Thursday 26 February 2009

United front (Kerry)

[Conversation between Peter Lalor (1827-1889, leader of the Eureka Stockade uprising in Ballarat in 1854 and, later, Speaker in the Victorian Legislative Assembly) and Faith Bandler (1919- , Indigenous activist)]


“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Mrs Bandler,” says the elderly gentleman as he pulls back the dining chair with his one good arm.

His companion eases herself painfully into the chair and looks him in the eye.

“You can drop the Mrs Bandler bit, Peter. ‘Faith’ to you. And anyway, if you want to be correct it’s Dr Bandler. Mind you, not the sort of doctor that can do me much good these days, with my arthritis. My mind’s still good though.”

Lalor smiles graciously. “Very pleased to see you arrive yesterday. Never did get to speak to many aboriginal people. Sorry to say they mostly were considered a nuisance on the goldfields. Disgraceful when I think about it now. Hunted them off their own land. Not much on our minds but gold," he admits ruefully. "There were other injustices though that really got my goat. You know how people say; ‘I’d give my right arm for whatever’? Well, I did. Lost my right arm for digger’s rights. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Peter Lalor strokes his beard, musing on the sacrifices he has made.

Faith is touched by his bravery. “I’ve read some stuff about that Eureka Stockade. I think I know how you felt. About injustice, I mean. Sorry you lost your arm, but. I managed to fight my war without involving actual guns. Peaceful protests work if you’ve got the time. Maybe you didn’t. Or was it the hot Irish temper?” she adds cheekily.

Faith chuckles to herself.

Lalor is taken aback by her directness. This feisty woman intrigues him.

“They were raw times on the goldfields," he continues. "Didn’t strike it lucky and you starved. Having to pay a tax to dig whether you hit the lode or not really copped us hard. And those bastard policemen, ex-convicts most of ‘em, arrogant bunch, showed no mercy. Brutal, they were. Chained us to logs and left us there until we could get someone to produce our licence. We protested peacefully at first but no-one was listening." He pauses. "We were angry. Perhaps you’re right about the temper, but something had to be done quickly. There was corruption in the administration. Couldn’t trust anyone to listen or do anything to fix things up. Then they murdered my mate Scobie and we reckoned we should band together. Had to fight the officials as a united front,” he concludes vigorously.

Faith Bandler is struck again by the power of showing a united front. She remembers how her friend Pearl Gibbs got her along to her first protest.

“Just what Pearl used to say,” she responds to Lalor. “She wanted to bust up some Liberal conference. Said we should go and protest. I said ‘Who?’ and quick as a flash she said ‘You and me’. It’d never occurred to me before that that I’d have to get involved. In person, you know. Once you’ve done it though it gets in your blood. I wouldn’t have stuck my neck out without Pearl but after that day you couldn’t stop me.”

She reaches over and lifts their clasped hands in triumph.

Kerry MacAulay
27th Feb 2009

Sunday 22 February 2009

The Refugee (Jenny)

She arrived at sunset, cruising slowly around our cul-de-sac in a beat-up Toyota Corolla which once, long ago, might have been white. I watched from the kitchen window until I was sure she was trying to read the numbers on the letter-boxes, and then I went out to wave her into the driveway.

I was expecting a family - I had said a family when I registered - but she was on her own. A little too old to have children living with her, all salt-and-pepper frizzy hair, eyes squinty in a sun-darkened face, and not a confident driver. It took her three goes to get the Corolla parked beside the car port, by which time we had established that I was Julie and she was Patricia, and I could call her Tricia, but never Pat. We had also established that she was eternally grateful and it was really no trouble as far as I was concerned.

She had no bags, of course - she had been to Sydney for a concert. By the time I had made tea, I had a rare appreciation for the ins and outs of Australian folk music in the noughties.

"have you noticed how young the police are, these days?" she asked me as I handed her the tea. "The young fellow who told me the road was closed looked like we wasn't old enough to shave! But so polite, and the directions to the shelter were very detailed. Do you know, he had a zit right by his left nostril? I found it very hard to concentrate on the directions. Do you suppose they have Police-issue zit cream?"

She laughed. I nodded sympathetically. I had read up on trauma victims and crisis counselling while I was waiting for her to arrive. This was denial. Or perhaps displacement.

"My nephew wanted to be a policeman," she continued. "He actually started training, but they flunked him. I could have told him it was a bad idea - the police force have the quaint idea that recruits should follow orders. Our family has never been good at doing what we were told! He didn't have many zits, though - not like the young chap at the roadblock today."

She took a sip of tea.

