered the peak on it when he was getting serious. He smiled. This should be easy. *** The Precinct was a surrounded by large walls made of grey stone. It was divided by the Dragon Creek, with the temple on one side and the gardens on the other. Jaida preferred the garden where she could show off her skills with other martialartists. The temple was an area of peace, where followers of the Great Dragon Zenloong came to give thanks to the planets creator. The knight left the Precinct behind and ventured through the towns park. A number of civilians were already out and about. Students at the local school pushed past him. To them, he was just another student. He was younger than the majority of the students who were eager to get to their last class before lunch. None of them cared that he was carrying a sword over his back either. Ahead of him, another student stood out from the others. It wasnt just the way he carried himself, or his brown cloak that suggested he was different; it was that he had fixed the Catonan with a stare. Driphtyr kept on the path, an ear in the direction of the strange person. He caught a glimpse of silver in the corner of his eye and turned. The unusual cloaked young man had thrown his robes back over his shoulders and revealed armour. Driphtyr turned just as his would-be attacker produced a curved blade. The knight recognised it immediately. He was an acolyte from the Church of Herald. The scimitar was a dead giveaway. His mind raced: why would the church have targeted me? A circle cleared. Fights were common all over town. Some people knew to get clear of this one. The rest were idiots and hung around to watch.
They said you were short, the swordsman stated. He was tall and bulky. Driphtyr wasnt one to intimidate easily. Good things come in small packages. He reached over his shoulder and wrapped his gauntlet around his weapons hilt. He brought his longsword out and took up a defensive stance, with his left forward. The acolyte made the first move. He advanced with his right forward, stepped and swung. Driphtyr parried the blow against his shield and strafed as a second swing came down. Scimitars were slashing weapons. Hed been caught off-guard by one before. Some members of the crowd began spurring them on. The churchs follower gave a laugh. I see you learned how to avoid fights at least. Driphtyr played with the idea. Whoever put this guy up to it knows of me. It wasnt surprising. All knights were high-profile. He kept his guard up and said, Is this because I turn away church-goers who try to sell me bibles? Youve got a mouth, Kitin! The swordsman lunged. Driphtyr shifted and caught the scimitar against his own sword. I dont believe in Herald or Zenloong, really! Swordplay required concentration and timing. An enraged soldier was more likely to attack and to leave an opening. The acolyte swung again. The knight backpedalled and stepped sideways again. He used the move to shift his right forward. What parents would let their children die in wars? he demanded. The swordsman roared and swung back-hand. Driphtyr caught the attack against his blade with his own back-hand swing. The longsword easily shifted the wider and lighter scimitar. It was a slip. In the same move, Driphtyr hit home. The tip of his sword raked across the swordsmans chain cuirass. The acolyte flinched. He was unharmed, but it was likely he was now thinking about his mortality.
Driphtyr didnt hesitate in his next move. He went on the offensive. He reached and grabbed the swordsmans shoulder, and rammed his sword into his opponent. He felt the chain snapping from the blow and heard the pained gasp of the swordsman. He pushed the young man away. The acolyte hit the path with a clatter. His scimitar hung limply in his grip. His eyes stared up at the sky. So blue he whispered. Driphtyr edged forward with his weapon pointed at the quivering swordsman. Blood pumped from the fallen mans wound and up through his armour. The acolytes gaze fell on the boy. You you killed me Driphtyr felt a knot in his stomach. It tightened with each passing second. You brought it on yourself The comment was more for his own ease than that of his opponent. He dropped to his knee beside the fallen man. Why? What did you hope to gain? The swordsman gave a weak smile and looked back up to the sky. Heralds word He will return Driphtyr had seen death before, but this wasnt as he remembered it. Other animals closed their eyes before they left the acolyte stared with intent focus at the sky above. He rasped once, but that was his last breath. Timidly, the knight reached out with his left hand and with his fingers, closed the swordsmans eyelids. So devoted to Herald, you believe hes awaiting you Maybe he is, and he knew Id make it quick He stood back up. Red blood stained his weapon. So fresh. His sword had never tasted blood before. He became aware of the crowd. A few were cheering and clapping. Some were screaming. He looked around. There were all sorts of viewers. He almost felt proud, if he could only ignore the feeling in his stomach. Driphtyr looked down at the acolyte again. Around his
neck was the Pendant of Herald, a silver disk with a sapphire in its centre. He reached and grabbed it, snapping it from its leather cord. He turned it over. There was writing on the back. Heralds message hath been delivered.
The Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All

Mark Slattery
Synopsis: Nigel Darknor Ponsonby had a natural gift for aligning himself with people of a despotic nature. Through crafty words and an admirable, though false, zealotry to the orthodoxy of the day, he had risen through the ranks of whatever organisation he had infiltrated until the ear he craved, one of two, either side of the head containing the over-weaning ego of the top dog, listened to him and him alone. Unfortunately he was no strategist and never saw the errors of judgement mounting imponderably towards inevitable catastrophe. When the cards eventually fell and the trail of dastardly deeds was revealed from top to bottom, Nigel would quietly leave the country and set up again, often near the bottom rung of another organisation. After three decades of this Nigel decided to set in motion a plan that would establish a series of opportunities where he would begin at the top.
eorge Mittelbach was standing in the corner clutching a lime cordial. Seventy-eight thousand dollars and all they can
supply is lime cordial, he thought as he surveyed the reception room. He was trying to look important; as important as he was. This was a big step for him. His job depended on it. His marriage depended on it, and his health. After a lifetime bludgeoning his way into the rarest realms of the mega-rich, hed been told by his doctor he needed to slow down. Destress. De-stress? He lived on stress. Especially other peoples. He thrived on creating extreme working environments. He gloated over the excessive, inappropriate, inadequate, and disordered physiological responses. He knew the theory and developed the buttons. In short, he belittled colleagues and
demeaned underlings. He shifted goalposts, reset priorities, restructured his companies, never on a whim but with solid, underpinning, revenue-driven strategies. He was interrupted in his thinking by the appearance of a large, florid chap manoeuvring around chatting groups, eyes locked on his. Oh God, what now? he thought. Nigel Darknor Ponsonby, said the chap extending his right hand, elbow crooking as he moved his hefty weight into berth behind it, Welcome to the Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All. George looked at the meaty, flaccid hand, and then up to the equally meaty face. Despite his revulsion, habit forced his own hand forward. Nigels second paw immediately appeared and, together with the first, imprisoned Georges in soft, damp dough. As Nigel vigorously pumped all three hands up and down, George felt the air within farting intimately between their palms. Attempting to dislodge Nigel from him, George spilled his drink. Oh dear, said Nigel and he quickly removed one hand to snap two pudgy fingers, his eyes remaining disconcertingly fixed on Georges. As George was about to redouble his efforts to free himself he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a small, brown, furry head scurrying towards him through the pleasantly distracted throng. Three feet from him a pigmy chimpanzee leapt upon his chest, clutching him at his shoulders and hips, its rictus grin a bare inch from Georges now tightly-clenched lips. Unable to contain his shock George screamed and farted at once. Gilbert, said Nigel. Please wipe the gentlemans sleeve. George watched incredulously as the ape turned its face and, lifting its left paw, gently dabbed at Georges sleeve with a white, starched napkin. It was too much. George dropped his drink altogether and jumped backwards, dislodging the ape from his shoulders. As the ape fell away, feet still firmly clutched around Georges hips, Nigel was tugged off balance,
his hand finally parting from Georges with a wet, sucking sound. Nigel fell face-first into the apes crotch. A muffled moan was heard as Gilberts knees attempted a hairy clap, denied by the unfortunate placement of Nigels ears. Not one for unsuitable scenes George backed himself elegantly away from the crumpled forms on the floor. As he turned to continue his flight, he was confronted by a wall of teeth. I say, said the teeth. Cracking good show. George was having none of that and attempted a deft sideways step, deftly matched by the teeth, the second set in his face in as many minutes. After the fourth sashay, the final shreds of Georges decorum exploded. He shoved the woman aside and ran from the room. Once outside on the large covered deck overlooking the sumptuous tropical gardens, he paused to catch his breath. He took out a filigreed silver cigar case and was about to light a long panatela when a voice at his side said, George Mittelbach. George was not a shy man, nor one to allow emotions much sway in his decisive, pre-emptive conquest of Planet Earth through the over-exploitation of its minerals. George had single-handedly, according to George, turned a fortyfive thousand dollar minerals exploration licence in the red, dusty outback of Western Australia into a multi-billion dollar global mining conglomerate, Global Ocean and Geology. It was all hard slog, never a moment to himself, but, as George didnt like himself all that much, a wonderful distraction. And while the monumental bigness of his company brought him much pleasure it was the little things along the way that really tickled him; pygmy dolphins off the north coast of Australia, the Madagascan pygmy hippo, the golden coqui Puerto Rican tree frog. And any number of creatures reliant for survival in the many wetlands, estuaries and rivers that his mining operations had consigned to vast, dead tailing pits. He loved
endangered species and took great pride in his personal responsibility in removing them from the list. No, George was anything but shy, but shy away he did at the sound of his name being spoken in his ear with such familiarity. George, you remember Ambrose Shatrake? It was the teeth again, though George was able to identify other features now they werent so up close and personal. And he would have paid more attention to those other features had he not indeed, and clearly, remembered Ambrose Shatrake. Ambrose Shatrake had brought George as close to ruin as he had ever been. Once Georges right-hand man, a series of disastrous police investigations into certain irregularities had forced George to get rid of him. Ambrose had managed to avoid all consequences and disappear from view. When he re-appeared it was as co-founder and chairperson of Mature Aged Guardians of Gaia, which had set out to oppose each and every new development George set up. There were now three, in Burkina Faso, West Papua and Peru, all stalled and on the point of unravelling due to Ambroses intimate knowledge of Global Ocean and Geologys strategies and his considerable campaign expertise. It was part of the reason George was here at all, back in Malaysia, in a resort enclave, nestled between stands of mahogany, facing out onto a small cove of white sand and aquamarine waters. Teeth and Ambrose regarded him coolly from the doorway. George had regained his composure. And his venom. Shatrake! What brings a rat-arsed frivolity like you here? You, George, you. George was prepared for that, but not what came next. Ive shafted you, George. Your time has come. Im here to make sure the world knows it. In his earliest negotiations, George had known a bluff when played. This was no bluff. What could Shatrake mean? Check
your cards George, he thought while eye-balling Shatrake with his most malevolent stare. He knew Ambrose inside out. Whats in this for him? Money? Unlikley. Revenge? Men like Ambrose didnt seek revenge. They preferred to kick all the fight out of an opponent, especially when down, not stopping until it was reduced to a bleeding corpse. Ambrose had foreshadowed exactly that by not releasing the secretly-taped conversations of all of their meetings. Could that be it? Was the first kick already poised about Georges head? George didnt think so. Ambrose gained nothing from Georges annihilation. Quite the reverse. George had realized too late that Ambrose was at least his equal in rat cunning, self-preservation and stiletto-steel ruthlessness. He was just a game to Shatrake, though one he, Shatrake, loved to play. No, this was for someone else. Teeth? Now he did look at her closely. Once you removed the teeth from the equation she summed up pretty well. For someone hiding sixty in fifty. Tall, slim, nice curves, bazoomas the size of grapefruit (maybe plastic, but who cares) and a face that had possibly sunk ships. It was a wedge impossibly cleft by teeth the size of barricades above which a nostriled tomahawk rent the air. He must have been staring. Solange Delacroix, escaped through teeth. He became aware of an unnatural stillness. Looking down he finally noticed the extended hand and only then did he recall having brutally shoved aside its owner bare moments ago. Having so recently escaped two sets of hands, neither entirely human, George was disinclined to venture into another clasp but a mumble bee of a counter-plot to Shatrakes presence stirred his lowest level intuitions. Delighted, Ms Delacroix, he said, at last taking her hand in his, a limp squid-like thing with cold, clammy tentacles. He dropped it quickly.
Delighted, you say, said Solange. Delighted? George felt the need to re-establish superiority over Shatrake. First he offered his apologies to Ms Delacroix over his rudeness earlier. She continued to look at him blankly past her nose. He then enquired as to her reason for attending the resort. At this she turned to Shatrake and smiled which, to George, had the impression of elongating the face by a good two feet. George declined to look at Shatrake and noticed a tiny nod pass from Ms Delacroix before she turned back to him. You will see, George, she said simply. You will see. With that she left, moving back into the reception room, Shatrake, scurrying like the rat he was, in her wake. What the buggery bollocks was that all about, thought George and remembered his long panatela, which he placed in his mouth and lit. Just as he had drawn the first of the smoke deeply into his lungs another voice at his shoulder set him off into a strobe of choking. Coloured lights exploded behind his eyelids as smoke and air see-sawed between his lungs and the outside world. When his vision cleared he was bent double, hands on knees, head purple and a thin line of spittle down his chin. There were six feet in his small circle of sight. His, shod in bespoke brogues; another pair in some rubberized, strappy appliances over the edges of which fatty folds of flesh resembled almost exactly the skirts of hover craft in full flight, and a bare, hairy pair, big toes at some distance from the rest, all clearly designed for climbing trees. Next to these, on either side, were a pair of hands similarly designed, knuckles on the floor, a green stained cloth in one of them. Georges thoughts were unprintable. Herr Mittelbach, may we offer you some assistance? In attempting to shuffle backwards to avoid any contact with either sets of paws about to, uninvited, assist him in any
way, George overbalanced and fell flat on his arse. Looking up he found himself, once again, nose-to-nose with Gilbert. Instinctively he flung his arms up, which Nigel - for it was he of the floppy, overhanging feet - instantly mistook for a nonverbal assent to his polite enquiry. Uncomprehendingly George felt his right hand re-enter the doughy region of both of Nigels while his left was folded firmly and drily in a disturbingly slim, long-fingered grip. A tug of war ensued, entirely unproductive but for the bucket full of splinters firmly lodged in Georges arse. Enough was enough more than enough time ago. George was by anyones standards, even nice peoples, over it. He was not even able to recall the litany of its that this it was the summation of. Escaping was no longer an option. Hed tried that. So he gave up. Gave in. Gave over and, bending at the knees, drawing his feet painfully across the floor towards the pains source, allowed the yank of two diametrically-opposed humidities to lever him in a see-saw fashion to his feet. My dear man, said Nigel unctuously, allow me see you to your room. No need to stay for my opening address. Consider yourself well and truly welcomed. George was immune to supplication, all white cells rushing towards the enormous spread of his buttocks. He just stood there immobile, virtually unconscious, subject, for the second time in his life, to the whims and actions of others. He fainted. As his body fell rigidly backwards, the very last vestiges of a prolonged breakfast/lunch/dinner at thirty-five thousand metres at the pointy end of an all first-class 787 Dreamliner burbled patiently as a gas awaiting some external force to propel it through the nearest flawed aperture.
Non-Fiction
A Mothers Worst Nightmare: My Mothers Story

