Category Archives: Short Stories

A Modern Family Christmas Letter

Posted on December 23, 2011 | 4 comments

Greetings to family, friends, acquaintances, hangers-on and my parole officer,

2011 has been a great year for the Bright family.

The beginning of the year saw the release of Father Robert Bright from his time as a suit and tie man with his retirement. He said he was glad to be rid of the routine of work. Now his routine consists of the couch, the newspaper, television and the garden shed. His favourite couch bears the burden of his backside but is given respite during the afternoons when he potters down to the local pub for a beer. It is a little embarrassing when he trundles down in his tracksuit pants with the threadbare bottom and slippers where his toes poke out the end. I’ve tried to make him change but his response is always the same, “But they’re comfortable, woman.”

Retirement has given him more time in the garden. This year he exhibited his orchids in the local show and did quite well. He seems to have taken up smoking again, although it doesn’t smell the same as the pipe tobacco he used to smoke all those years ago. It tends to make him quite peckish and he asks for a toasted cheese sandwich before breaking into a fit of giggles. And for some reason, Robert has gotten to know a large number of young people who come along to the flower shows. It is good to see young people taking an interest in botany.

Retirement suits us and we are thinking of buying a caravan and living the life of grey nomads. The children are old enough to take care of themselves now and we deserve a little fun in our dotage.

Adrianna finished her third year of law and her twelfth phase of experimentation. This year she explored the many varied definitions of the word “gay.” Before that there was veganism, socialism, ecological concerns and some obsession with a book about vampires and werewolves. She is our little “quiet achiever” so we aren’t too concerned.

We finally managed to get Jack over the line in his final year of schooling. It took many hours and many visits to the Principal’s office, but we managed. The Principal even wrote us a lovely letter of recommendation when Jack finished.

Jack’s fascination with fast cars landed him an apprenticeship with a local car dealer and he has been loving every minute of it. My little Datsun 120B has never run smoother. However, the addition of new paintwork makes me a little embarrassed to run down to the shops. Jack added some flames pouring from the wheel arches. I think it looks like a Matchbox car. And the fluffy dice and garter hanging from the rear vision mirror do make it a little hard to see sometimes.

He has been seeing a lovely young lass by the name of Felicity. They met at TAFE studying auto engineering and have been inseparable ever since. She and Jack spend many hours discussing cars, although I do wish she would put some clothes on sometimes. She’ll catch her death of cold if her skirt climbs any higher up her thighs. And she has an unfortunate tattoo on her lower back. I can see it as her jeans tend to sit quite low, revealing her underwear, although I fail to see how a piece of string counts as underwear these days. The tattoo reads, “Ride it like you stole it.” She must love cars to express her passion in such a permanent way. Coincidentally, I once found an unused prophylactic on the back seat. Jack swears it belonged to a friend and that it must have fallen out of his pocket one evening.

I think young Jack needs a new prescription for his glasses. He keeps getting pulled over by the police for speeding. He swears he was doing the speed limit.

Great Aunt Beryl is getting younger every year. This year it’s been her knee. Her knee is one of those new-fangled plasticy doo-dads that comes with a lifetime guarantee (which for Great Aunt Beryl may not be that much longer).

This knee goes along with her other knee, both hips and a set of breasts Dolly Parton would be proud of. For the life of me I can’t imagine young looking perky breasts protruding from a chest which Robert says had enough folds of skin she could be a MAD magazine fold in.

This year for me has been one with its ups and downs.

It’s been a tough year on the tennis circuit. We had a new member join us who looks like Anna Kournikova. Well, Anna Kournikova in 40 years’ time. I’ve had to attend a number of funerals of ladies from the club whose time has been called. “Game, Set and Match” as one wit described it. The old black tennis skirt has been getting a workout. It may need replacing next season.

What with Bridge Club, my Book Club, the Country Women’s Association, Meals on Wheels and meeting with my parole officer, I never seem to have a moment to myself.

Have to run along and tend to the Christmas pudding.

Wishing you all a fabulous 2012.

Much love and hugs and kisses from me and all the Bright family,

Miranda

Merry Christmas 2011

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Paper Aeroplanes

Posted on August 19, 2011 | 19 comments

The seagulls swooped and fell while others drifted on the updraft, hanging in the air like a child’s mobile suspended above their cot. The waves pounding the cliff face below provided the music, a lullaby of breathing in and breathing out.

I caught a glimpse of a Wandering Albatross whose wingspan is longer than I am tall. They say the albatross never touches land, except to feed and to mate, drifting from current to current. Is the albatross I see on the edge of the horizon a lost soul searching for home?

The ruckus of congregating seagulls at my feet was angling for the scraps from my lunch of fish and chips. Cheeky buggers; they have no manners. But I envy the birds and their power of flight.