"I wonder how long he had been there at that roadblock, that young fellow. He looked pretty tired. They all looked tired, actually, all the police and all the girls running the shelter."

She looked down at the cup, smiling.

"This is good tea. The tea at the shelter was dreadful. I think they made it from powder or something. Weak as dishwater. It's lovely to get a decent cup of tea."

"So it was busy at the shelter?" I prompted.

"Oh yes, an absolute madhouse. I had to park three blocks away, and I have a bit of a knee, you know, so by the time I got there it was starting to hurt, and there was a queue. A long queue, and all the shoppers going round it or pushing through it. Everyone was nice, though. Young Janine held my place in line so I could sit down."

She stopped for just a moment, looking away.

"Janine had her dog with her, you see. In the line. A gorgeous Border Collie, about three years old. So well-trained. I saw a Border Collie once doing a show at the football with a Frisbee ... Kenny, Dog Wonder, they called him. Apparently he had a TV show - did you ever see it?"

I shook my head.

"No, I had never heard of it, can't remember the name now, but anyway, he was incredible - the things he could do! He had one blue eye and one brown eye. Jumped up higher than a man and just plucked the Frisbee out of the air. Border Collies are wonderful dogs. So intelligent, and such hard workers."

She sipped her tea again.

"Do you have a dog, Julie?"

"No, not for a long time."

"You used to, though?"

"When I was a kid."

"What sort of dog?"

"Oh, she was a bitzer."

"As in bitzer this and bitzer that? They're the best kind, sometimes."

She twirled her cup reflectively.

"One of mine is a mutt - Heinz. You know, fifty-seven varieties. Donna is a kelpie. She's getting a bit older now ..."

Her voice dropped, so I leaned forward.

"I sat there, watching Janine with her dog, such a lovely dog she was, a real beauty, and I wondered how ..."

Her voice trailed off.

I wanted to tell her that her dogs were OK, that everything would be OK, that the fires would miss her home, that life would seem as much worth living tomorrow as it had this morning.

I wanted to, but I couldn't.

"Here," I said, reaching across the table. "Have a biscuit with your tea."

Fire (Kerry)

Fire

The sky had turned black. Dirty black. An ominous red glow close to the horizon warned of imminent danger. A scattering of birds flew through the trees propelled by the ferocity of the wind. Ash was already collecting in the lee of her house, away from the wind. The strong acrid stench of smoke was pervasive.

I could smell it on her now as she sat in my house, subdued, in shock. I had collected her from Central. She had said nothing on the trip home. Now in the safety of my house she was at last able to give voice to the open wounds of her experience.

She had moved to the mountains ten years ago and had never experienced anything like these conditions. All afternoon she had sensed a disaster. It was a searingly hot day. The leaves of the vines on the fence were wilted and scorched. The grass was dry from weeks of no rain. She had listened to the radio warning residents to put their fire plans into action. She had tested the solar generator and set it going so if there was a blackout the pump would keep functioning. The house was built to withstand fire, no gaps under the eaves, thickened glass in the windows, sprinklers on the roof and more sprinklers strategically placed in the bush. She had plugged the downpipes and filled the gutters with water. Everything was in place.

Suddenly she was startled to see the smoke billowing through the trees. The deafening roar of the fire was terrifying as it raced up to her out of the valley. A gigantic ball of flames was catapulted across the tops of the trees.

She had to leave immediately.

She ran to the car, dodging falling embers, blinded by the smoke. She turned on the headlights and drove, panic-stricken. Black smoke enveloped her on all sides. The bush grew right up to the edge of the narrow dirt track. Burning embers fell from the sky starting random fires. Trees were burning beside her.

Blocked by a fallen tree she was forced to abandon the car. Frantically she dragged the blanket out of the car, draped it over her head and ran. She could feel the scorching heat of the ash and burning embers through her shoes. The blast furnace on her face and arms threatened to consume her. She was alone, fighting for her life, willing herself to keep going.

Exhausted, she stumbled in to the fire station. She slumped against the wall, numbed and frightened, cowed by the horror outside.

I could feel her terror return as she remembered. She was weeping silently, reminded of the devastation. In a few days I would drive her back to the mountains. She needed to be there again, to walk through the charred remains, to mourn the dead. But not yet; the memories were still too raw.

Kerry MacAulay
22/2/09

Saturday 21 February 2009

The Fire - From Rick

She took another long drink from the tall glass of ice water.

“What really gets me is my naïveté”, she said. “I had 50 metres of cleared land on all sides of my house and it wasn’t nearly enough. Maybe 100 would have saved my, but I’m not sure.”