Sarah Mooney
n July 24 this year, my worst nightmare almost came true. I was standing in the kitchen talking to one of my older daughters, when I had a feeling something was wrong. It was too quiet. I asked her if she could see where Isabella (my two and a half year old daughter) was. She didnt know. I thought, Oh what she done this time emptied the bottle of baby powder again. As I walked down the hallway I noticed a chair at the front door and the door chain off. The front door was ajar. I ran towards the door, in disbelief. I ran outside frantically looking around the street thinking, Oh my god where is she? I ran to the corner of the street in panic. Turning the corner, I looked up; she was six to seven houses away. She was on the nature strip of Sternberg street (it was 5:30pm, peak hour.) My heart was racing, my hands shook and my body felt incredibly heavy. I screamed for Isabella to stop, to please stop. Tears poured down my face. I kicked off my slip-on shoes and ran as fast as I could towards her. I tripped over, scrapping my knees, elbows, and a shoulder. My hands stung as I continued to scream at Isabella to stop, please stop as she ran into the oncoming traffic.
Looking up I saw a white car swerve around her. The female driver looked shocked, in disbelief that she was close to hitting a small child. Isabella turned the corner and ran out of my view down the road. My whole body was shaking as fear consumed me, terrified that there would be screeching of car brakes and then a bang. Panicked; I screamed Isabella, Mummy, Isabella! Unable to get up from the pavement, from both the cuts and shaking, thinking this was it. Oh my God, please help me. As I started getting up I looked up again and saw her come around the corner of the road, running towards me. Saying, Mum-mum fall Mum-mum fall. I sat there wanting to get up and run towards her, to have her in my arms. But I knew if I got up, she would then run back towards the road, thinking it was a game. My heart was pounding, tears continued to run down my face as my whole body continued to shake. I kept thinking, keep coming. As soon as she was in my reach I lunged forward and grabbed hold of her. I held her so tight saying over and over again, Mummy loves you, Mummy loves you. I told her that the road is dangerous, that cars are bad. She said, Mum-mum fall Mum-mum fall. She didnt understand that she was minutes away from serious injury or even death; it was just a game for her. I carried her all the way back home, holding her tight as blood ran down my knees. I was in a lot of pain, but I wasnt going to let her go. She wiped the tears off my face saying Mum-mum fall. I turned my back for a moment and she had worked out how to get a chair, unlock the door, remove the chain, open the gate that sticks and ran down the street straight into traffic. You never think it will happen to you. Thank God she is alive.
Excerpt One from Hammered: Memoir of an Addict

Geoff Brown
eroin is an illegal opioid that slows the brain and central nervous system functions. Its commonly known as smack, slow or hammer. September 2005 Richmond, Melbourne. The place seemed appropriate. The floor was wet with God knows what, and it stank like a cesspool. Scrawled graffiti, reminiscent of hieroglyphics, lined the dirty, peeling walls. Webs spun by spiders long-dead hung thick in the corners. Cigarette butts, fit wrappers, plastic spoons and syringes littered the rough concrete floor, punctuated now and then by a used condom or a crushed cigarette packet. A pair of legs stuck out from one of the cubicles, feet splayed apart as though in death, and one jeans leg soaked up some unidentified puddle from the floor, the denim already wet halfway to the knee. Their owner wasnt deceased; just asleep. The deep, dark sleep that heroin gives you. Id checked when I came in: we didnt want to be involved in anything official if someone else happened to enter the public toilet and found us shooting up next to a corpse. I looked over at Carolyn, stoned out of her mind, and wondered just where we were going. Life was shit and not getting any better. We were both unemployed and both heroin addicts. Even though I was a nurse, I hadnt worked in years, too busy looking for easy money and the next score.
Here we were, off our trees again on heroin, sitting near the vomit of the dealer wed scored off. Hed swallowed the hammer when the cop grabbed him. Most dealers keep their gear sealed in water-balloons just in case. It makes it easy to vomit them back up, give them a wash and get back to selling. After being released from the police station without being charged, he had gone straight to the public toilets and drunk a heap of salt-laced water. I followed him into the toilet-block because I knew him from the street. The name he used with customers was Johnny. He usually had good stuff and his sizes were better than normal for street gear. Just as I walked into the toilet block, he threw up everywhere. The ballooned packages stood out in the stinking pool of vomit. I bought two bile-covered deals from him with our last seventy dollars and, as he left, called Carolyn in for our hit of smack. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I see the strange logic of giving poison to the one I loved. Smack was our way of life. We lived to score, and scored to live. I mulled up the hammer in a spoon and we had our taste. As I packed up our injecting gear, capping the syringes after rinsing them out, I wondered why other junkies felt the need to leave their used works lying around uncapped for someone to stick themselves with. It only took a second to pick everything up, and junkies lived with enough guilt as it was without adding more. I felt all warm and fuzzy, relaxed for the first time that day. Usually, I had maybe an hour to enjoy it before I had to start thinking about getting some cash for the next score, but it was late and payday was tomorrow. I had a pretty good system going. I would steal books from the bigger department stores and sell them to secondhand bookshops in the Eastern suburbs. The owners asked no questions and were always willing to take as many as I could get. In two hours I could steal enough to get a couple of hundred bucks, enough for a half-gram of gear At this point, I had no real habit driving me, so I could afford to relax and enjoy the stone. We were in the womens toilets, where
there were more stalls to hit up in. Wed tried to go to the disabled stall, with its own tap and more privacy, but some other junkie must have beaten us there. They were everywhere these days. I looked up as a young girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen but an addict from the look of her, pushed through the door from the outside and went into one of the cubicles without giving us a second glance. Day-to-day life on drugs is never easy. *** The best place for scoring drugs used to be St Kilda, but these days it was Richmond or Footscray. They took over as the heroin centres of Melbourne, and we knew Richmond so that was where we went to get the best deals on the best gear. I looked over at the woman who used to be the love of my life sitting half-awake in that toilet in Richmond, and for the millionth time wished that things were different. I finished packing our kit and went to rouse Carolyn so we could go sit in the park and just kick back and zone out for a while. Cmon, darl. Lets get out of this shithole, I said, unsure of whether I meant the toilet, the suburb or the lifestyle. Yeah, righto. Ywanna sit in the car for a bit before we go? We could sit in the park, I offered. Its a beautiful day. Sounds like a plan, she replied. In the old days, Id need to find a way to earn some cash within an hour or two, one that wouldnt mess with my conscience too much. No bag snatches for me, no mugging of old ladies to get their pension cheques. I stole from the bigger stores, not from someone who worked forty hours a week to put food on the family table. Even an addict had to have some morals, however skewed they were. A moral junkie. Is that an oxymoron? I sometimes felt that I was so far off course that my moral compass was turning in circles. Throughout my addiction, Id hurt a lot of people; most often the ones who were closest to me. That was the life of an addict. It was easier to touch family or friends for a few dollars, giving them a sob story that was far from the truth, than it was to hit up strangers.
Lying together on the grass, stoned and staring up at the clouds churning across the sky, it all seemed so distant. I was numb from the struggle. I didnt have the will to go on like this anymore. This wasnt living; this was just getting by day-to-day. There had to be a way out of this. I had to quit. I had to stop using hammer completely. Id tried to quit before, and each time Id fucked up within days; sometimes within hours or even minutes of getting out of detox. Looking up at the sky, I decided Id try and get clean again, and this time Id do it right. Here I was, getting closer to forty, and still shooting up, even if it was only casually. Thats the first mistake, believing that heroin use can be casual. Maybe a very few can manage it, but not me. Id learnt that the hard way. I dont believe I ever met anyone else who had managed it, either. Maybe the idea that it was possible was just an urban myth; something to use as an excuse for that extra shot. My name is Giles, but everyone calls me Joe. I began taking drugs when I was sixteen, and only got straight in my late thirties. I was one of the lucky ones. A lot of people I knew didnt make it through, lost in the hazy world of addiction and slow (or fast) death.
Excerpt Two from Hammered: Memoir of an Addict