When we were kids, my older brother and I pored over books we borrowed from the Library on paper aeroplanes. We manufactured every design and plan, testing our creations from the back deck of the house. Some we built for tricks, others for distance. My brother was fascinated with the physics of flight while I found the artistry in the folding. I branched out to origami, creating flocks of flightless birds I hung from the ceiling in my bedroom.

The need to fly never left me and I found the power to fly through words. Pen and paper, ink and ideas.

At my hand lies an old journal of mine I found when cleaning out boxes from the garage. My fifteen year old self was such an idiot. But there were words and sentences; flights of fancy in ribbons of black ink. I would slipstream over and under the words as they flowed.

Simply on a whim I tore a page from the journal and fashioned a crude paper aeroplane. Standing up from the picnic table I moved towards the edge of the cliff, parting the seagulls as an avian John the Baptist. As a prayer I launched the paper aeroplane, throwing my words into the world.

My word shall not return to me void, says the Lord God Almighty. I so hope the words coming back to me aren’t swear words.

The paper aeroplane took flight, bobbing in the eddies and draughts, flying down towards the maelstrom of waves. It dipped and spun, ducked and weaved to be consumed by the waters below.

Pages flew from the hanger of my journal, transformed into shapes born for flight. Some plummeted to the ground, felled by the weight of the words. Others returned to me from the void, swept upwards by thrusts of air. They flew over my head and were lost in the scrubland behind the car park. The temptation to search for my words was strong, to see what was so important that it should return, but I let them be.

With my journal now a spine without a body to support, I headed back to the car. I paused from turning the ignition, caught by one more vision of the albatross. Childhood has aged into adolescence, matured into adulthood, yet I am still learning how to fly.

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Sounds of the Heartbeat

Posted on July 29, 2011 | 26 comments

A Rhythmic Pulse in Seven Parts

Prologue

With a wavering finger, the stylus dropped from the cradle onto the vinyl with hisses, cracks and pops.

I

A sloshy whumpa whumpa whumpa pulsed from tinny speakers, sounding all too fast to new parents’ ears.
“It’s perfectly normal,” reassures the nurse. She needn’t ask if it’s their first because she can see it. She can tell from the goofy smiles, the clasped hands, the shuffling feet.
“It makes a good techno beat,” he says, bopping his head.
A grainy black and white sketch modulates on the monitor, an almost static display.
“It’s an explosion in a rice factory,” she says.
The rice concoction flurries as the sonographer squelches through conductive gel.
“Bladder press,” she giggles.
Toes, hands, head, spine emerge in the rice pattern. A pause. The smallest of movements of the grains of rice, off-centre.
“And there is your baby’s heart, beating perfectly.”

II

In the quiet hours of night, a small figure wearing pyjama pants that are too long, cries at imagined figures he sees in the shadows. His tears fall in blubbering sobs as the shadowy figures are held at bay in the fortress of his mother’s arms. In the crook of her arms he rests, soaking the shoulder of her pyjamas with his tears and snot. The bedside lamp banishes the shadows. Rocking gently she feels his little heart thumping a staccato march against her own, a peculiar poly-rhythmic ostinato. The frenetic pounding of his heart pushes adrenaline until it is consumed. His pulse returns to resting pace, and the whispered breaths of sleep.

III

Adrian’s bestest present on his eighth birthday was a stethoscope, a gift from Auntie Louise. The sounds of birthday chatter receded and amplified as he put the ear pieces in. The sound of his breathing echoed in his head.  Pushing his t-shirt up and placing the bell of the stethoscope on his chest he heard da-dum da-dum, da-dum da-dum.
“I can hear my heartbeat,” he said.
“Too loud,” said his mother. “You have the stethoscope in your ears.”
All the young cousins came over and Adrian listened intently. The stethoscope passed from hand to hand and ear to ear as the new music of their hearts astounded them.
“Can I put it on your chest and listen to your heart? Adrian asked his cousin, Bella.
Bella crossed her arms across her seventeen-year-old bosom, blushing at her family’s laughter.
Adrian frowned as Bella strode into the kitchen. His mother, hiding a smirk behind parental duties, ushered him away and changed the topic.

IV

Two hearts beating in unison. Two bodies of flesh made one. Sated and spent, clinging to each other in love’s embrace, gulping in mouthfuls of air, lest the “little death” claim them both.

She giggled as his whiskery stubble grazed her breast. He mumbled an apology and lay still, resting between her breasts.

In his ear he felt the blood rushing through her body; the pulse a subsonic rumble of a laden passing freight train.