“The fire ranger came around a few hours before and warned me that the fire was getting closer and that I should consider getting out. We discussed the Victorian fires but both thought that I’d likely be ok to stay with my house and keep it wet. But we didn’t count on the winds.”

“My home was near the top of the valley and I could smell the smoke all day. Early in the afternoon the wind started to pick up and I should have trusted my instincts and just left. But I didn’t”

“About an hour later I could hear this roar, a lot like the Bondi Beach surf during a big winter storm. It was the fire, maybe about half a kilometer down the slope. And the force of the wind increased again. There were huge clumps of ash landing on my roof and yard and I was having trouble putting them out before another bunch would land. I still could have left but didn’t.”

“The roar increased dramatically and then I started hearing these explosions, sort of a combination of branches snapping and fireworks bursting. And the clumps of ash started to be branches now, some of them as thick as my arm. How could they fly through the air like that?”

“The smoke was beginning to get to me, stinging my eyes and searing my throat. Everything from my house down to the edge of the gum trees was a yellow-brown and swirling in the wind like small whirlwinds. Suddenly this huge branch flew over my head as if launched from some rocket nearby and smashed through my living room window. At the same moment, the gums at the edge of the bush burst into flame looking like some special effects from a war movie. Once years ago when I was a little girl our school class took a day tour to Newcastle and visited a steel mill. I remember feeling the heat from the blast furnace and thought then my skin would peel off. Well this time it started to do that. The heat was so intense my hair began to smoke and little blisters began to raise on my arms.”

“I was terrified but had the presence of mind left to run and jump into my swimming pool. I spent the next 2 hours at least under water, coming up only for a second or two at a time to take a breath. I thought each breath would be my last, the air was so hot. Explosions deafened me, likely my propane tank and the petrol tank in my car going up.”

“And then it became calm – well calm compared to the inferno. I climbed out of my pool and hadn’t enough energy left to cry. My house was still burning, although not a wall was standing anymore. I had nothing except the soaking wet clothes on my back.”

“I just started walking up the road. It was like walking through a land that had just been hydrogen bombed. There was nothing. There was no one else on the road and I walked and walked until I was out of the fire zone. And here was your house.”

“Thank you. I know what a war refugee feels like now.”

Friday 20 February 2009

No refuge (Heather)

A devastating bushfire has ravaged the Blue Mountains. You¹re well away from the fire and offer your home to anyone seeking refuge. A stranger takes you up on your offer. When she arrives she describes her experience in vivid detail.

There was the thump of boots on the front steps and I quickly looked up. An apparition appeared in the doorway, covered in dust and soot, with a tattered blackened jacket and pants that had probably been blue jeans in some better time. With singed grey hair and wild eyes, the stranger was unrecognisable.

Little Jeremy, sitting on the sofa nestled against his mother, who was nursing the baby, stiffened and leaned forward.

The apparition wasn’t unrecognisable to Jeremy. “Miz Johnson!” he shouted, electrified. He catapulted off the sofa and bolted to the door, wrapping his arms around the stranger’s knees. The new arrival dropped to one knee and held his face in her blackened hands. He twisted to look at her and poured out his story.

“Miz Johnson, Miz Johnson, our house burnded down and there was fire everywhere and my slippy dip melted and we RUNNED down the street and daddy’s off helping the firemans!” Overcome by his story, and his relief at seeing his old friend, he buried his face in her coat again.

It gave me a chance to pull myself together. It wasn’t a stranger at all, but was indeed Mrs Johnson from the house at the top of the street. I didn’t know her well but I’d chatted with her a couple of times, jogging by her place when she was in the garden. And I remembered that Jeremy’s family lived in the house next to hers.

I jumped up and grabbed her hand, letting go immediately when she winced. I said, “I’ll get you something for that. Are you okay? Do you have other burns?”

She looked at me with those wild, smudged eyes. “I’m okay. They said you’d offered your house as a refuge and someone dropped me off here.” She turned to Jeremy’s mother. “So you four are all right. You’ve lost your home too, but you’re all alive.” Jeremy’s mother nodded numbly. The look that passed between them told of the unspeakable thing they shared.

Jeremy pounded on Mrs Johnson’s knees again, demanding attention. “Where’s Pepper, Miz Johnson? Where’s PEPPER?” I remembered the little terrier who had greeted me when we had chatted on that far-distant day.

I forced Mrs Johnson into an armchair over her protests about getting it dirty. As I fussed about with cool water and burn ointment, she told Jeremy her story.

“I had hosed the house down for an hour and when the firestorm hit I ran inside with Pepper. I wrapped us both up in wet towels; we curled up in the shower stall and there was this deafening noise.” Jeremy nodded; he knew about wet towels and noise. “And then Pepper squirmed out of my grip and barked at me and danced away. I ran after him of course, through the flames and just as I got out of the bathroom the roof collapsed on that part of the house.”