Geoff Brown
ecember, 1999, and the sun was bright in the morning sky as I pulled the Toyota over at Kananook train station. I was pleasantly stoned and on my first run of the day. I had picked up an eightball of smack from my supplier earlier that morning, had a great big whack and then divided what was left into hundred dollar deals. Carolyn had left for college and it was a beautiful day. Gerry slipped into the passenger seat, glad to see me as all addicts are glad to see their dealer. It was about seven thirty in the morning, and he was my first customer of the day. As we greeted each other, I heard a screech of tyres from behind and looked in the mirror. There was a dark-blue Commodore tearing around the corner, with at least two people inside. Straight away, I knew it was the cops. I freaked. I yelled at Gerry to hold on and slammed my foot down on the accelerator, taking off with a screech as the car headed toward me. Gerry hadnt even shut the door properly, but I had no time to worry about that, taking off up the street as the Commodore closed in. I grabbed the pill bottle I kept the gear in and poured the deals out into my lap, steering with the other hand as the Commodore crept up behind me and pulled out to overtake. Throwing the multi-coloured bundles into my mouth and
swallowing, I concentrated on keeping the Toyota on the road, trying to work out what to do next. I was scared as hell. The other car drew level with me and I looked over to see a cop pointing a gun at me and yelling, Pull over. Pull the fuck over, or Ill fucking shoot you. I barely paid any attention to him until Id swallowed the entire amount I had with me, and then slowed down to stop. The Commodore pulled across in front me as I came to a halt, so I had nowhere to go if I tried to take off again. Gerry still hadnt put on his seat belt, and once wed stopped, he tried to run. Two cops came from out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground, wrestling him onto his front and handcuffing him. By that stage I had been dragged from the Toyota by two cops, and thrown, handcuffed, onto the road. A marked cop car pulled to a screeching halt over my upper body. A couple of kicks to the ribs settled me down completely, and then they dragged me to the rear of the marked car and threw me into the backseat. They searched the car from top to bottom, throwing things all over the nature strip. There were residents everywhere; standing out the front of their houses, sipping coffee and chatting while they watched. After about fifteen minutes, one of the detectives came to talk to me. Okay, fuckwit. Wheres the gear. He scowled at me over the top of his glasses, trying to appear intimidating. I dunno what youre talking about, officer. I said. I have to inform you that you are under arrest for possession, use, and trafficking of heroin, and that I hold a search warrant for the premises at Forest Drive, Frankston North. I intend to execute this warrant now. You will accompany us during the search, and then be taken to the station, where you will be processed and charged. Do you understand? He slapped me, more like a woman than the big tough cop he thought he was. Youre fucked, mate. After a little more fruitless searching, they gave up and packed up the Toyota. One of the uniforms got in to drive it to the station
where a more thorough search would take place. Two detectives got in the front of the cop car for the drive back to my place. When we arrived, they dragged me inside and threw me on the couch, still handcuffed. They started to search the place. They tore everything open and emptied stuff all over the floor. They even tipped over the fridge to look behind it. Cmon guys, give us a break and take it easy, will ya? I said. I didnt want Carolyn to come home from college to this Godawful mess. Then it struck me: her mum was organised to pick up the kids from school and bring them home. Shit! I had to let Carolyn know what was happening. The cops had emptied both the bedroom drawers, hundreds of new and used syringes scattered all over. There was the bong kicked over in the lounge. The whole house was filthy, and on top of the coffee table was our copy of the search warrant, with Search for drugs Heroin , proceeds of crime, and drug paraphernalia highlighted on the front. I was sweating like crazy, worried theyd find something Id stashed and forgotten about. Despite the rather aggressive search, they found nothing at the house. It was all in my stomach. After they finished tossing the house, they took me back to the station. All I could think was, What now? Prison? I was in some deep shit. The divvy van pulled around the back of the cop shop. We pulled up outside the rear door. Two cops opened the back and dragged me out by the jacket. When we got inside the station, they threw me into a small interview room and took off the handcuffs. Hey, boys...what about my phone call? It was as if I hadnt even spoken. As they left the room, I massaged my wrists to try to get some circulation going. The door swung shut with a thud. I was alone, and all I could think about was how sick I was starting to feel. I knew I had enough in my stomach to keep me comfortable, if I had a chance to get to it. I was sure the cops in the car had seen me swallowing it, but nothing had been said. I
could almost feel it in there. If only Id had time to unwrap one of the deals before swallowing, Id be feeling great by now. I waited nearly two hours before anyone came to see me. Lucky I had gone to the dunny before I left to meet up with Gerry, else I might have had to take a piss in the corner of the interview room. The sound of a key in the door made me look up. The door opened and the two detectives that had arrested me walked inside, wheeling in a tape deck on a trolley. Gday Joe. Hows things? The taller of the two spoke first. He had a heavy build, with dark hair parted neatly on the right and blackheads all over his nose. His partner was a couple of inches shorter but just as stocky, with light red hair and a jowly, pig-like face. He looked irritated. I looked at both of them from my side of the table, and didnt say a word. Wheres the fuckin gear, cunt? Piggy didnt seem one for small talk. What you talkin bout, Willis? I grinned at Piggy, amused to see him grow even redder at my sarcastic tone. And where the fuck is my phone call? Blackhead answered me. Youre not in America, Joe. But we can be nice. Youll get a phone call soon enough. Just answer a few questions and well get straight to it. I aint saying a fucking thing until I can call the missus and organise to get the mess at home cleaned up before the kids get there. And thats fucking it. I crossed my arms and shut my mouth. Blackhead looked at Piggy and turned back to me. Fine, Joe. But after this you talk to us, okay? They both got up and opened the door, gesturing me out into the corridor where a couple of phones hung on the wall. I called Carolyns mobile. Hello? Her voice sounded subdued, so she must have been in class. Its me. Fuckin cops grabbed me. Im in the jack-shop. You need to get home and clean up before your mum gets there with the kids. What? Serious? Carolyn sounded shocked, but it sank in soon
enough and she told me she would leave class and go straight home. I asked her to bring me up a change of clothes, some ciggies and a toothbrush, told her I loved her and then hung up. Blackhead and Piggy took me back to the interview room and sat me down, drawing up their own chairs on the other side of the table. Piggy reached over and switched on the tape decks. Blackhead shuffled a manila folder full of paper open onto the desk. We know you use smack, and we know you sell it. Make it easy on yourself and tell us all about it. I want a lawyer. I know how you guys force people to confess to shit they never did. That was it. My version of the no comment interview. Piggy slammed his fists to the table, shaking it in the brackets that bolted it to the floor. You fucking cunt. We gave you a phone call. Now you pull this shit? Blackhead was the more reasonable one. Weve been watching you for a while now, Joe. He stood up and walked around the table. When you were dealing on the street down near the train station we even got a plainclothes officer to buy some smack from you. We have the lab results here on what you sold us, and that by itself is enough to put you away. He leaned over a bit and stared at me. Fuckin hell, I thought. But then you moved up in the world, didnt ya. You started selling to the street dealers. He grabbed my chair and leaned in even further. We have a statement from one of your regulars that you supply him with heroin on a daily basis. How much have you been selling lately? he asked. About half an ounce a day, we reckon. Come on, we know whats really going on, so dont try to fuck with us. He walked back around the table and sat back down. I just stared straight ahead, silent. I was breathless and sweating hard. I knew I was fucked, but I also knew I might get off a bit easier if I kept my mouth shut. I was scared to go to jail, but I knew it was likely thats where Id end up.
Piggy leaned forward, his breath like dog shit. You can help us, and you along with it, or we can fuck you so hard youll never walk right again. I had to keep up a brave front, or these guys would walk all over me. I leaned even closer into him. I didnt know you cared, Piggy. I hope you do reach around at least? He leant over the table and grabbed me by the throat, but Blackhead pulled him back. Weve got this cunt any way you look at it, Boss. Dont let him get to you, he said. The other guy we grabbed has already talked. I shuddered a little at this, knowing that there was little loyalty between crims these days. Most would give you up in a second to get out of a charge. Piggy looked at me with barely concealed hatred. Youre fucked, cunt. Fucked! He got up and stormed out. Blackhead turned off the tape recorders. He turned to me. You shouldnt rile him up, son. Its no good for his blood pressure. Blackhead left, and I settled back into the chair, trying not to think about anything at all. It worked, and I think I dozed off. The next thing I knew, the door opened again and Piggy came in by himself. He turned and locked the door behind him. This didnt look good. He had a grin on his face that could only mean trouble. Guess who I just spoke to, cunt. If possible, his grin grew even bigger. I think the Department of Human Services is pretty interested in two kids being brought up in the house of a drug dealer. Bad influence and all that shit. Dont you think? I froze, and felt light-headed. Now I knew why he was grinning. I knew he had me. I couldnt let the DHS get involved. Carolyn had already lost her kids once, and was lucky to get them back. I knew she wouldnt survive losing them again. Get your mate, Piggy, and lets get this over with. The words left a bad taste in my mouth. Where I grew up, you never cooperated with the cops. Never. But I couldnt have DHS involved, or it would get ugly. The department was a joke most of the time, but once they got their teeth into something, they never let go. Piggy left and came straight back with Blackhead and tape decks in tow.
This is an interview between Detective Sergeant Adam Hughes and Giles Braun conducted at Frankston police station on the twelfth of October, 1999. Also present is Detective Constable Emmanuel Barnes. We are conducting an investigation into the use and supply of illicit substances, particularly heroin, in the Frankston area, and we wish to interview you in relation to these matters. You are not obliged to do or say anything unless you wish to. Do you understand this? For another forty minutes the interview went on, with me admitting to everything to keep DHS off our backs. We finally got the part they were most interested in. And where do you get the drugs that you sell, Joe? I buy them, I said. Piggy looked up from the sheet of paper he was reading and glared at me. We know that, smartass, but who do you buy em from? An Asian guy in Carrum. There was no way I was going to give Peter and Mark up to the cops. Blackhead leaned closer to me. And his name is...? He calls himself Michael, but I think his real name is Van or Tran or something. If it looked like I was co-operating, they might believe me. Piggy started to write in his notebook. Can you describe him? I looked over at him and said that he was short, thin and Asian, with black hair and brown eyes. Just a generic description, but it seemed to be enough. Piggy looked happier than I had seen him yet. And what sort of car does he drive? he asked. I thought about it for a moment, trying to decide what was a popular brand of car with Asians, and came up with a blue Nissan, which also seemed to satisfy. Things were going better than I thought. Maybe they would give me bail once they finished charging me. I was formally charged with possessing heroin, trafficking heroin and possessing property being the proceeds of crime. When the interview was finished, they left me in that damn interview room for another four hours before they processed me and took me through to the cells. I was stressed out, and worried about Carolyn at home with no drugs. Id always known Id never get away with this, but now the reality set in. I was pushed through the door, and it slammed behind me.
I knew the five blokes in the cell. All the addicts in the area knew each other. Hell, most were people Id sold to. Before he left, the cop that brought me here asked if I wanted something to eat or drink. I jumped at the offer. By this stage, I was sweating and jumpy. When the food arrived, I took the tray into one of the side rooms and lay down on an unoccupied bed. Ignoring the microwaved toast, I grabbed the small packet of salt, emptied it into the glass of water, and gulped it straight down. I went over to the toilet and stuck my finger down my throat. I started to gag. I was worried it had been too long since Id swallowed the gear but my fear was unfounded. As I chucked up, I saw the coloured bundles of smack hitting the water in the dunny. I scooped them up and rinsed them off, and then stuffed them back into my mouth. Now I felt better: as long as I had some smack, I wasnt as anxious. It was a load off my mind to have the bundles out of my gut and in my mouth. I moved back to the bed and covered myself with the blanket for some privacy. I spat one of the bundles out into my palm and tore it open with my teeth. A small foil-wrapped block fell into my hand. I peeled open the foil and revealed a white rock of heroin inside. I swallowed it whole to avoid the taste as much as possible. In half an hour, I was stoned. Each of the deals was a third of a gram, enough to hold me for half a day, so I had enough to last five days without getting sick. I lay back on the bed, hands under my head, and waited for it to come on. Soon enough, I fell asleep as the drug hit me. I didnt fully understand it at the time, but I was going nowhere fast, and had been for years. This event, the arrest and subsequent prosecution, was to be the one thing that drove home the fact that I needed to change in a big way. Id known deep inside for years that things were getting worse, especially after I started using smack. Once I started dealing, I knew it was only a matter of time before I got busted, but the reality was worse than I could ever have imagined. Id known that if I stayed on my current road to self-destruction, soon enough I would be destroyed, either dead or locked up in prison and wishing I was dead. It seemed the time had come.
Fathers Day & Family Breakdown

Barb Evans
ou just dont know what its like to come home to an empty house. She was gone, everything was gone, the kids, everything, nothing, not a brass razoo was left. The silence after his remark was tangible. The facilitator gently gathered up the fragments of his statement by saying quietly, Perhaps others here have experienced something similar and by implication, gave permission for members of the small group to share their own experiences, or to empathise in the pain of family breakdown. I hadnt thought of it from the mans point of view and, in truth, could have even been the she in his story, except the circumstances were entirely different. Ive never forgotten his words though, and the controlled anguish with which they were expressed. And Fathers Day in Australia and around the globe will continue to be commemorated. Youll note I didnt say celebrated, because for thousands and thousands of households in Australia, the first Sunday in September is not a celebration, or even likely to be. Instead, it has become a time when school councils celebrate the income generated from Fathers Day stalls to purchase items needed for the curriculum or classrooms; the business houses will complete their stock-take, and record sales figures boosted by the late night shopping on the previous Saturday night and Sunday morning excitedly noting the astronomical sales of
socks and jocks, tools and chocolates, and the ever acceptable gift vouchers given with love for Fathers Day. And thats just one side of the story. The other side the thousands of kiddies, teenagers and young adults who will be ferried or transported across the suburbs or even our vast continent for the obligatory Fathers Day or access visit, and who will experience the tensions, angers, recriminations and blame of the occasion. And the cycle is repeated again in reverse - 6 months later - for Mothers Day! But these wry and concerned reflections are simply words, as is the following well-known couplet: Australians all, let us all rejoice, For we are young and free These are the more recent words to our Australian National Anthem which have replaced the original and seemingly outdated or irrelevant God save the Queen which was sung obediently every Monday morning when I was a youngun, almost a lifetime ago. Strange thing about that era though - in those days most kiddies lived with their own Mums and Dads, not somebody else Mum or Dad, or with Mum and her boyfriend, or with Dad and his new partner, and the family splitting up was talked about in whispers behind closed doors. Admittedly the violence and abuse that went on behind those same closed doors wasnt talked about much at all. Do we know the statistics of family break-down? Unless it affects us personally, does it matter to us anyway, or do we just feel helpless in the face of the statistical and physical barrage of its reality? Suffice to say that thousands upon thousands of support workers are now employed to counsel, advise, mediate, support and litigate for and against those who are experiencing family break-down. Further comment would just be words
Tales from a Chinese Laundry or The Cynics Guide to Shanghai.