Her nipple softened as the freight train faded into the distance. He eyed it greedily, waiting for the train to pass by again.
V

He awoke to the sound of elephants tap dancing to heavy metal blast beats. Shaking his head, he failed to dislodge them and bring down the curtain on their impromptu performance. Lying very still he found the ruckus more bearable.

“Hi Dad.”

He waved at the dislocated voice as his heart relocated itself in his head, thumping behind his eyes.

“Dad’s awake,” the voice yelled. The elephants resumed their limited repertoire.

“Good afternoon, darling,” said his wife. “It must have been some celebration.”

All he remembered was too many beers after the Wentworthville Magpies C Grade won the Grand Final. And then there was some illusory scrap of memory of karaoke. He was singing. He should never be singing.

The whumping of the pulse behind his eyes provided the bottom end bass tones for the elephant performance. He hoped the finale would be short lived.
VI

The sun had only been up for a couple of hours, but his hands were already immersed in soil and mulch. Resting on a high stool he focused his attention on the bonsai Japanese maple tree. Before him lay small secateurs, copper wire, scissors.

His grandson shadowed his side. “You look like a giant with all these little trees, Grandpa. What are you doing?”

“Listening to the music of the spheres.”

The boy looked nonplussed.

“It’s the heartbeat of the universe, knowing when to plant and when to reap, based on the phases of the moon and the turning of the seasons. It helps me to see how to shape this little tree.”

“Does the universe have a heartbeat?”

“Yes. It’s in all living things. It takes a careful ear to listen to their rhythm.”

“That’s weird.”

“Come on. Let’s water the fruit trees.”
VII

The mechanical ping of the heart monitor chimed. The gathered family watched the machine pulse and then turned to the rhythm of his chest rising and falling.
Each person imagined his or her own heart rate falling into unison with the machine’s ping, a snare drum marking the beat of a sombre funeral march.
The pings grew further apart, registering the time slowing as springs unwind in a clock before coming to rest.
At the request of a nod, a nurse turned down the volume.
A final inhalation.
Exhalation.
Cessation of rhythm and the ping changed to a single note, a pulse of finality.

Epilogue

The stylus returns to the cradle as the record spins to a stop.

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Pillow Talk

Posted on July 8, 2011 | 33 comments

“What do you mean ‘Headaches were not listed in the brochure’ darling? Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.”

“I only meant it as a joke, sweetheart.”

“The reason I have a headache is because we spent all day on the water, and, despite wearing sunglasses, the glare off the water and the champagne we drank has given me a headache. I’m not saying it because I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“I didn’t doubt you had a headache. It was meant as a joke, but it seems to have backfired slightly.”

“A headache is a headache. What you said indicated you were disappointed you weren’t getting any tonight.”

“I’m sorry. It was meant to be a light hearted jest. This is our honeymoon, after all. I thought we could spend some more ‘quality time’ together.”

“What do you think I am? Just because we’re on our honeymoon am I an amusement park rollercoaster to ride whenever you please?”

“No, I don’t think you’re…”

“I’m not the one with a penis bursting out of my pants simply because I ogle even a glimpse of boob. Is this what you were after? Just a moment ago you wanted my boobs in your face and now you won’t look at them?”

“At the beginning of the week you were up for almost anything. I’ll never look at the mini-bar fridge in the same way again.”

“Do you think I can be turned on and off like a vibrator? Take me, baby. I’m all yours. What, all soft and soggy now? Won’t the bucking bull try and throw off the cowgirl. And I wouldn’t go comparing myself to a stallion; a Shetland pony is more your style.”

“I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Don’t turn your back on me while we’re talking. I know this is our honeymoon and we have the rest of our lives to be together, but it’s not a 24-hour shag fest. It would be good to see a bit more of the sights while we’re here.”

“Okay, we will. Is this conversation finished?”

“Not even remotely. Poking me in the back with an erection and asking if I’m awake does not count as foreplay. Sometimes I like surprises, but occasionally, some effort and consideration wouldn’t go astray. And you can forget about the camera. I am not risking candid snaps ending up on my mother’s facebook page. And while we’re on the topic of ‘Things That Annoy Me’ it wouldn’t kill you to leave the bed before breaking wind. It is not necessary to fluff the blankets to check if it smells. Stop laughing. You thought I was asleep the other night when you let one rip.”

“How did a discussion about our sex life become an argument about my personal hygiene habits? You aren’t much better. The other day in the supermarket you dropped a landmine when you were with the trolley. I came back with the bread and copped a nostril of Satan’s butt crack.”

“I didn’t know it was going to smell.”

“You whisper with a clenched fist when you fart. And do you mind not taking a whiz while I’m brushing my teeth. It’s just… wrong.”

“If you could aim for the bowl, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“I’ll aim for the bowl if you don’t leave skid marks. Nothing worse than opening the lid and finding the brown hornet has practiced landing runs.”