“Pepper saveded you!”

“He did; he did.” She paused a moment. “He went straight out the front door, I thought we were heading into the heart of it, I lost him, I lost him, I threw myself into the little ditch at the side of the driveway and the fire roared everywhere around me and I heard the house go down and I heard the peppercorn tree explode. But I lost him…I haven’t seen him since, Jeremy. I don’t know what’s happened to Pepper.”

“Pepper,” Jeremy echoed, unable to find a sentence to attach to his feelings.

Folded within her ragged arms, he reached out to touch her face. They looked at each other, the old face and the young, both with eyes that had seen too much today. Jeremy tucked a thumb into his mouth and fell asleep in her arms.

Sunday 15 February 2009

A fresh start (Kerry)

I rise to my feet, step up to the podium, and confidently face the audience. The room is full, and buzzing with excitement and anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, silencing their spontaneous applause. “Creativity blossoms when you have the freedom to experiment and the time to allow ideas to mature. Underlying the process is hard work, daily practice, hours with the muse.”

I pause to allow this fundamental wisdom to be digested.

The brief hiatus gives me an opportunity to reflect on the preceding years.

My initial devastation at being laid off was short-lived. Nobody likes being told they’re not wanted but I had to admit I had never felt that the job at the council was stretching me. Being laid off was the perfect time to launch into something new. I toyed with some other jobs but I knew that I wanted to be a writer and this was the time to get started.

That first day was so daunting. For the first time in my working life nobody was paying me. Or even paying attention to me. I was living on my own resources. That really put the pressure on but I was determined to make it work.

I had set up the spare room for my studio. This was the space for my imagination to bud. Of course I needed a desk and chair and a computer, the practical trappings, but I had spent days making the space really mine. I’d hung some paintings and filled the bookshelves with my favourite books to stimulate my imagination. In the corner beside the armchair was a vase filled with flowers from the garden. Through the window in front of the desk I was able to gaze out at the ocean. I likened its pounding rush to a mother’s blood surging around the womb. This was to be my creative cave.

With high expectations I sat at my desk on the first day. Alone.

“Creativity flourishes in company, in conversations with friends, in walks along Main Street and in sharing your life with others,” I continue.

The audience is listening in hushed silence.

I recall again that first day and my frustrated beginnings as a writer.

After an hour of re-arranging the papers on my desk, sitting with my head in my hands, and thinking ponderously, I rose and moved to the armchair.

I closed my eyes, relaxed and meditated for half an hour. Still no spark of inspiration had fallen upon me.

I took a coffee outside and wandered around the garden.

I was finally released from the agony of inactivity when my new neighbour called out from his back verandah and invited me in. We talked about the world and the state of the nation. We laughed about life and human foibles. We listened to each other’s disappointments and successes. I was connected again to humanity. My creativity ignited, I hurried back to the studio.

“To create you must participate fully in life,” I conclude.

The audience rises and claps rapturously as I humbly accept the Man Booker Prize.

A Day to Remember (Gordon)

It was a hot and dry summer. No job, family parted. The doorbell rang with a persistence that echoed with a vibration through the house. It rang three times before I could run down the stairs to open the door. I wondered, as I rushed, will the visitor have turned away. As I opened the door I could see it was James, my neighbour. “Hi James, how are things?” “Fine” he replied. He stood at the door with an awkward stance as though one leg were longer than the other. It was as though he were ready to run away. He said: “I hear you are out of a job?” “Yes”, I said with a soft uncertainty. “You know, I have just bought a small farm and I am looking for a share farmer. What do you think?” I was startled.

There was a long pause. My mind was racing. I had no experience with farming. How could I look after a farm? I knew nothing about it? Could I make enough money? What would I do with my townhouse? Would I need to have money? How much money would I earn? Would it be enough?

I said: “James, come in--we need to talk.” I waived him inside. James came through the door with a sort of a limp and an awkward walk and we shook hands. “What about a cup of coffee?” I asked. “Sure” he said.

The deal was done. I signed the share farming agreement and so began my new career.

There was only time to pack my bags and drive the 100 kilometres to the farm. “About 2,000 hectares and 3,000 sheep” James said, with excitement. He drove and talked of his dreams every moment of the way. It was his life savings, and more, invested in this farm but his health was not up to what was needed. He needed someone he could trust. How I felt buoyed by the life change this represented. We turned off the highway and into a lane of tall white gums overhanging both sides of the gravel road. The ground was undulating, dry and covered with scattered yet elegant grandfather trees. “Here we are” James said. This will be your house. It had a veranda surrounding a stone building, at least 100 years old. The only words I could utter were: “Wow this is fantastic.”