Suzette Hartwell
magine hurtling down a four lane freeway at 110 km an hour and the gearbox of the taxi you are in suddenly begins to seize and then blows up? That happened to us, during our hour long journey from the airport to our new home on the 15th floor of an apartment complex in downtown Shanghai. The driver just managed to pull over onto a short verge that appeared between the freeway and a new lane entering, otherwise we would have been rear ended by the incessant cars riding our tails very closely! It couldnt have broken down at a better spot. Using up all his English, the driver turned to us and said Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! and then proceeded to ring his employer frantically and loudly in Chinese to proclaim the predicament we found ourselves in. In situations like this I find it better not to worry after all, what could we do? There was no emergency lane to push the car into, so ignoring the blaring horns around us I offered the other passengers and the driver some sweets. After a long ten minutes another taxi arrived to collect us and a tow truck drove in front to drag the hapless vehicle back to the workshop for some long overdue maintenance. This was the beginning of our twelve months sojourn in the Far East. Greg was to work teaching accounting in English at two universities, and I was commencing a Masters of Ancient History. The Chinese are very auspicious in their outlook I am told
that prosperity, long life and happiness are the three goals in life and in that order. Personally I prefer good health, serenity and enough money to not worry about leaving the heater on as my choice! But then my culture goes back 200 years compared to the 5000 we are living in now. So here we are in our apartment. It is in a flash area of Shanghai, has two bathrooms, two bedrooms and a combined kitchen, dining and lounge room. Its the size of a small twobedroom flat, has two gas rings and a microwave to cook in and 66 TV channels, 64 in Chinese. The French shopping centres Carrefour supermarket is a brisk twenty minute walk from the Putuo district where we live. It boasts, on its outer wall, the largest Trompe-loeil in the world, at 5000 square metres. Here in this massive store it appears that the loudest wins. Walking past shampoos and the like, your ears are frequently assaulted by TV screens that scream for your attention to sell the latest and greatest gadget, riotous customers complaining about the colour of soap or something, staff that seem to just appear at your elbow and suggest to you what brand to select and what price to pay, speaking in Chinglish or in their native dialect, and strangers who blatantly stop and stare at the foreign devils. Phew. I think it will take me a while to create a routine that allows me to feel comfortable and relaxed. I am reminded of the scene in the movie Crocodile Dundee where the character Mick Dundee causes a stir in the crowd as he walks down a typical American street and attempts to say hello to everyone, when Greg steps out in 14 degree weather wearing shorts! Chinese stare blatantly or raise their eyebrows at this foreign devil, fearless or foolish against the cold while they wrapped themselves up in the obligatory parka. Quizzical looks, sniggers and stares are the order of the day. I catch the eye of a few of the Chinese; a friendly smile speaks volumes. Some Chinese women have a curious habit of wearing pyjamas in the street as they go about their daily business. Personally I think it is too early for bed! Our Chinese contact confirms that indeed, the girls are wearing PJs and just shrugs her shoulders and smiles.
So it goes to show that clothing habits can be unusual to both cultures. In a city 120km x 120km square with the population of Australia squeezed into it, it is not surprising to see swathes of people as black-headed ants. And soldier ants, and red ants. I just hope that they dont view Greg and I as white ants!
Shanghai Shuffle
Normally, when I go for a walk I have a strong stride and a purpose in mind. Here in the streets of Shanghai, dodging other pedestrians, bikes, motor cycles, cars and buses and the incessant broken and uneven footpaths, I find myself doing the Shanghai Shuffle a slow and uneven step that is accompanied with a look of resignation on the face. An Aussie friend who has lived here for five years summed up living in China well there are China days where things will not go according to plan and you either accept it or you dont. And if you dont then you wont cope. Ive had a lot of China days in the past week but each day some aspects do get better, if even for a quick stride in a comparatively straight and even stretch of footpath. There is a pecking order to the way one crosses the street and here the biggest is the one that wins no question. Firstly buses have the right of way, then cars, motorcycles and push bikes, then the hapless pedestrian, and that is when using the designated crossings and walking with the green light. Even when one is given the green crossing symbol, its necessary to look left, right, in front and what we call the other left the side where you wouldnt imagine someone to be coming up from and gives you a bit of a fright. On the first evening we arrived there was a loud explosion from the ground outside, quickly followed by many others and it gave us a start. Things quickly went mental outside and I thought I may have been in the Gaza strip on a bad day! Then we realised it was fireworks, set up to scare away evil spirits for the New Year celebrations. That was Monday, repeated daily and at 7am today, Saturday, they started again. Its been a long week! I would have
thought that a sleep in from the working week would be in order but obviously spirits never sleep so why should we? It is now 8pm and the crackers have started again. Hmm, I might suggest some double glazed windows to the town planners for the next city block but perhaps there are so many crackers for the benefit of the deaf! On our daily and very long walks we occasionally come across beggars and sadly, blind men who sit on steps and will play the er-hu (pronounced ah-huah I believe) for a donation. In one way it is better that they are blind, not seeing the look of disdain or indifference that far too many people give them as they pass by. I cannot help but be moved to tears at times when their heads turn at the sound of a coin clinking in their jar and in a dignified way they respond with a smile or a few soft words and commence playing this ancient string instrument. Why are they reduced to sitting on cold steps and hoping for enough money for the next meal? Were they Red Guards in the past? What does it matter now? I know that we simply cant help everyone but there must be a solution somewhere. What if we gathered these men, formed an orchestra, created a DVD of their music and filmed a documentary of their life, not unlike The Big Issues success of the same back in Oz? (probably other countries as well). This would be a start but I suspect that it would take a shift in cultural attitudes and another generation of Westernisation to even scratch the surface. I wont ever forget the man with no hands who sat near a KFC restaurant. He was so thrilled with the coin I threw in his tin, but how would he pick it up? I had trouble swallowing the fish burger as I thought of him and his lot, as we sat a short 20 meters from each other, I in an overheated restaurant and he in the cold. Its been one of those China days.
Ill take dumplings with that

It should be a simple matter when one is hungry and in a country where the language is not familiar just point to a picture of food and hold your fingers up to indicate how many you want. Or so we
thought. We entered a building that looked like a homeless mens shelter and the tables were mostly full. Good sign, we thought. If the locals eat here then it must be okay. As usual, nothing on the menu for a vegetarian but we did manage to have the language reinforcements with us, a book that said in Chinese What dishes are not cooked with pork/chicken/beef? When the girls at the desk read this, they called over the chef who laughed his head off. Others gathered around, customers included and joined in the mirth yeah, I know, someone who doesnt eat meat must be poor. Yep, Ive heard that before and Im over it. They probably wondered how a Westerner could be poor? So I just joined in the laugh and looked over their shoulders for the pictures of food. After much banter they came up with a solution watery soup with plain noodles and a couple of bits of bok choy followed by a plate of thin, plain tofu strips. Thrilling. Oh, and they threw in a side dish of shredded cucumber, or something like that. And dipping sauce, for some reason. For the carnivore in Greg though, the world was his oyster. Rows of pictures of meat in all shapes and colours adorned the counter. He spied some dumplings - some pork, some beef. Confidently he held up four fingers yep, four of them and four of them. Oh, and that beef in a pot as well. The girls at the desk checked and double checked as Greg made a big show of rubbing his belly to show how hungry he was. They laughed, they knew what was coming. Firstly a plate arrived with four large dumplings and Greg tucked into them, stabbing them with chopsticks and peeling off a lot of the batter I dont want to get fat. Then a wicker steam basket arrived, revealing six small dumplings inside. They must have mucked up the order, we thought. Then another three baskets arrived. But hang on, if there are six dumplings in the top of this wicker basket, and theres another three baskets...! He wasnt that hungry! How could they have mistaken four of each (meaning eight altogether), for four baskets of six! And then the beef dish arrived! Then it was our turn to laugh at it all. It turned put Greg had inadvertently ordered four serves of each, which automatically had six dumplings to a basket.
His entire meal only cost 31 Yuan, or about $6. Worth paying that for the laugh. Greg managed to get through about ten dumplings and all of the beef, rubbing his belly on the way out, complaining hed eaten too much! At least there was one satisfied customer. We decided to walk off the meal and invest in a bit of retail therapy. We went into an interesting store that boasted four stories of clothes and I think it was run by the Japanese, given that some poor sod standing at the bottom of the escalators made a show of bowing when people stepped on. Didnt bow to us though, I noticed. I guess we didnt count. Or she was taking a break by staring numbly at nothing. Id be bored stiff too, doing that. Up in the mens section we were greeted by a young lad who spoke pretty good English and he showed a genuine interest in helping Greg find a coat. Easier said than done in a country that caters for small hips. But there are plenty of larger people around, where do they shop? Putting on a trendy black coat with detailed tailoring, it fitted everywhere on Greg but the stomach region. Our assistant didnt miss this and said Greg - let your stomach GO! In typical blunt Chinese expression he added Have you ever considered losing weight? Well, what can you say to that but laugh? He likes dumplings, I told him. Plenty of them. Wanting to learn more about a person who so unashamedly spoke his mind, I asked him about his career aspirations. You know, I am talented. I have a passion for what colours suit people. Also, I am talented. I speak English and a little French. I just shook my head and smiled at this one man show and wished him continued success. With small-hipped clients.
Footpath Theatre
On one of our recent local sojourns we noticed a series of framed revolutionary posters from the 1930s and 1940s strung up along the front of a shop, displaying the bright shining faces of youth and the promise of a new life under the glorious rule of communism. Unfortunately they werent for sale, rather they formed the backdrop to a street theatre with a portable screen and 16 ml
film projector on the footpath and an eager audience of around thirty people sitting ready and waiting on their fold-up chairs. A footpath entrepreneur waited for hungry customers by his cart which held a selection of delicacies such as hotdogs on a stick, cold tofu squares and take-away noodles in small plastic bags. We laowais (local term for all high nose hairy foreigners) stood at the back and watched a rather faded assortment of out-takes, stern looking Red Army guards and back-slapping politicians from the glory days of Chinas past. A small loudspeaker played revolutionary music on the footpath as an elderly lady in a wheelchair looked at the screen impassively, perhaps thinking of The Long March she may have participated in all those years ago as a young girl. I glanced at the passing traffic and noticed a young Chinese girl of around six, wearing the latest Barbie pink outfit and sparkly sandshoes with matching hair band. She looked quite bourgeois compared to the audience in their faded grey clothes and matching expressions. A typical contrast for a country such as this that has shanty buildings within spitting distance of magnificent high rises. Taking our leave we moved on from this theatre in a westerly direction, a lure for modern day China following closely behind.
Volcanoes I have loved