“That’s gross.”

“You’re the one who started down this line of argument. And I don’t appreciate morning breath that would strip paint from walls in my face.”

“I don’t have stinky morning breath.”

“How would you know? You don’t have to breathe it in.”

“This bloody headache is killing me and the tablets haven’t helped much. I’m going to sleep. Good night.”

“So, sex is out of the question tonight, then?”

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A Boy and His Dragon

Posted on June 24, 2011 | 22 comments

The young knight moved with the rhythm of his horse as it plodded on through the rising mountain range. He remembered the day he left the citadel when dawn’s rosy fingers crept over the landscape, warming the cold earth with her delicate touch. A rooster heralded the day while the sows chuffed and snuffled amongst the hay in the stalls. The cows waited impatiently in the yard, eager to be rid of their bulging surplus, scuffing their hooves and quietly rumbling their displeasure at having to wait for the milkmaid.

In the stables, his horse sensed his nervousness and anticipation, and whinnied uneasily.  Mounting the steed the knight looked around at the grim, grey walls.  No fanfare sounded, no merriment signalled his departure.  This was a journey anticipated with excitement and foreboding.  Every knight had to earn his rank with a deed of valour.  This knight sought the most prized of all trophies, the horn of the dreaded wyrm, the ancient red dragon.

Day followed day as the knight traversed the kingdom’s terrain.  The green plains surrounding the castle and the village merged into the sparsely wooded forests.  The trees transformed into cathedral-like pillars; sunlight filtering as a candle chandelier.  The forest neither threatened nor welcomed, simply accepted the presence of the knight and his steed.  High in the canopy birds chatted about the passing of the weather and the movement of the deer across the ranges.

Each passing day took the knight closer to his destination, the lair of the great wyrm. With each passing footfall of his horse, the animals became quieter until silence lowered its head in sombreness as the knight approached the dragon’s cavern.

The forest ended abruptly at the foot of the mountains. The sides rose steeply into the clouds forming a white wall. Wisps streamed out like banners unfurling declaring signals of war.

“Let us take the battle to this scourge,” said the knight.

The traverse was steep, littered with the bones of earlier combatants. The knight’s strength melted in his chest like the spring thaw.

“Have courage and fear not,” he said to himself.

Close to the summit the knight paused to plan his assault. At the cusp of daybreak the knight crept to the edge of the dragon’s cavern. Peering around a boulder he spied the great wyrm, curled on himself like a dog. The red sheen of the dragon’s scales glittered in the early light, a magnificent vision of ruby and rose. The slow rise and fall of its great body suggested it was sleeping.

“And what is your name, knight?”

The knight was taken aback by the sudden hail. “How did you know I was here?”

“You humans are clumsy and so predictable,” said the dragon. “You are best swatted out of the air like flies. But your name young knight.”

The knight took a stance of combat. “My name is Sir Justin of Thornleigh.”

“Ultimately, your name is unimportant. It is simply protocol. You are one more to add to the collection.” The dragon rolled to one side, exposing its underbelly. Melded into its scaly hide was a wall of shields. Justin recognised the standards of known champions.

“Dragon, would you give me the pleasure of your name.”

“Ulfthalas. Now pleasantries are over, we can commence hostilities.”

The fireball exploded from the dragon’s mouth. The knight dove to his right before rolling under the dragon’s tail as it swung overhead, the spikes grazing against his shield.

The element of surprise gambled on and lost, the knight sprang forward to attack at the dragon’s forequarters where the shield wall ended. The dragon’s cavern afforded some room for the wyrm to manoeuvre but the knight harried and hacked at the weak points, away from the fiery blast and the swinging tail.

Roars of frustration emanated from the dragon’s throat as it clawed back and forth to reach for the harrying knight underneath. The dragon raised its left foreleg and aimed to squash the knight. Bringing the claw down, the tips of its claws scored the shield, splintering the wood.

Taking his chance, the knight leapt up the dragon’s leg and swung onto its back. Sitting astride the dragon’s shoulders, the knight took his sword in two hands and raised it above his head, preparing to strike the death blow.

Suddenly, a motherly voice sang out like church bells at Sunday service.

“Justin, it’s time to come in for lunch.”

“I’m coming Mum.  I’ll be there in a minute,” replied the young knight, pushing the bike helmet out of his eyes while the dog yapped and dodged around him. A green towel tucked into the collar acted as a cape, fluttering out behind.

 

The knight turned and addressed the dragon, “I beg your pardon, but I am summoned forthwith to sup.”

“Forsooth, one cannot deny the command.  We will continue our melee at a later stage.”

Drawing his sword to his chest, Justin saluted the dragon and bowed in reverence to his worthy opponent.  The dragon lowered its head to the knight in solemn respect.