We walked around the house, we walked into each of the sheds—the shearing shed, the machinery shed, a garage, three large water tanks, a grain silo, stock yards and jetting equipment. There was a utility with a water tank beside it.

Suddenly, I felt a movement under my boot. I looked down—it was a snake urgently slithering through the long grass beside the machinery shed. I screamed: “Hell! James, help.” I ran and ran and in my mind ran even further past the utility, past the house and into the car. My blood was pumping like I had never experienced before.

Gordon MacAulay
15 February 2009

Funnier than you think (Heather)

You were recently laid off. Instead of moping around, you've viewed it as a chance to start fresh. Pick a new career and write about your first day on the job.

I lean my forehead against the coolness of the brick wall and breathe deeply. My heart is still thundering and my face must be flushed to its richest beet red.

In the effort to calm myself, I mentally thumb through the Facebook chat conversation about four weeks ago that started this whole thing.

Me: “i lost my job today. can you believe it?”

Friend: “buggah – no good!”

Me: “boss cried & said i was best trainer ever, so sorry to have to let me go. i had to cheer him up”

Friend: “creep. RU okay?”

Me: “no. am thinking of having a nervous breakdown”

Friend: “is more to story?”

Me: “creepface stopped support payments last month and i had to renegotiate my house loan. cost me $33k in fees”

Friend: “yikes”

Me: “all rels are in South Africa so no one to hold my hand through nervous breakdown, will have to give it a miss”

Friend: “am laughing though situation not funny. only YOU are funny”

Me: “natasha says, mummy you think you are funny but you are not funny”

Friend: “LOL. have you thought about Standup?”

Me: “unlikely to put food on table”

Well, there’s been some water under the bridge since then.

In the spirit of putting food on the table, I dived into my favourite occupation on the face of the earth – looking for work. How I love updating the resume with that skilful walk-the-line between fabricating accomplishments and understating my true glory. Making the hundred small decisions in dressing for unknown strangers. Travelling to obscure destinations and never being late. Smiling and dodging bullets and trying to be nice, tough, competent and flexible all at once. It drove me nuts – but I found a day job that will keep the wolf from the door.

But here’s the thing: I was gripped by the whole standup idea. As a trainer I was used to holding my own at the front of the room. As an ex-South African, I had self-deprecation down to an art. As a mum and divorcee, I had stories to tell to fill a year of nightly engagements. Why not give it a go?

So one afternoon I headed down to the Komedy Klub and introduced myself to Pete the Proprietor. He snarled, growled, insulted me, shoved his big paunch around and ended up inviting me to come down and face the hoards on Wednesday Amateur Night.

Which brings us up to date. Wednesday Amateur Night finished about 20 minutes ago, with yours truly bringing the evening to a close with my first ever 5 minute routine. I did all right. I got some laughs, shovelled dirt all over a heckler, got applause at the end and now am standing here in a dark corridor at the back trying to collect myself.

A voice calls out. “Sunshine, you still here?”

It’s Painful Pete. He spots me. “C’mon to the bar, I’ll shout you a drink.” I follow him.

“Awright, kid. Here’s a scotch on the rocks for a decent show tonight. And $50 for cabfare home. And there’ll be another $200 if you show up on Friday night and make ’em laugh like you did tonight.”

My heart skips a beat. I do believe I hear my new career calling.