Anna Macgowan
ith the eruption in 2010 of Eyjafjallajokull in Iceland I was reminded of my fascination for volcanoes. In particular, volcanoes I have felt beneath my feet. The first memory I have of any volcano is of grainy black and white television footage on the news when Sertsey appeared from the ocean off Iceland in November, 1963. It is the first time I remember finding the news interesting. I was a small child as news bulletins were covering the impact of the assassination of President Kennedy. I was fascinated by Surtseys appearance from the ocean, seemingly out of nowhere. Since that time whenever I found a story or article on volcanoes I would devour it. Even going to the dentist was bearable because of the National Geographic magazines in the waiting room. When I was a teenager our family went to Bali and I got to see my first real live volcano. I recall my family wanting to move on and I wanted to stay, just looking at it. And this was a dormant one, still very beautiful. On that trip we also visited Toba, a dormant volcano south of Medan in Northern Sumatra. The caldera of Toba is now a lake which is 85 x 30 km in size. I recall a beautifully peaceful lake. Now I really was hooked. In 1980 the eruption of Mt St Helens, south east of Seattle in the United States caught my eye. One thing that particularly interested me about Mt St Helens was that it was considered dormant until just before it erupted in May 1980. The only clue
that it was waking up was a series of earthquakes starting in March of that year. Then scientists noticed a bulge on the northern slope, which blew out spectacularly on May 18th. And it was spectacular! I recall watching every news bulletin that I could over the couple of weeks that it was performing. I was literally sitting in front of the television watching the news from the 5pm on Channel 0 (as it was, now Channel 10), then at 6pm on Channels 7 and 9, a real channel switch, before the 7pm ABC news. This was on our relatively new colour television set which made it even more dramatic. By this time I had completed a Science degree and I was also interested in the details and the science rather than just the raw beauty and power of the volcanoes I was looking at. My love and fascination with volcanoes was sealed. When I went to visit my father in Indonesia in 1983 he was working there at the time- I discovered that he also shared my fascination with volcanoes. When he met me in Djakarta on the drive to the hotel he said words to the effect, I hope you dont mind I have booked a weekend cabin at a resort on the Sunda Strait and on Sunday we are booked to go to Krakatoa. Did I mind? Not likely. After a wonderful couple of days together we drove to a village, I believe it was Labuhan, on the Sunda Strait. We could hear rumblings coming from over the sea, and the waves lapped strangely - they were not regular, apparently a characteristic of the waters around Krakatoa. Early on the Sunday morning we boarded a boat and after about an hour we saw an island in the distance, Krakatoa itself. The remnants of the 1883 eruption are now three islands surrounding a new island, Anak Krakatau - or Son of Krakatoa. Anak Krakatau first appeared above the surface in the mid1950s in the middle of the 1883 crater and has been erupting and growing continuously since then. The boat moored close to Anak Krakatau and we climbed up to the rim of the crater, one of the most dangerous and exciting
things I have ever done, and great fun. Since then, I have visited a number of other volcanoes around the world. I have climbed on or flown over Taal in the Philippines south of Manila, Kilauea on the Big Island of Hawaii and Mt St Helens in Washington State as well as Mt Etna on a memorable trip in 2001. I have also visited the volcanic areas of Yellowstone in Wyoming and Rotarua in New Zealand. The quietest volcano I have visited is the dormant crater of Mt Gambier in South Australia. Still beautiful after all these years, its last eruption is believed to have been around 2900BC. Why do I love them? Where do I start? I find them beautiful. They are dramatic. They are often located in isolated parts of the world where the journey to them is nearly as wonderful as the volcano themselves. They are powerful beyond measure. They are unpredictable. I could go on. Since Eyjafjallajokull in Iceland erupted in 2010 my love for volcanoes has been rekindled and the only question is What volcano do I visit next? *** Apart from my own fascination with volcanoes, they have had an impact on our planet. From earliest times volcanic eruptions have caused death and disruption on a wide scale, even threatening the survival of Homo Sapiens as a species. Several eruptions in prehistory led to rapid climate-change, and through the direct physical impacts of the eruptions themselves have annihilated entire populations such as those at Toba in Indonesia, and Vesuvius and Santorini in the Mediterranean. The physical effects of eruptions are now less likely to cause such widespread deaths because geologists are able to forecast eruptions with some accuracy and populations can be rapidly moved away from the direct effects of a volcano. However, the economic damage caused by large eruptions in sensitive areas may still cause enormous destruction and significant loss of life indirectly through the collapse of regional or even global economies. The Toba supereruption that occurred between 69,000 and 77,000 years ago in Indonesia is recognized as one of the earths
largest known eruptions. It resulted in the planet plunging into a six to ten year volcanic winter, and almost wiping out the worlds human population, which was reduced to about ten thousand, and threatening the viability of the species. The eruption of Mt Vesuvius in 79AD in Italy wiped out the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. It is not known how many people were killed by the eruption although more than two thousand is the accepted figure. Santorini in the Mediterranean erupted 3,600 years ago in 1600BC and buried the city of Akriteri. It expelled 61 km of material into the Earths atmosphere, and is believed to have wiped out the Minoan civilization. In all these eruptions, loss of life is recognised to have been caused as a result of the physical effects of the blast, the heat, lava flows and ash-falls. There is evidence of deaths from these causes around most volcanic eruptions studied in prehistory and in more recent times. Recently the eruptions of Mt St Helens and Pinatubo have resulted in little loss of life. The eruption of Mt St Helens in May 1980 resulted in the deaths of fifty-seven people and thousands of animals. Hundreds of square miles were reduced to wasteland, causing over a billion US dollars in damage. The eruption at Mt Pinatubo in 1990 was ten times the size of Mt St Helens and was significant on the scale of volcanic eruptions. Over eight hundred people were killed by the eruption which caused many more deaths in the following months, mainly from the disruption to the health care in the region. However the effects were mitigated by the use modern scientific methods. The governments of the Philippines and the United States were able to evacuate the large numbers of people, including from the Clarke Air Base, that would otherwise have been more severely affected by such an eruption in the past. The scale of the Pinatubo eruption was such that there was a decrease in global temperatures of about 0.4C. In total, three hundred and sixty four communities and 2.1 million people were affected by the eruption, with livelihoods and houses being damaged or destroyed. More than eighty five thousand houses were
either completely destroyed or damaged. The estimated cost of repairing the damage to infrastructure was 3.8 billion pesos. The eruption did not, however, have a significant impact on global food production. From this we can see that if the eruptions of Vesuvius and Santorini had occurred today the impact could be very different. Despite the reduction of damage and loss of life at Pinatubo because of the forecasting and evacuation, any eruption of volcanoes in sensitive areas like Europe are likely to cause massive disruption to the regions economies with significant disruption to trade, travel , power generation and food production and distribution. Recently, the eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull in Iceland in 2010 triggered widespread disruption to economies around the world. The most direct casualty of the volcanic ash was the airline industry. The International Air Transport Association (IATA) estimated that airlines collectively lost 130m per day in revenue. Other transport industries benefitted, as passengers looked for alternatives to flying. Though this eruption was small on a global scale, if there was a larger eruption the disruption could be massive. One reason for the shutdown of the airline industry was an incident in June, 1982 where a British Airways flight was affected by ash from a volcanic eruption of over Indonesia. On this flight the engines shut down as they were affected by the ash cloud and the aircraft went into freefall before the pilots were able to restart some engines and make an emergency landing. The aircraft required extensive repairs. This and similar incidents have made the airline industry very careful when volcanic eruptions are reported. The last catastrophic eruption in Europe was the eruption of the Laki Fissure in Iceland over eight months in 1783-1784. It killed over fifty percent of Icelands livestock, leading to the deaths of approximately twenty-five percent of the population. This eruption and its aftermath has been estimated to have killed over six million people globally, making it the deadliest volcanic
eruption in recorded history. The drop in temperatures caused crop failures in Europe, droughts in India, and Japans worst famine. At that time the global population was estimated to have been around 982 million, meaning that around 0.6% of the global population would have died as a result of the eruption. This is important because of the connection between Eyjafjallajokull and nearby Katla, 30km to the north east. Eyjafjallajkull has had three eruptions in recorded history, in 920, 1612, and 1821-1823, and each has preceded an eruption of Katla within two years. While the duration of the earlier eruptions is not known, Katla is about five times the size of Eyjafjallajokull. If the predicted eruption of Katla occurs in the next year or so there could be major economic and climate effects. The potential impact of a major volcanic eruption in Europe is unknown. While geologists will give us the warnings and there is unlikely to be widespread physical impacts, the economic impacts are less able to be predicted. In the short term the Eyjafjallajokull volcano had significant economic impacts; a larger, and longer, eruption with the resulting economic impact can only be speculated. What we do know is that previous eruptions have caused crops failures leading to famine and widespread deaths. There would still be the damage to the food supplies in Europe, Asia and North America leading to widespread crop failure and starvation of farm animals. There is also the potential for loss of power and transport. This could potentially lead to enormous loss of life and even the collapse of some economies. The current global population is estimated as being 7.06 billion as at 17 August, 2012. If the predicted eruption of Katla was on the same scale as that of the Laki Fissure in 1783-1784 and 0.6% of the global population was killed then this would result in the deaths of over 4 million people. In the short term there would be loss of air transport and food shortages. In the medium to long term there would be major crop losses and famine throughout Europe and potentially as far away as China and North America. The impact on satellite communication and the internet is yet to be determined. How
long these effects would last and what the economic impacts would be are still under discussion. Does the world have enough food production and reserves to feed those people affected? And how would the food get to them? Would Europe be able to recover in the short to medium term or would it be crippled as by World War II and need a Marshall Plan. Whatever the outcome, the consequences of a major volcanic eruption affecting the Northern Hemisphere would be catastrophic and cause major physical and economic impacts for many years.
Anna Macgowan has a Science Degree and a lifelong interest in volcanoes.
A divine feeling of love

Gena McLean
any a wise philosopher has encouraged us to live like theres no tomorrow; to make the most of every day every moment. A little anxious about what to write for my last column, I decided to apply this age-old wisdom to my present-day dilemma. What if this was my last chance to write ever? What would I want to say? What would I want my message to be? Desperate to secure a topic so that I might sleep that night, I grabbed my notebook, a pencil, and the kids, and walked down to our friends place for a swim in their pool. A quick dip was just what I needed to clear my head before getting back to business. I emerged from the cool water somewhat calmer, but my mind was still way too crowded. A sun lounge beckoned, and I accepted. Surely, a little respite would do the trick. As I lowered myself, I noticed a dead leaf had come to rest on the chair. I was just about to casually cast it away when I realised it wasnt just any old leaf. It was the shape of a love heart. Goosebumps! Inspiration is everywhere, if were open to seeing it, and here was mine, this divine leaf, inviting me to write about my favourite verb: love. Surely it was a sign? *** By the next morning, doubt had crept in. Eager to write something I dressed hastily, and with an any old thing will do attitude, grabbed a screwed up t-shirt from the abyss that is my wardrobe. There to greet me in the bathroom mirror were a dozen silver
love hearts that adorned the front of my t-shirt; a t-shirt I hadnt worn since last summer. Gena, I thought, how many signs do you need before accepting the bleeding obvious? Just the day before, Id asked my son to change my ringtone for me (because Im a little too dumb for my Smartphone). He randomly assigned a song from my playlist and the next thing I heard was Love, love love... and the uplifting melody that is The Beatles All you need is love. And then today, still anxious over my choice to write about love, I emailed these words to my good friend Eddie, whose comforting reply suggested I was on the right track. He also said that he had something for me that would ease my mind about this weeks column. His mystery gift was wrapped in an unassuming brown paper bag. Inside was a gorgeous, hand-crafted wooden block, the size of a matchbox, with four letters printed on one side L O V E. Note to self: topic of column no longer a dilemma. *** Love. Its more than a feeling; its a doing, and a way of being. We sing about it, write about it, talk about it, cry about it, lose sleep over it, and cant live without it. Mother Teresa said, There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than for bread. So, if I was to live, as the sages advised, like this was my last day on earth, I know what I would do. I would spend it with my nearest and dearest family and friends. I would hug them and love them and thank them for enriching my life. LOL Gena (and I mean lots of love!)
Non or not?
Gena McLean
his is a piece of non-fiction ... or is it? Im making it up, but its real. What I mean is, Im making up what Im saying as I go. But if thats the case then maybe this is actually a piece of fiction, except that in all honesty, I am, at this very moment, sitting at my desk, writing these words...and thats the truth. So it cant be fiction, can it? The fact is Im not really making the words up; theyve been around for years, but I am choosing what words to put where, which I guess means that Im being creative, so maybe this is fiction. I am using my imagination, but its actually happening! Non-fiction is the opposite of fiction: its not fiction its based on fact so maybe this is what youd call non-fiction-fiction. But doesnt fiction mean not true? And this is true its not makebelieve or fake. I think its time I went to the source Wikipedia. While searching for the truth on fiction, I came across some very helpful advice that, as students of non-fiction, we could all take on board. Wikipedia says that Simplicity, clarity and directness are some of the most important considerations when producing non-fiction. As I read back over my introductory paragraph, I have the sinking feeling that there is nothing simple, clear or direct about my words, and conclude they must be fiction. But Im not lying! I was, at 9:42am on Monday the 23rd of July, writing this piece for class on Tuesday. And its true: I was struggling with the notion of non-fiction. Just because it was a little confusing, cluttered and complicated in the beginning doesnt mean its fiction though, does it?
I read on and discover yet another very helpful piece of advice from Wikipedia on the writing of non-fiction: The numerous literary and creative devices used within fiction are generally thought inappropriate for use in non-fiction. Oops! If this means not using puns, similes, irony or analogies I think I may have been inappropriate ... sorry Tom. Right, so from now on, no alliteration, assonance or aphorisms, and no matter what, do not use metaphors, symbolism, or any visual imagery that might help the reader to connect with or better understand the point you are trying to make. In other words, do your best to be bland, dull, dreary and boring. There is to be no creativity or imagination used when writing non-fiction; do not engage with your readers and provide them with interesting and absorbing words that add richness and depth because that really is terribly inappropriate ... according to Wikipedia. *** Now when I think of non-fiction, I think, non-interesting, nonfun, non-stimulating. Hmm, maybe I should stick to writing creative non-fiction, that way I can be imaginative with my facts. But hang on, isnt that fiction? (Please note: this is a true account of what actually happened.)
Reference Non-fiction (n.d.) Wikipedia Retrieved on 20th July 2012 from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Non-fiction
I had a dream one night