 

The knight turned and began to discard his weapons and armour.  The wooden sword clattered against the garbage can lid shield as it dropped into the dirt. Large gardening gloves fell easily off little fingers.  The bicycle helmet bounced along the ground and caused the dog to leap away for fear of being skittled.  A cardboard box covered in aluminium foil served as a breastplate and was left at the foot of the stairs as the screen door clattered shut.  The dog sat expectantly at the door waiting for the boy’s return, but soon gave up and returned to gnaw its favourite bone under the shade of the orange tree.

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Tougher Than a Service Station Kebab

Posted on June 12, 2011 | 20 comments

They say legends are born, not made and it’s only a matter of time before their true potential is revealed. This is one of those stories.

One Saturday night, three housemates tumbled out of the pub under the heady influence of fermented hops and headed down the hill. The way they saw it, going home was considered “downhill” despite the obvious rise to the concrete landscape.

At the last corner before turning into their street was a service station. Sitting at the perimeter of the service station lights was a silver caravan, a relic of the 1950s. It had converted into a makeshift kitchen, resting on a pile of besa blocks. It had the rounded form, like someone had flattened an oval, yellowed lace in the rear window. The door side had been converted into a servery hatch with a Formica bench top, now cracked and rusted along the metal coping. Fly screens came half way down the wide open window allowing the passing of food and money. A roller screen kept the daylight at bay.

The proprietor, Mr G, never spoke, or when he did, it was little mumbles. He could take a dozen orders in his head and knew who ordered the double meat, half meat, chilli sauce or extra tabouli on their kebab.

The trio, Andy, Stuart and James caught the aroma of the kebab caravan and followed their nostrils, leaning against the bench top and soaking in the delicious aroma.

Mr G. nodded and took their orders while the lads fell to the philosophy of the kebab.

“A kebab isn’t a kebab unless you end up wearing some of it on your shirt or jeans,” said Stuart and there was murmured assent.

“I prefer the kick you get from chilli sauce,” James said, his mouth beginning to salivate.

“It’s the perfect meal of meat and vegetables,” Andy intoned as the three wise guys watched their late night feast being prepared.

Shortly after, three kebabs were delivered, wrapped in foil and garnished with a serviette.

“You always need more than one serviette, I reckon,” said Andy as they began the drunken stagger home, peeling the foil back from their midnight snack. “We should get Mr G. to put some more out.”

Walking and eating are not actions easily mastered, doubly so when intoxicated and trying to eat a kebab. Somehow the trio managed the short walk home and finished their midnight feast at the kitchen table, licking sauce-laden fingers and mopping stray strands of onion from their chins.

“Right, I’m off to bed. Night fellas,” said Andy.

James and Stuart raised their hands in recognition but were not too far behind in heading for the horizontal.

The horror began in the breaking dawn of Sunday morning. James was the first.

He woke up feeling the effects of a late night kebab and a few too many beers. The queasiness of his stomach he put down to the night before. Suddenly he felt his stomach lurch. Vaulting from his bed he bounded into the hallway and sprinted the short distance to the bathroom. Kneeling before the porcelain god, he embraced it in a pose of worshipful adoration and presented his offering. His stomach muscles heaved in violent protest, venting the contents in a technicolour stream.

Each spasmodic episode racked his body until he saw stars. His fingers fumbled for the button before successfully washing away his sins. As the bowl emptied he spat to clean out his mouth. He was shocked by its ferocity. His gut rumbled in turbulent fury and he spewed again.

Resting his head against the coolness of the tiles he surmised it was simply the results of last night’s drinking and the service station kebab on the way home.

“Out of the way,” said Stuart as he rushed into the bathroom, covering his mouth with his hand. James’ and Stuart’s legs became tangled as Stuart occupied the space where James had been. James scrambled out of the way while Stuart chundered into the bowl.

“What the frig is going on?” asked Andy rubbing his eyes while scratching his crotch. “How hung over are you?”

“This is no hangover. This has got to be something worse.” James washed his face in the sink before holding his stomach.

“Food poisoning, perhaps,” said Andy.

Over the next hour, Stuart and James tagged each other in and out of the bathroom. There was one unfortunate crossover and James was forced to use the sink. Andy watched the scene like a UN observer, choosing not to get involved, while the other two wondered when Andy would be struck down.

James and Stuart sat on the lounge under blankets with grey, clammy faces. Each had a container, be it a bucket or an Esky positioned at his feet. The pungent stench of vomit permeated the house, puncturing the force field of air freshener.

“I have hurled so much my stomach just hurts,” said James. “There is absolutely nothing left.”

“My girlfriend makes me do Pilates with her and I thought it made my stomach sore. I will never complain again.”