Saturday 14 February 2009

The new job - Sue

The local bus pulls away and trundles up the lane surrounded by clouds of red dust and dirty exhaust fumes. Arnie shades his eyes and watches his link to civilization disappear. The sun blasts from a clear blue sky, shimmers off the dirt road and sends drops of sweat to Arnie’s lips. His grey check shirt sticks like cling wrap to his wet soggy back and his hair resembles a grease ball.
Arnie’s tummy gurgles and flip flops as he suddenly realizes what he’s done. Two months ago he lost his job in the City. He’d been a prominent member of the Accounts Department at Russells and Jones, having worked his way up from a payroll clerk. His income paid for a reliable, boring way of life. An apartment on the river equipped with all the technological stuff imaginable, an annual overseas trip, a nice girlfriend and mates from schooldays. They met every Friday night at the pub.
In his spare time, and there was plenty, he took his trusty old Nikon out for the day.
Arnies tummy gurgles again and he remembers where he is. The dusty narrow lane leads to the ancient town of Perlew somewhere south of the Arizona desert and he’s standing under a crooked sign that points to the Bilboa track.
Arnie swallows, his tummy settles and he heads off across a dry creek bed to some distant but hopefully obvious track. It was along here that a couple of locals spotted a rare pink fungi and the National geographic had commissioned him to cover the story.
“God, how did this happen? I can’t do it. I’m going to make an absolute fool of myself. I probably won’t even be able to find the monstrous pink thing. I mean how do you find fungi? Where does it grow? How big is it?
He’d once entered a competition at National Geographic and he’d won. The photo, a fluke of course, was a brilliant capture of the eye of a tiger.
A track seems to suddenly appear, or is it a mirage? Arnie veers left between two man sized termite mounts. Just for a second, he chuckles as he plays hide and seek with no-one but his shadow. He weaves in and out of sandstone rocks of all shapes and sizes. Nothing stirs. It’s dead quiet. Now his armpits are streaming like waterfalls. The sun is relentless. There’s no shade. Only the flopping hat like Lawrence of Arabia shields his face.
In the distance trees cluster around what looks like a larger rock. Arnie s footsteps disappear behind him as he trudges on. The trees flop in the sun and slightly dance in the hot breeze.
Suddenly a loud cackle rips into the blue sky and a flock of bright pink cockatoos circle in the trees. Arnie crouches down and looks up to see a sea of pink, like a frilly eiderdown tucked around a branch.
“This is the life” he sighs “what another wonderful fluke”

Saturday 7 February 2009

Valentines Day - Sue

Bella winds her long black eye lashes slowly around the mascara brush, being careful not to smudge the jet black eye liner running between the corners of her eye. She blinks and brushes again. As she looks into the mirror she smiles. Her blue eyes look even larger than usual highlighted by the silver shadow and there’s just a slight pink blush on each cheek. Heart shaped lips outlined in a glossy pale peach complete her face which is delicately framed in long blond, slightly streaked ringlets. She smiles again and pats down her silver slinky top that stops just short of her knees as purple baggy trousers bounce down and flop around her bare feet.

She swings around and grabs the metal door handle and pulls. The door jerks, sort of clicks, jerks again but doesn’t budge. She jiggles the handle up and down. She jiggles again but ferociously this time and keeps going until red welts appear on the palm of her hand.

“What the hell”

“Hey, hey Mum, are you there? Mum? And bangs on the door. Then she starts kicking and banging. The noise just vibrates around the sleek bathroom, deadened to the rest of the house. She looks around but all she can see is glass. Clear panels surround the shower and are so smooth even a fly would have trouble reaching the top. The large frosted window was never designed to be open but a skylight is slightly ajar and a narrow strip of blue sky peeps into the room.

“Mum, Dad, for christsake is anybody there?” Her banging sounds like a full volume set of drums.

She senses a tear escaping from her left eye and just a tiny drop ambles down her cheek.

“Oh no, my eyes!”. A fine line of black is now heading for the corner of her mouth. Her curls start to drift around her face and her long wavy lashes are clogged and matted with tears.

Bella is dressed for a Valentines dinner with Josh. He’s 17, blond and beautiful and tanned from all his days at the beach. Today they celebrate 6 months of bliss. She sees him every day after school and they are inseparable at weekends.

“brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” her silver bag jumps up and down on the spot.

“My phone, my phone, oh thank you, thank you”

The ringing stops. The bag stays still. She rummages through the makeup, the hair brush, the tissues, the loose coins. The little silver nokia hides in the corner with bits of blond hair and a couple of sticky sweets.

“brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”

“Josh, Josh, thank god it’s you”

“What’s up puss?”

“I’m locked in the fucking bathroom”

“OK, calm down. What can I do?”

“There’s no one here, the door is jammed. There’s only the fucking skylight 10’ up in the sky”

“OK, I’m on my way”

The little tears are now waterfalls and the multicoloured makeup creates a kalaidescope over her cheeks.

“He’s never seen me like this. Hopefully love really is blind”

10 minutes later a rope appears through the skylight. A wicker hamper swings down to the floor followed by a bottle of bubbly followed by Josh with a rose in his mouth. They all cascade to the floor in a heap.

Trapped in the bathroom on Valentine’s Day

Bert bounced out of the shower, toweled himself down vigorously all the while whistling My Funny Valentine. In 20 minutes he was meeting up with his fiancée, Deb, for their first Valentine’s Day together. She was staying in town and meeting him at their favorite restaurant followed by a night at the opera and then back to the flat for a romantic finale to the day.

As he went to leave the bathroom, the door didn’t open and he smacked his forehead against the door. “What the hell is this?” he muttered to himself rubbing his head. He tried the door again. Stuck firm. There was no lock on the door so somehow it must have jammed.