Lorraine McMahon
he Aboriginal Elder we had gone to see asked me How come you have a photo of my Grannie Maggie? Because thats my Grandpa John on her knee. I replied. It was a very emotional moment after my years of searching for the aboriginal connection I knew was there. I guess it was not surprising that a response was triggered from my dream world that night. But the dream that came, really caused me to wonder just how connected all the events in our lives really are. *** The tall Aboriginal woman appeared to skim across the paddocks, a little pale faced boy on her hip and a young darkskinned girl trotting behind her. She skimmed smoothly over the paddocks, searching, searching for some-one among the tall gum trees. Shes here somewhere. I know. I can feel her so close, she muttered. The little white boy on her hip said, I look too Mamma, I help you find her. The young black girl trotted behind them, silent as usual. Their pace quickened as they spotted the young girl sound asleep under a huge old gum tree. *** The young white girl had woken that morning and knew that she had had enough. Enough was enough she had tried and tried to fit somewhere in the world she found herself in. That morning she just got out of bed, got dressed and walked out the front door, letting it slam behind her as she walked down the front
path of the little house in Parkville near Melbourne University where she worked. She got on the first tram heading north, then got off and started walking north. They were in the paddocks, north of Melbourne, near the old brick structure at Craigieburn. The sun was high in the sky and the workmen working on the highway couldnt see anything too unusual. They had noticed the young white girl who had walked past earlier and curled up under the big gum tree. They thought it was unusual and commented on what she might be up to, but they couldnt see the aboriginal woman and her children they were in a different time and dimension to the one the workmen were in. *** Aha there she is..I knew shed follow my promptings and here she is. There was such wonderful excitement as the young girl woke up. What a reunion much hugging and kissing and laughing together. The young girl was overcome with joy as she rolled on the thick green grass with the little girl and bounced the baby boy high in the air. The beautiful Aboriginal mother sat and smiled lovingly at them all as they played together in the sunshine. Up above the wind blew playfully through the long branches of the huge gum tree. After a while she rose to her feet and said Its time for us all to go home, and off she strode across the paddocks with the baby boy on her hip and the little dark girl trotting closely behind. *** The young girl went back to sleep under the tree she had a different journey to go on before she would meet up with her Aboriginal family again. It was to take over another 40 years, but the direction had been set, and when the time was right, it would happen. Was it a dream, or did the dream trigger a memory of a reunion that really did happen all those years ago under the old gum tree?
The Growth of a Tree

Lorraine McMahon
rowing a tree isnt difficult, or at least it shouldnt be. You plant it, make sure its in good soil and got enough water, and it grows. Just as a child is born, has a loving environment and enough food and, so too, she grows. But sometimes things can go wrong. A tree can grow strongly and well for a time then be attacked. It can be axed and chopped, and cut with a saw until not much is left. Just the bark stands, attached to the roots. It is beautiful bark, but oh so fragile. No branches can grow but, hidden away under the ground, the roots still grow, searching and searching, always searching for sustenance to help keep her alive. This is the girl who woke up one morning and decided, enough is enough. Im out of here. On to a tram, along Royal Parade right through Maggie with Annie and John to the terminus. Then
heading north walking and walking around 20 kms, until, near Cragieburn she got tired and walked across a paddock, curled up under a huge old gum tree and went to sleep. Wake up come on its time to wake up. A couple of men working on the road had watched her walking along the highway then cross the paddock to lie under the huge old gum tree. Something must have looked a bit unusual, because, after a time they came across the paddock to see what she was doing. When she awoke, she had no idea who she was, where she was, or how she got to the gum tree. The men walked her to a nearby house, and she was sat in a corner of the lounge room, while the bewildered owner rang the police. Two little children were warned to stay away from her, and kept peeping at her through the glass sliding door. Russell Street Police Station reported that there had been a young woman answering to that description reported missing that morning. She had failed to come in to her job at Melbourne University, or meet her friend for morning coffee. Her flat mate was contacted and said shed been gone when she got up that morning. She then rang the girls parents in Hamilton, who didnt know what was going on. They then rang the police. The police car arrived at the house in Cragieburn and the girl was bundled in. On arrival at Russell Street, as they walked her in to the station, one of the Officers wished her luck in dealing with her father. In a daze, the girl sat huddled and frightened in a chair, no idea what was going on. Her flat mate walked in and hugged her. The girl clung to her; she was the only thing she knew. Then her parents arrived, and she was moved to the Royal Melbourne Hospital. No one quite knew what to make of it all. As people came to see her, she knew who they were, but everything else in her life was a complete blank. Again she was bundled off, this time to a Psychiatric hospital, but no-one really knew what was going on. They didnt know that shed tried so hard to fit the life her parents wanted for her. All her life shed made her body do what they wanted. She could never be the son her farming father
expected his firstborn to be, but in every other aspect, in those early days, they were proud of what she learned to do. From being toilet trained at six months to saying nursery rhymes before she was two, her parents were told this was a clever girl. This tree was beginning to flourish. Then she began to develop her own personality and wanted to do things her way. Quite a normal development all children go through, but not in this family. The beltings started in an attempt to keep her doing what they expected. Then they got a new idea, turn the tap on, and hold her head under the running water until she gave in to save her life. She was getting out of here. Time and time again she tried to walk to her Grandmas. Her parents were so embarrassed. Over and over they had to get neighbors to help find her as she walked along the Broken Creek. One day her father hid and watched her. Shed just got into trouble with her mother for some little thing, and off she marched down the back garden. Curious now, he watched her go purposefully straight to a picket in the wooden fence, swing it around, climb through and she was free. But never again, that picket was very smartly nailed into place and she was trapped. For her growing-up years she was caught. Axed and chopped until she could be controlled by a look. She couldnt walk away any more, but she could read. Two lives began then, the quiet, clean little girl who tried so hard to please and the one who escaped as often as she could. She had books hidden everywhere, even down in the chook house. In her world she was really just a shell. Just the bark of the tree, the inside was gone, hacked and chopped; any sign of her spirit must be belted away. But her roots were still there, hidden and growing to keep her alive. Did you write this essay? her teacher demanded. Mum helped me, the girl quietly answered. I dont want what your mother thinks, I want what you think, the teacher yelled as he thumped the book down. Very strange, the girl pondered, why wouldnt he want what Mum thought? And so the long years flowed on. This shell of a girl became expert at pleasing; she learnt to blend with whatever they
wanted. Except for her reading, she couldnt let that go, and that made her successful at school. She was sent to MLC as a boarder and on to year twelve she sailed, loving the learning, still loving the books. The Year 12 results came out in the paper, she couldnt find her literature mark and was quite distraught until her friend rang and told her to look in the Honors section. But nobody cared, that wasnt important, she just had to marry the boy down the road. You may think youre clever, but youve no common sense. Cant you see the floor needs scrubbing? What will she do, the girl thought as she scrubbed? Law was suggested by the teacher from school. A girl doing Law - ridiculous! her father exploded. So nursing it was and off the girl went. *** Then one Saturday night at the Kilmore dance her world was to change. An Irishman came, and asked her to dance. She was free, she was free she felt, as they whirled round the hall. Some connection was made that was strong, oh so strong. Suddenly she was living; she was alive at long last. That Irishman from Strath Creek. No way, they exploded. Hes Catholic, and just a bushman. We didnt spend our money on your education to have you end up with someone like him. What could she do? Her very sheltered upbringing had not prepared her for the life and death of nursing and she was way out of her depth. She got a job as a library assistant in Melbourne and studied and became a Childrens Librarian. Many boyfriends came and went but no connection anywhere like the Irishman. Then, to her parents absolute horror, they started going out seriously. This has to stop. Well find a way. The parents sold their farm and moved across the state. In those days 19 year old country girls did as the parents said. The goodbye was so painful she felt like her insides were being ripped out. If you love her, youll never see her again, The Irishman was told as they drove off to the west. She had a good job as the Childrens Librarian and became very well known for the work that she did. More boyfriends
came and went, her young sisters were married and the pressure was on. Day after day she felt so alone. You must be married they said youre being too picky. A boy from the church, hes got a large farm. No way she decided, and off she went on the train. Back to Melbourne, a job in the Law Library at Melbourne University and a flat with a friend quite close by. She earned good money, dressed well and learnt skiing. For two years she tried, but it was oh so hard. She only had the shell of herself and wasnt up to living the changes of Melbourne society in the 1960s. So one morning she woke up and she thought, Enough is enough Ill walk to Strath Creek. There had been no contact with the Irishman for over four years, but still she walked, and she walked till she slept by her tree. The sun was high in the sky when the workmen woke her up. The police were looking for her and back to Melbourne she was taken. In the hospital she talked and she talked. The Doctors told her she must be true to herself and sent her back to her parents home. Ridiculous, what are they talking about? We know what is best the parents were sure. But the girl stayed in bed, no more would she move. The days turned into weeks and still she just lay. The parents got desperate; this did not fit their style at all. The neighbors were talking as they visited their flash house. She must be moved on, there was only one thing left. Early one morning the mother drove to Strath Creek. The Irishman was just leaving for work, in shorts and unshaven, he would have looked quite a sight. The mother explained that the girl was not well, then got in her car and drove back to her home. As quick as a flash, the Irishman went back in his house, had a shave and got into his suit. That morning the sheep to be shorn were left in the shed. Into her room he strode with a smile, a kiss and a hug and, Lets get out of here. They walked up the paddock and never looked back. All day they talked and made up for lost time. The next morning, the mother told the girl, Dont you ever complain about your choice of a man. Her father said Ill give them ten years at the most. It never will work. The mother asked How will you feel when we are so rich, and you are so poor?
The Irishman had just asked another girl to marry him. He was tired of being alone and thought this other girl could be a good wife. There was no great love between them, and she had told him she would give him an answer next week. But his girl had come back, so with just days to spare, that offer was off. A wedding was planned, with the mother complaining she didnt know who to invite as no one she knew would come to a Catholic Church. But come, they all did, and they were married in St Marys at 3 oclock on a windy Saturday in May. Life began anew for our girl.
The Promise of Maggie George