Stuart leaned forward and dry-retched into the Esky. Low moans echoed.

“Here you are boys,” said Andy, from the front door. “I’ve brought you some relief.” He passed a bottle of Gatorade to each weakly offered hand.

“Take it easy. Little sips, little sips or you’ll be throwing it all up again.”

“I can’t believe you’re not affected by this,” said James.

Andy shrugged. “Guess I’m just tougher than a service station kebab.”

And thus, a legend was born. But like every superhero, Andy’s hubris would be his undoing, but that’s a story for another time.

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Scrappy Sketches

Posted on May 12, 2011 | 8 comments

Writing for eMergent Publishing’s new anthology “89” has proven to be an interesting task.

The brief asks for a retro speculative fiction story based in 1989 with a reference to a significant event from that year, all prompted by a song from the same year. Following? Good, because it’s doing my head in.

Some of us have been slogging through ideas while others have written their story quickly. I am in the former group. What follows below is a sketch I wrote to help get the ideas flowing. It is not being used in the final story but I thought I would share this scrappy sketch with you.

*****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****

“Why does the fat lady get to sing the last song?” asked Claire. “I mean, it’s not like she’s Whitney Houston or anything.” She dragged on the cigarette before extinguishing it. “This songbird’s gonna have the final note tonight. Fat chick be damned.”

The karaoke microphone was vacant, illuminated by a single spot lights. Claire’s best friend, Rachelle, dubbed it The Truth Amplifier. The microphone revealed a person’s ability, she said. If they could sing, it magnified the singer’s competent vocal chords. If the singer was a hairbrush vocalist, it simply amplified their cat-being-pulled-by-a-toddler screeching.

Flicking through the karaoke menu, Claire chose her song. It was 2 am and the bar was emptying. MIDI strains of Bon Jovi clambered out of the speaker. Rachelle whooped her encouragement from the table. Claire pulled the microphone from the stand, feeling its weight, balancing it before winking at Rachelle. In her head she counted off the final bar before the lyrics started. On the last beat she spun the mic in her hand, caught it, leaned forward and breathed the lyrics, “If you’re ready, I’m willing and able. Help me lay my cards out on the table.”

The crowd was caught in her performance. At the first chorus she pushed the vocals, but deliberately held back from giving it everything, “Lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me.” She extended her hand towards the crowd. A polite smattering of applause came from the thinning crowd, but Claire knew she had them. The second verse spun from her lips like caramel, despite the MIDI-synth backing track. Perched on the edge of the tiny stage, she could feel herself flying with the music. Grasping the mic stand in her left hand she threw her head back for the final chorus and released the diva within, finding the pure note and producing a sonic boom.

Putting the mic back into the clip, the audience erupted in whoops, cheers and whistles.

Dropping into the chair beside Rachelle, Claire said, “Elvis and the fat lady have left the building. Together. Eating deep friend sandwiches and caressing their arses where I kicked it.”

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The Red Balloons

Posted on April 22, 2011 | 15 comments

This is a collection of vignettes written over a period of time, using the symbol of a red balloon. The other symbol is the black dog, a metaphor for depression. Each is only six sentences in length.

#1 – Prayers

Elise scrummaged in her little sister’s art and craft box for a marker. Sitting against the bed she wedged the red helium balloon her knees and began to write the jumbled and dislocated prayer of a twenty-something. Looking at what she had scribed, it looked like a crossword puzzle with the answers filled in but no clues to help give meaning.

Going into the backyard she took a deep breath and let the ribbon unfurl through her fingers as she exhaled. Elise shaded her eyes as it rocketed upwards, a seed propelled by faith, with hope that it would conceive and bring forth life, until she could see it no more.

She wondered if it had reached God or if it had burst before God could read it.

#2 – I’ve Always Wanted To Fly

I’ve always wanted to fly as I watch the balloons float away above the carnival, wishing I had that freedom.  The closest I can get to that wish is memory and imagination.  My body aches at the remembrance of grasping the chain of the swing set; leaning backwards, getting dizzily disorientated watching the world arc from blue to green to blue.  I imagine flying feels a lot like swimming in an aquiline ocean, rising and falling with the phases of the moon, feeling the push and pull of the currents.

Reaching behind I untie the red balloon from the handle of my wheelchair and say a little prayer.  I let my red balloon go into the blue firmament of heaven, above the heady aromatic cloud of fairy floss, deep fried food and the dusty warmth of cattle, to live vicariously for me.