“Oh this is just great” he said out loud. “Just what I need.”

He gave the door a couple of good hits with his shoulder but it didn’t budge. “Damn I should have brought my mobile phone in. I could ring the superintendant to come and get me out.” Of course Bert never took his phone in when he was showering because it always got all covered with moisture.

He took a closer look at the door. Standard door, hinges in the bathroom because the door opened into the bathroom. “No problem” he said. “I’ll just remove the pins from the hinges and I’m outa here.”

But of course it wasn’t that easy. He tried prying up the top one with his fingernails but stopped when he bent his thumbnail back. He tried using the edge of his toothbrush and then snapped Deb’s nail file in two. “God, what sort of idiot doesn’t keep a hammer and screwdriver under the sink” he shouted.

Trapped. “I’m going to be late and I hate being late.” he nattered. “And I can’t even let Deb know. Think Bert, think.”

“Well the doors just going to have to come off.” he said to no one but his reflection. “No more Mister Niceguy”

Be backed up, lowered his shoulder and took a run at the door. The whole bathroom shook, enough to shake the fluorescent bulb out of its clamp plunging him into darkness as he bounced off the steadfast door and back onto the floor where he banged the back of his head sharply on the toilet.

He wasn’t sure what hurt worst: his shoulder (that was going to bruise!), his head (there would be lumps), his throbbing thumb or his pride. He grabbed the edge of the tub and as he lifted his aching body from the floor there was some rustling at the door and it suddenly flew open.

There bathed in light was his beautiful Deb, nude except for 3 strategically placed hearts that spelled out “Be My Valentine”.

“Oh no”, she cried. “I’ve totally ruined your surprise. I didn’t want you to come out until I was ready so I jammed a chair under the door knob. I’m so sorry. Look at you.”

As Bert gazed at her a bit gob smacked, he thought to himself, “Wow, I must be marrying her for her body” He also noticed that all of his pain was gone.

“Come on” he said picking her up in his arms. “I’ll show you surprised.”

They never did make it to the opera.

Friday 6 February 2009

In The Trap (Jenny)

Her eyes look strange in the mirror. Wild. Bigger than usual.

Her hair seems disarrayed. The few wisps escaping the French twist take on special significance, the fly-aways pointing in all directions like her racing thoughts, like the panic fluttering in her chest.

She runs the water over her hands, smooths the flyaways, poke ineffectively at the thicker wisps. Now they are wet, still sticking out, still drawing attention, but darker, more solid, more serious.

Those eyes are still wide. She closes them, tries to breathe deeply.

She has to think.

Still on her lip, the memory of hardness in moisture, the first innocent bump which began her descent into Hell.

She presses her lips with her fingertips, trying to obliterate the sensation, trying to return to the time before it happened.

Someone enters the restroom, and she quickly turns off the tap and dries her hands.

The other woman doesn't look at her as she finds a cubicle, and Jean is alone again with the wild-eyed woman in the mirror.

The background is dark – this is a fashionable hotel, and fashionable bathrooms have dark walls. The bright panel of lights surrounding the mirror throws her pale face into stark contrast. She has to do something.

Inspiration strikes, and she scrabbles in her bag for her compact. Blush is what she needs, blush and lipstick. Then she will look less ghostlike, less like she has seen a ghost, more like the woman who came in here when they arrived, all atingle with expectation.

A hotel, finally. After an almost endless series of dates involving coffee, kisses, and frustration. Tonight would be the night – or so she had thought.

David was a great guy in so many ways, she thought as she powdered her nose.

Then she remembered.

Nausea rose, making her pause and lean on the counter, breathing deeply.

What am I going to do?

She had overlooked so many clues. They were there, but she didn't want to see them.

He wasn't really comfortable in social situations. He didn't want to meet her friends. He was intense, very intense. Let's face it, she thought grimly, on some topics, he was flat-out fanatical.

But so good-looking, and so sweet and considerate. She had never dated a man who would hold doors for her, carry her groceries, and fix things around her apartment. And all without expecting the obvious in return.

Not that she would have minded, after the second date. In fact, she had been concerned at one point, that he might be gay. Until he kissed her.

Three months of flirting and uncertainty until he kissed her.

But then, like a dam breaking, he poured out his love for her, his devotion, and she expected ... well, to kiss her and say all that, and then to just leave. Suddenly. Awkwardly.

She had written it off as shyness, or possibly inexperience. She knew he hadn't had a serious relationship since his high school sweetheart dumped him.

All signs, damn it, all hints she could have recognised, had she not been do damn blind.