Lorraine McMahon
he tall Aboriginal woman stood amidst the tall red gums on the bank of the Murray River and watched the boat slide along the water. The new moon rose through the trees of the Barmah Forest and reflected in the clear water flowing below. Hidden behind a tall gum tree, Maggie could see the white men in the strange boat, but they couldnt see her. She had heard stories of these pale men who were infiltrating her land. She had walked and seen the places where they were cutting her majestic trees down and dragging them down to the edge of the river bank, ready to be loaded on barges and sent down the river. She had talked with her family about the strange men who wore all these clothes, even in hot weather, but couldnt get them off quickly enough when they got a black girl on her own. They didnt seem to care how old she was or what family she came from, just get on the ground, do their thing then walk off. There had been a few strangely pale babies born that no-one quite knew what to do with. Sometimes the mothers had to hide them to stop the elders taking them away. Maggies peaceful, predictable world seemed to have disappeared and she didnt know what to make of it. Sometimes, the gifts the men offered her people caused them to act very strangely. Maggie had watched these pale men roaring with laughter at the unusual behavior of her usually very predictable relations. Maggie stayed hidden and watched and wondered what ever was going on. She was a very beautiful woman, over 6 feet tall, and had a
very strong mind of her own. Her family came from the Ulupna tribe and moved up and down the Murray as the seasons came and went. She had seen the white man Edward Curr bring his sheep across the river and watched them graze on her beloved Moira Lakes country. She had watched some of her relations actually help him ferry them across the river in a bark canoe.1 Why did they do this she wondered, his sheep ate the grass that was needed to attract the kangaroos and other wild life back to the lakes in the summer. She watched many fish being caught, but not cooked and eaten as you would expect, instead, they were packed in boxes and sent down the river in the boats the white men used. Then one eventful day, she saw the strangest contraption being pulled by animals she had never seen before coming through the gum trees that lined the river bank. It pulled up at the sandy promontory2 that had been an important gathering place and corroboree ground for her people since the land and the river had come into being through the creative deeds of the Great Spirit ancestor Biami .3 Many trees here bore the scars from where her relations had cut their canoes. It was a very sacred site. What on earth was happening? Two white men got out of the contraption and walked around looking at her country. Then lo and behold another contraption pulled by the same strange animals pulled up just around the bend. The young white man, recently arrived from England sprang out of his cart; he planned to make his fortune in this new country. Maggie wasnt quite quick enough to hide behind the bushes. She knew shed been seen. A cold shiver went through her slim body maybe a premonition of what lay ahead. But there was also a fascination. What were these men doing what did they want? The next day Maggie crept back, and from behind the bushes watched as Harry tried to build some sort of shelter for himself. It wasnt at all like the comfortable shelters her people could erect so quickly. She watched as he built a fire and cooked some food, then sat on an upturned box and drank something out of a tin mug. He pulled a wooden pipe out of his pocket and stuffed it with the
1 Curr, E. Recollections of Squatting in Victoria. p79 2 Cato, N. Mister .Maloga. p 28 3 Perkins, R .ed. First Australians p 287
leaves that she knew her relations had learnt to beg for. It was all very strange, and yet somehow this pale man fascinated her. Each night she crept back and watched as he gradually added to his makeshift shack. He sat by his fire with his trusty sheep dog by his side and the fire stick that put so much fear into the hearts of her people, lying at his feet. One night, the wind blew through the branches of the old red gums from a different direction. As Maggie crouched in the bushes near the edge of the clearing the dog growled, and Harry quickly reached for his firestick. In a panic, Maggie jumped up, caught her foot on the root of a tree, and next minute Harrys dog was sniffing over her naked body. Oh youre beautiful Harry murmured, Dont be frightened. I wont hurt you. Here come and sit with me by the fire. Maggie was shivering with fright and Harry wrapped a blanket around her trembling body and carried her to a spot by the fire. Would Maggies indigenous way of being be able to survive in the white world that was so rudely intruding on her traditional ways of knowing? This relationship between two totally opposite cultures was to have repercussions that would span the centuries. Their secret would be carried to many graves and would need the supernatural strength that was now supporting Maggie to avoid being drowned in the swamp of horrific events that was to flood Australia in the 1800s and beyond. On the banks of the Murray River, Maggie moved between two worlds. From her familiar camp life with its age old routines, where her possum skin cloak kept her warm in the winter months to the three inch nail stuck in the back of Harrys washhouse door, where the cumbersome home-made Victorian style dress hung. Before Harrys white wife Ellen had arrived, Maggie hadnt bothered with white mans clothes, but now wearing clothes was just one part of the new routines she was quickly becoming accustomed to. She had absolutely refused to wear one of Ellens hand me down dresses and had insisted on learning to sew and make her own long dress. Now, when she ran through the bush from her camp to do their laundry, she slipped this clumsy long dress over her tall slim body before she lit the fire under the copper, and began the tedious job of washing the white couples cumbersome clothes.
An unusual friendship was developing between Ellen and Maggie. Ellen, newly arrived from Scotland was way out of her depth in this frightening and isolated new world in the Australian bush. She had grown to find some pleasure in teaching Maggie the ways of the white world; she was in awe of her strong spirit, that wouldnt let her act like the poor native girl that Ellen thought she was. She knew that there were many times Harry followed their laundress into the bush, but felt powerless to do anything about it. Possibly, the huge stress of her new life played some part in her not becoming pregnant as Harry expected. Maggie and Harry had already had a little girl, Annie, who looked quite dark. As she grew older, Maggie often left her back at the camp when she came over the boundary fence to do the laundry. Annie, a relative of Maggies, was only too happy to take over Maggies mothering role and little Annie appeared happier and more at home playing with the other children of the camp on the river banks. When Maggie became pregnant to Harry again, Ellen was very upset, but had no choice but to accept this latest condition. In the January of 1871 when Maggies time came to give birth she went back to her birthing tree in the forest and was assisted by the old women from her camp. The new baby boy, unlike his older sister, was quite pale looking. Maggie was frightened that he might be removed from her.4 At this time local squatters had been appointed as guardians5 of any children theyd fathered so Harry had gone in to Echuca and registered Johns birth.6 John spent much of his time with the white settlers, and Harry was happy to learn that Ellen was at last pregnant. Unfortunately though, when her time came, even though Harry had bought a midwife up from Melbourne to assist her give birth, both Ellen and her new baby died. Harry was left in a quandary. He did not want his children growing up in the Indigenous world; he wanted to move on in the white world. On the property next door Daniel Mathews was about to open his Mission school, 7particularly for the half caste
4 Perkins, R.ed. First Australians. p 291. 5 Yorta Yorta land claim 6 Pearce, I. Brushing up on Brooms. p. 9. 7 Cato, N. Mister Maloga.p 67.
children who were arriving in greater and greater numbers. He decided to buy land that was being opened up to settlers, across the Murray River on the Wakiti Creek at Kotupna. He would live there and wanted Maggie and their two children to come with him. But Maggie was too frightened to leave her community on the Murray River. Harry quickly found a new white housemaid who had a daughter a little older than Annie. After much anguish on Maggies part, it was eventually decided that Harry would take both the children to his new property. This decision was breaking Maggies heart, but she was still worried about how white John looked, and she knew that his big sister Annie would watch for him. One the day they were leaving, Maggie took Harry and the two children to her sacred birthing tree deep in the red gum forest. It was here she and her children had been born, and her mother, and many of her mothers people before her. Harry hadnt sold his property at Maloga at this stage, and promised to bring their children back from time to time to see Maggie. She promised him that she would follow them and all their descendants forever, if he didnt keep his promise. Even though she still trusted Harry at this stage, her heart was breaking as they galloped off in the horse and cart. Up above the wind swirled and roared through the branches. Maggie had decided she didnt like the white ways of living. There was an Aboriginal man she had been promised to. She was ready to take her life out of the white world, and fit back home with her people, where she knew she belonged. Years later, Maggie felt she had no choice but to move on to the Maloga Mission with her new children so they could at least be fed. Daniel Mathews decided that all Aboriginal liaisons had to be legitimized with a Christian marriage. On the marriage certificate some white person has called her Maggie George. Maggie had signed her name with a + . For a time, because Harry needed to check on his sheep still at Maloga, he did bring their children back. But gradually the visits grew less and less frequent. Maggie grew more and more worried that these children would forget who she was. One day with the help of an aboriginal relation who knew the white mans
way of writing, she laboriously wrote her children a letter telling them of their beginnings. Very carefully she wrapped it in tissue paper, as she had seen Ellen wrap precious things, and placed it in an old tin with a photo that Harry had had taken of her and their children in his back yard many years ago. At the time she hadnt liked having her photo taken and had hidden her face as her people did. But now, she hated parting with the photo it was all she had to remind her of them. On one of her last visits to her mother Annie had watched curiously as her mother buried the tin under the old gum tree and told her to come and get it after she died. Maggie now had five children to her aboriginal partner on the Maloga Mission and Harry was trying to bring Annie and John up in the white world as white children across the river at Kotupna Annie had absorbed enough of her mothers heritage to make it difficult to fit in the white world. She frequently tried to speak of her aboriginal family but Harry and his new white wife told her she was insane to even have such an idea. One day, many years later while Harry was back checking the sheep on his property at Maloga, Annie and John went to help. While Harry had a smoke with his stockman, they went for a walk and found the tree their Mother belonged to. John was amazed when Annie started digging under the roots with a sharp rock. He was even more amazed when she dug up their mothers tin. What she read confirmed what she knew, but it was an incredible shock for John. He had been too young to know what Annie knew, and had been told his white mother died in childbirth. Annie took the tin as John took off in shock on horseback. His whole world collapsed around him. Hed been lied to all his life, and now he just had to get away.8 John galloped furiously for hours, and even stole a horse when his own horse wore out. Eventually the police caught up with him and he was imprisoned 100 miles from home. Harry had been searching for him, and told the judge his son was insane when Johns case went to court. 9
8 Broadford Courier 1892 9 Ibid
Within twelve months John was married off to a farmers daughter along the Broken Creek and Annie too, married a local farmer. They settled precariously back into the white world. Annie was to have a son and a daughter but, during her life, was to spend a lot of time in the Beechworth Psychiatric hospital. John was to have two sons and four daughters and lived in the home Harry provided for them. Harry ended up a very wealthy man with many properties, but when he died, bypassed John and left his estate to his grandchildren. Maggie passed over into the spirit world, but stayed very attached to her birthing tree, aching for the part of her family that didnt even know they belonged to her. Years later Annies daughter Rose, found her grandmothers tin and was horrified by what she read on the yellowed paper in the shaky handwriting. Quickly, she burnt the letter because what it said was just so embarrassing and couldnt possibly be true. Thankfully she didnt see the old photo still under the tissue paper, and the tin was thrown into an old tin trunk where it stayed in the garage for many years. One day John needed a trunk to store tools in, and took it to his place. Johns wife liked the look of the old tin and took it inside and placed it in a bottom drawer. So the old photo was to lie under the tissue paper in a bottom drawer for many more years to come. In this family at least, it was looking like the Indigenous Spirit was gone. The white way of living had triumphed, the land was being raped for all it was worth, and there were many people who had no idea of their indigenous connections. What could Maggie do? How could she contact her children? Bibliography
Broadford Courier. August 1894. Broom, I. Brushing up on Brooms. Australia 1994. Cato, N. Mister Maloga. University of Queensland Press, Australia. 1976. Curr, E.M. Recollections of Squatting in Victoria. George Robertson. Australia. 1883. Perkins, R. ed. First Australians. Meigunyah Press, Australia. 2008. Yorta Yorta Land Claim
Greening Charlton
Gail Remnant
s we traverse the long, flat, straight-as-a-die stretch of road leading into the rural riverside town of Charlton in central Victoria on a brilliant August day, I find it almost impossible to believe that seven months ago it was under water. In January 2011, Charlton was just one of eighty-three Victorian towns affected by flooding. It was not the first time the community had swept the Avoca River from its houses, but at a height of 8.9 metres and with eighty per cent of the town affected, it was the worst flood in recorded history. The residents of Charlton have a reputation for helping themselves and each other. The magnitude of the event, following just three months after flooding in the previous September, touched the hearts of people who travelled from metropolitan areas as well as surrounding towns to help with the clean-up. They have done a magnificent job! The town is pristine, clean and green, with not a piece of rubbish or tuft of dried grass in sight. The gardens are fresh, and shimmer with new growth; everything looks wonderful. But I look again! There are houses with furniture stacked outside under the veranda, unhemmed fabric hanging at the windows, and perhaps a caravan in the backyard. Buildings have a dark line, perfectly level, running around their exterior at a metre high. As we enter the large, high-ceilinged dining room of the solid brick Cricket Club Hotel at the top end of High St, I notice that same dark line running around the walls.
The water came up to just under the tabletops. said our table companion, a long-term resident of Charlton. I have a mental picture of a colonial-style indoor pool. Our lunch order is fish. Your own? I ask wryly. The waitress gives a quick smile and laughs. Not likely! she said The water was black. Flood water is filthy, and permeates everything it touches. Laden with bacteria from dead animals, sewerage, oil, petrol, or any chemicals that has washed into it, the flood water at Charlton was so corrosive it stripped varnish off furniture. It left garden plants with an oily coating on their leaves, and poisoned them from the ground up. It was also sticky. You dont wash it off, you scrub it off. Marea Judd said, referring to the exhausting task of removing the ravages of flood water from her extensive shop floor at Charlton House to Home on High St. With 350 homes deluged and left uninhabitable some families have more than one generation living together in cramped conditions: some elderly residents are fearful of returning home. Finances are tight for many, exacerbated by the time taken for insurance claims to be processed. Some homeowners have found theyre not covered by insurance at all, while others received a base payment that failed to cover the cost of repairs. Some lost most of their possessions yet others were affected very little, and this inequality can be difficult to deal with. I have come to understand the truth of the saying Fire unites; flood divides. Marea Judd said. The Rex Theatre stands on High Street at the point where the Calder Highway turns to sweep over James Paterson Bridge. An institution in Charlton since 1938, the lovely old building is in a state of disuse, with barricades and warning signs spanning the facade. The sight is distressing, but there proves to be a silver lining to the rather ominous cloud. Flood water caused some damage in September, but in January the underground wiring was completely destroyed and now has to be replaced along with the carpeting. While The Rex is closed, the Charlton Community Theatre Board of Management is using
flood recovery grants and donations from various sources to the best possible effect. The floods destruction was overwhelming board member Jenny Pollard said, but thanks to extensive generosity, longterm upgrades to The Rex have been made possible. There is no question that some good has come from the bad. A custom and hot rod car club is on tour in Charlton for the weekend. The objective is to enjoy touring and at the same time benefit the local community. As they turn in convoy onto the main street, with how low can you go bodywork, and polished chrome flashing in the sun, they look like theyve just sideslipped off the set of the Pixar movie Cars. The spectacle seems to flag a better time for Charlton. Its now November. Spirits have lifted with the warmer weather and there is a whiff of optimism in the air. The Lions Club donation of $500 vouchers, and distribution of some significant Red Cross funding has allowed renovations to begin. People are gathering up the threads of their lives. But many are asking What if it happens again? Nothing stops the amount of water we experienced in January! Mayor of Buloke Shire David Pollard said, But as that has occurred only once in two hundred years, we need to protect the town from more frequent but lower levels of flooding. To achieve this we need a combination of initiatives: protection of buildings and critical areas, directing water flow, and efficient water dispersal. *** The water that poured into the garden of Ken and Anita Jones in January receded leaving the plants with an oily coating on their leaves. Some plants grew rapidly, as was expected, but a few months later the couple noticed others beginning to die, not from the top down, but from the bottom up. Whatever is killing them Anita said is coming from the ground. The toxicity carried in flood water is detrimental, but while flood events cause some deaths amongst wildlife, there are tremendous benefits. The Avoca River system was highly
stressed after thirteen years of drought, and production of plant and animal species greatly reduced. We could spend a whole lifetime trying to understand the Ecology of a flood. Landcare co-ordinator Jamie Cashin said, Floods replenish food supplies and reproduction increases, waterways are cleared, salinity is reduced, and nutrients are deposited on depleted soil. Its Sunday afternoon and the Victorian Concert Orchestra is in Charlton to entertain us. I look around at smiling faces. Feet are tapping as if their owners are about to leap up and dance. Someone says Lovely music: its uplifting! And later, as I turn the car onto that straight stretch of road bordered by green leading out of Charlton, I find I am smiling. *** The Rex Theatre, grand dame of High St, Charlton, re-opened on April 21 2012. Over 350 patrons attended the gala event, travelling from all over Victoria to tread the red carpet.
The stuff of dreams