#3 – Simple Pleasures

Streamers floated in the breeze and cake crumbs littered the tablecloth while the lounge room floor was strewn with the debris of a six year old tornado who had torn into wrapping paper to get at the goodies.  But Matthew abandoned the boxes of Lego stacked beside a bright yellow dump truck covered in layers of new t-shirts and pants for a dash around the backyard.  A bright red balloon trailed like a comet behind him as he whooped and hollered while the dog leapt and barked and howled with delight.  In his game the balloon became an orbiting moon as astronaut Matthew moved in slow motion steps with a bucket on his head.  A few days later he imagined that it was a jellyfish when it hung in limbo between the ceiling and the floor and he pretended to swim around it as it bobbed in the air.  Grandparents and relatives chuckled their approval and remembered when things were simpler and would not begrudge a small boy his bright new toys.

#4 – Hope

The red balloon bobbed above the heads of the comings and goings in the hospital corridor like a colourful speech bubble.  It bounced into the children’s ward where tubes were worn like necklaces and bandages were a new zombie craze.  Offsetting the bleep of machines and odour of sickness the red balloon added another splash of colour, lighting up sallow faces.  With the help of a black texta, some purloined rubber gloves from the box on the wall and a little bit of creativity the red balloon became a dancing clown.  Laughter expelled fear to the dark corners of the room while hope settled in the creases of rumpled blankets.  And for a brief moment even the adults were children again, joining in the mirth and imagination, remembering their own made up games.

#5 – My Black Dog

My black dog flumped onto my feet while I watched television, formed to the curvature of the couch, and in his mouth was the tattered remnants of my red balloon.

All afternoon I had watched him skulking around the back door, but he nuzzled his way in, eyeing off the red balloon that floated on the draughts through the cracks in the windows. With a quick snap he had taken the balloon in his mouth and popped it.

He looked triumphant with his saggy jowls knowing I was defeated and would not move from where I had taken up position. The afternoon shadows crept like soul’s darkness across the floor, a marshy quicksand that sucks you down below into its depths.

However, my black dog tends to forget that I have a pocketful of red balloons.

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Baa Baa “Adjectival Colour Nomenclature” Sheep

Posted on April 8, 2011 | 24 comments

The Committee members shuffled papers and snapped locks on briefcases. Coffee orders were taken and promptly delivered before withdrawal symptoms set in. The small bowls of lollies were passed from hand to hand and rapidly emptied. The cream biscuits were always popular comestibles, except for those who believed in the fattening effects of dairy-based products. Otherwise they were simply scoffed down with slurps of tea or coffee. Chocolate biscuits had been banned after an unfortunate incident involving The Chocolate Orgasm, otherwise known as The Tim Tam Slam, the Heimlich manoeuvre and an emergency clean up response crew from Domestic Hygiene.

The Chair of Non-specific Gender motioned for the meeting to start.

“First order of business: Inappropriate Adjectival Colour Nomenclature in the emergent adult nursery rhyme Baa Baa Black Sheep.”

Mutters of consternation rippled along the table. Tortoise shell spectacles and twin set cardigans were shuffled back into place. Spectacle chains rattled on pearl necklaces.

The Chair raised his hand and the murmurs ceased. “It is clearly understood that ‘black’ as a colour nomenclature is not appropriate. While as a colour designation it allows for a stunning example of alliteration in conjunction with onomatopoeia for pre-educational individuals, it has been suggested the adjectival colour nomenclature of the sheep contains racial overtones derogatory to the descendants of African origin. It is out task to determine another adjectival colour nomenclature. What other colours can we propose?”

“How about ‘Baa baa blue sheep? It maintains the alliterative structure of the nursery rhyme and has no apparent discriminatory overtones.”

From the other end of the desk came a response. “Blue is a stereotypical boys’ colour and we’d only be reinforcing the inherent patriarchal notions of gender, subjugating the feminine and universal womanhood.”

“What about pink, then?”

“Then you’re espousing matriarchal hegemony, which while brings a measure of equality back into society, only serves to reinforce the stereotypical colour of femininity for girls.”

“Baa baa red sheep?” someone else volunteered.

“It will give you the socialist vote, however I don’t see them reciting a chant that programs an economic model of the mode and means of production where the sheep has to give up its hard grown wool for the sake of a snotty young capitalist.”

A snort of muted laughter drew attention. “Three words: feminine hygiene product. I wonder if there’s a commercial featuring sheep playing tennis, running along beaches and generally being carefree?”

“And you can discount the colour grey as a monotonous capitalist framework for serving the system.”

“What about purple?”

“Historically it’s the colour of royalty. The monarchists would be saluting with Earl Grey Tea from their Wedgewood china cups. Especially with a royal wedding front and centre of the public eye at the moment. However, the republicans wouldn’t stand for it.”

“White?”

“Too many colonial and imperialist overtones. And besides, it’s too bland. It’s like vanilla ice cream; everyone eats it, but no one really enjoys it.”

“Yellow?”

“Well, sheep aren’t really an Asian thing are they?”