Jackie Rozenfeld
d always dreamt of swapping the city lights for a quieter rural existence. Id planned for this to occur in a gentle and fluid manner. As it turned out, the only thing fluid about my tree change was that I had to move at the time of the floods. On a rainy Sunday late last year, my dachshund/spaniel cross by the name of Piglet, was run over and killed. The next day, as I sat bawling my eyes out, my landlord of many years called to give me notice. He wanted to sell my house, or rather his house. In the next few weeks, three of my beloved chickens died suddenly and all that I had come to consider stable was shifting and dragging me in its wake. That I was kicking and screaming made no difference. It was time to let go. As a Jewish single mother wanting to remain close to the community for my sons sake, Id lived around the bagel belt of Caulfield and Balaclava. Unable to move myself to the country, I tried to move the country to me - sharing my rented property with cats, rats, rabbits, ducks and dogs. When I started looking around the neighbourhood for alternative rentals, I soon learned that prices had gone up so much that housing options were few and that, even for these, Id have to increase my coffers and quickly; not an easy thing to do as a freelance writer. I thought of selling body parts on the black market, though due to diabetic complications, mine arent worth much. I considered turning my hand to grand larceny or embezzlement but Ive never been good with figures.
With my finances as they were, I calculated that I could afford a studio apartment the size of a cup; an egg cup to be precise. The thought of moving to a tiny place was bad enough but the realisation that Id have neither garden nor permission to keep animals was just unthinkable. I discussed the matter with a wise friend who asked if it was finally the time to move to the country, especially as my son had left home. My choice it seemed was either to live a life of crime with dubious pecuniary success, to move into an urban crevice and lose my animal family and plants or make the long-desired tree change. What sealed it was that by moving to the country and the land of lower rentals, I could afford a lovely home and garden with room for a pony, to quote Hyacinth Bucket. On the net, the very first house I saw was in Chewton Bushland near Castlemaine, it was sprawling and pretty as pretty can be. It was environmentally friendly, on four hectares, with a small orchard, the Taj Mahal of veggie gardens, a chook house and a dam to rival Monets lake. My dream had come true! At least I thought it had, until I read the words six-month lease at the end of the listing. I kept searching for other rental properties and soon learned of the great dearth surrounding Castlemaine, where Id hoped to settle. After two months of trawling the real estate sites and travelling back and forth between Balaclava and central Victoria without finding a long-term rental, I saw that the eco-friendly place was still available. I have since learned, not everyone is willing to move to the middle of the bush to be reliant on a generator, some solar panels and an oft-overcast sky, with no mains gas, water or electricity, mail delivery, rubbish pick up or for that matter, neighbours. As a fairly green person (both environmentally and being quite naive) I felt the six-month experience might be a good way to learn the ropes of bush living. I moved in and threw myself on the mercy of my new environment, teeming with nature in its rawest but most beautiful, secure in the knowledge there was a landlord to promptly fix all the problems caused by the floods.
Three months later, I sent the following email to my friends.

Dearly Beloved, We are gathered here today, in the site of email, to mourn the passing of yet another of my rentals. Please be informed that having endured ten weeks of relentless resistance, I surrender! Thats right, I give up. I have battled Telstra for nine weeks, spent 14 hours on the phone with them over 23 calls, been yelled at by a call-centre operator in the Philippines and finally won refunds for seven wrong charges, one duplicate bill, one bogus phone number and the repair of one severed line. I have battled Australia Post and been finally vindicated. Customer service had declared my mail redirection to be in order despite delivering only six pieces of mail in three weeks and then 35 on one day. By the time I received that glut of mail, my phone that had taken so long to connect, had been cut off again, for nonpayment of a bill I had never received. It is now ten weeks but I still have to collect my mail over the counter of the post office because I cant rent a mail box. There are none vacant. I have battled the generator and its voracious appetite for diesel and won. I have even battled the arachnid architects who spin massive webs stretching from one side of the drive to the other. Without planning permits, they weave their homes such that walking from the front door to my car invariably involves head on collisions with a giant orb spider and much high-pitched swearing on my part. I have battled the flood-damaged driveway and but for two breakages to the underside of the car, have won only in so far as my antique Volvo still drives. I have persisted with a stove that on one side emits flames a foot high and on the other, tiny flames that spontaneously go out. To boil even an egg requires constant vigilance and when I once aimed for a casserole, I drew up a chair in the kitchen and got a third of the way through War and Peace before the dish was cooked. Shit, I have even battled poultry mites and emerged victorious. I found the bantams included with the house, covered from beak to toe in the entomological bastards so I had a parasite dusting session in which Emily, Charlotte and Anne, their nesting boxes, my hair, clothes and mouth were all treated to a generous dose of bugicide. I have sprained my back and twisted my ankle. I have been scratched, stung, burned, bitten and battered. I have had wasps on the walls, wrens in the laundry, millipedes in the bath and even frogs in the lounge and survived them all; quite joyfully might I add? But since I moved in at the time of the floods, I have had almost constant acrimony from the landlord and his
delegated handyman who either refused to believe me or refused to do the much needed repairs. I am just grateful that they are both peace-loving hippies or else I might have mistaken them for um best left unsaid. I have battled nasty emails and lost. I have battled horrid texts and lost and now filled with dread when I hear the ping ping of a new SMS, I feel too drained to endure any more discord. One read You are angry and frustrated which has confused you. I suggest you Remember to breathe. He was citing my bumper sticker of the same words. It would seem that my wanting a safe and usable home in return for the above-market rent they were charging, signalled just another frustrated single woman. He was though correct. After 10 weeks of my ignored requests and 10 weeks of his creative truth telling, I was both angry and frustrated. A friend commented that some handymen think that to calm a woman she just needs a good f---ing when what she really needs is a good f---ing handyman; ambiguity unintended. For this reason, as soon as I find another place to rent, I will leave this otherwise Eden-like place. Ashes to ashes, leases to dust.....
Several friends immediately wrote back saying, Oh, dear, you poor thing. And, When are you moving back to the city? One who could not restrain himself said, I hate to say I told you so. But for all that Ive endured including the cold floods that ran down the driveway and the hot floods that ran down my cheeks; I have been buoyed by the most indescribable beauty of the area. At night I go to sleep, snug beneath my doona with chilled air on my face and the canopy of a million stars above my head. In the morning, I open the front door to let my dog out and stand on the front porch, overlooking the dam and the rolling hills that surround me. In the still of the bush, life feels good. To date, I have attended seventeen inspections of rental houses in an effort to find a place that will allow a cat and a dog. When filling out an application form, in the section that asks about pets, I find myself tempted to write pterodactyl. I can only presume that is how they view my collie/kelpie cross and tabby cat anyway. I keep meeting the same people from week to week, as we tramp from place to place. In addition to owning pets, being
a single woman, I wonder how I can compete with the double income couples who are applying for the same properties. I fear that after all Ive left, moved and endured, instead of resigning myself to a studio apartment in Balaclava, Im going to end up in one, here in the bush. Then again, though there are few homes to rent, theres an abundance of homes to buy so it really is just a matter of finance, and, if I sell some body parts ...

Painted Words 2012 (8th Edition)

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Painted Words 2012 (8th Edition)

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Painted Words 2012

An Anthology of Work by Students of Professional Writing & Editing at Bendigo TAFE

First published in Australia in 2012

Cover illustrationColleen Gale. Tsunami, acrylic on canvas, 2004.

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The Art of Breathing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Noises and Expectations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Not So Youd Notice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Thinning the Herd . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

And Then You Die . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

On the Crest of the Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

The Wars Within . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76

The Big Bad Wolf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Hermes Coach Tours . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

Taking Care of Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Gilded Web . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104

Our Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106

Where Ravens Fly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

The Banshee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

Breaking News . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

Pallmark Cards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Speak softly lie still. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

The Front Gate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122

All that Shines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

Echo Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

Heart of a Dragon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146

Blood, Sweat and Tears . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

Speedy Delivery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

Gwenynen at the Altar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

The Battle for Dyndengar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170

The Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

Excerpt One from Hammered: Memoir of an Addict . . . . . . . . . . . . 186

Excerpt Two from Hammered: Memoir of an Addict . . . . . . . . . . . . 190

Fathers Day & Family Breakdown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

Tales from a Chinese Laundry or The Cynics Guide to Shanghai. . . . . . . 200

Volcanoes I have loved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207

A divine feeling of love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214

Non or not? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216

I had a dream one night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218

The Growth of a Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220

The Promise of Maggie George . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226

Greening Charlton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233

The stuff of dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237

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The Art of Breathing

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Noises and Expectations

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