“Green?”

“It gives you the environmental vote, but then you’ve lost the capitalist community.”

“Orange?”

“Too Dutch. Have you ever watched a sporting event where they are playing? It’s an eye sore seeing a wall of orange.”

“Can I suggest ‘Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep’?”

“The rainbow has been appropriated by the GLBT community so come Mardi Gras time you could sing about sheep all you want. But then you’ve marginalised the heterosexual community and let’s face it, they are the ones currently filling the majority of vacancies in formative adult nurturing centres and pre-educational institutions.”

There was a pause as the committee stalled at the lack of remaining colours. An impasse looked inevitable. A voice broke their ruminations.

“I think we are overlooking a very important part of this nursery rhyme.”

The committee looked towards the member.

“Well, if you ask me, isn’t this little ditty a little bit species-ist? Why does it have to be a sheep? What about other wool-bearing animals: llamas, alpacas, goats? Shouldn’t they have a say in all of this?”

 

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Camouflage

Posted on March 25, 2011 | 19 comments

Jake slipped into Biology class, head down, eyes up, heading for his usual seat near the window, close to the front of the room. The teacher wheeled a trolley out from the Prep Store. Lifting a large fish tank she placed it in the middle of the teacher’s desk, inviting the students to come forward.

The class crowded around the teacher’s desk staring into the large fish tank jostling for best viewing rights. It was converted into a terrarium, the top covered with thin wire gauze, filled with twigs of eucalyptus leaves. Jake found himself nearest one end of the fish tank with two girls peering around his shoulders. Heads swayed backwards and forwards, peering in, hoping to spot something.

Finally a curious student asked, “Miss, what’s in there? Apart from leaves and stuff.”

“Look closer. Look for shapes that look like sticks but perhaps are not.”

The class reconvened their search.

“Oh, look. There.” Jake pointed, his finger close enough to the glass of the fish tank to form condensation. He wiped it clean and pointed again before withdrawing.

“Where?” someone asked. “I can’t see anything.”

“Hang on, I can see it,” said the girl behind him. “It looks like a stick is hanging upside down.”

With the puzzle solved, exclamations of discovery sounded around the desk.

“Found one here.”

“There’s another on this side of the tank and it’s different again.”

The teacher began writing on the whiteboard, telling the class the scientific names of the occupants of the fish tank.

“What you see are phasmids, or more commonly known as stick insects. To be more precise, they are of the class Insecta and the family Phasmatidae.
The teacher removed the wire gauze and reached into the leaves. Drawing her hand out, a stick insect spanned the length of her hand, its legs dancing an insect version of The Robot.

“This little beauty is ctenomorpha chronus.”

“It’s like a pencil on steroids,” said one lad, causing laughter to erupt.

Jake laughed too, taking note of its pencil-like body shape, angular legs and looking for all intents and purposes, like a stick.

A few students recoiled, uttering shrieks and expressing shivers as the alien insect began to move along her hand.

“Can I hold it, Miss?” asked Jake in a bold show of visibility.

The teacher extended her arm towards Jake who offered his open palm to the insect.

Jake mimicked the stick insect’s movement with his head, rocking backwards and forwards, swaying like there was a breeze. He wished it was a fire-breathing dragon.

It had been hidden away in shape and hue. The camouflaged shades of green and brown and angular lines of legs shielded it from spying students. Outside the safety of leaf and twig the insect was vulnerable; Jake felt an affinity with the creature.

“Oi, dancing boy. Give us a go,” said one boy.

Unaware he had continued to mimic the insect’s actions ever so slightly, Jake’s face flushed. Extending his hand he watched the stick insect traverse the fleshy terrain.

The array of school uniform framing the edge of the teacher’s desk caught Jake’s attention. They looked like the leaves on a branch in their uniformity: white shirts and grey shorts for the boys and white shirts and blue skirts for the girls. A navy tie completed the camouflage.

Around the edges subtle differences emerged. Shirts tucked in and shirts tucked out. Ties adjusted to the top button, also done up, to ties flying at half-mast. Skirts exposing more thigh than covering it or knee length decorum. Blouses framed cleavage and an array of coloured bras, signals of defiance or signs of invitation. Hair was spiked, straightened, teased, gelled and preened while metal fragments adorned ears, eyebrows, lips and noses.
Jake loosened his tie slightly, fingering the top button until he felt the pressure of the collar release.

Returning the insect to its environment was a signal for the students to return to their desks. Jake retreated to his seat, blending in again as the lesson continued.

At the conclusion of the lesson Jake slipstreamed from the classroom to the corridor in the wake of the student body as it ebbed and flowed from one class to the next, pushed and pulled by the phases of the bell, disappearing from sight in a whitewash of uniforms.

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