The nausea was subsiding, and she stiffened her spine and started powdering again, keeping her attention firmly focused on her makeup while the other woman flushed, emerged and watched her hands.

Jean had to resort to reapplying eyeshadow and mascara to stretch it out until the other woman left.

Then she was alone with her question. What am I going to do?

Stupidly, she had fallen for the guy. The thought of being without him, of never pressing against his naked chest, of never seeing his naked body, the thought of going on alone, caused a searing pain under her ribs.

But the price was clear.

After that bump against her lip, she knew she could never look forward to a delightful gradual expansion of their relationship into nakedness, sensuality, and sexual passion.

That was not on offer.

She had pretended not to notice the bump, excused herself, almost running to the bathroom, because she had to get some space. She had to think.

It was Valentine's Day, and instead of a seduction, David had something else in mind.

How could he do this to me?

She had already been in here far too long. But she couldn't go back out there. She couldn't face him. She couldn't look into that gorgeous face, into those loving, hopeful eyes, and let him know that she had found the ring in her champagne. That she had found the ring, and felt immediately betrayed, manipulated, and trapped.

We haven't ever made love, she told herself for the hundredth time. How could he possibly ask this of me? How could I possibly know what to answer?

She had run out of makeup to reapply. The minutes were still ticking.

Outside in the restaurant he sat at their table, with the candles and flowers, watching the bubbles form and rise in her slowly warming class of champagne.

Waiting.

Thursday 5 February 2009

A time for loving (Heather)

Create a short story of 500 words or less out of “trapped in the bathroom on Valentine’s Day”.

Amy slammed the door shut behind her and leaned back, breathing deeply. The doorknob had come off in her hand; they stared at each other reproachfully but that was the least of her worries at the moment. More to the point was the reproachful look on the face of the guy back at the restaurant table, shortly after he had fished a little diamond out of his pocket and she had lurched from her chair mumbling something about needing to throw up.

She rubbed her forehead and reflected. David was an airline pilot and she had fallen in love the moment she saw him in his stunning uniform (she had a thing for uniforms). She had fallen out of love not too long after that, about the third time he stood her up in order to tend to his mother’s demands. Her romantic flyboy had dissolved into a mama’s boy somewhere over the last few weeks, and marriage was suddenly ’way out of the equation. Now, here they were at a cheap Italian restaurant on Valentine’s Day, with her passion ebbed and his settling into matrimony.

After a few minutes of appreciating the safety of a locked bathroom (although no door handle, no window, no comforts, no class), she realised that the rock in the box had galvanised something in her that had been wanting resolution. Time to face the music and send him home to mama.

The door, however, was not quite in tune with her intention. Even unlocked with the door knob stuck back in, it wouldn’t budge. After circling the room a few times, she tentatively beat on the door and called out.

She recognised their waiter’s big bass voice and pictured his 150 kilos of flesh outside the door. “Hey, who’s that? You stuck in there?”

“The door knob’s come off. I can’t get the door open.”

“My God, that’s no good.” There was some breathy pulling, a few twists of the doorknob, and suddenly a groan and the sound of something very large and soft falling to the floor.

“You okay?” she called, forehead to the door. No response. Her heart tripped a little and she leaned against the door, calling loudly. But the commotion outside overrode her own little hullabaloo. She picked up snippets of panicky conversation.

“Holy shit, Alphonso’s down. Mother of God...pulse...dead...”

“Somebody ring the doctor.”

“Jesus Christ, pay attention, Paulo...”

“...IDIOT...oil everywhere...”

And a loud: “Somebody ring the fire department!”

This was followed by several minutes of chaos where Amy’s pounding disappeared into a general cacophony of shouting, crying, banging, dragging and eventually sirens. At one point she heard David’s anxious voice: “Amy, are you in there? Are you okay? They’re forcing us to leave now – I’ll make sure you get out.”

Amy slid down the door, which admittedly was feeling somewhat warmer. Either her life was completely in the grip of forces beyond her will or else fate was being entirely capricious in interpreting her will. Either way, it all looked pretty touch and go.

“Back away,” someone shouted, and she did. There was a sharp blow and a cracking sound, and the door gave way as if it were a recipe being torn out of the Sunday papers. A strong arm grabbed her and swung her up into the sturdy embrace of a magnificently uniformed fireman. “Come on, gorgeous, let’s get you out of here.”

She stared into his wonderful face. “I am SO yours,” she murmured, leaning in tight.

Valentine's Day Cliche (Kerry)

(Create a 500 word story out of trapped in the bathroom on Valentine's Day)

The arrogance! The insensitivity! I thought I knew the guy. How could I have been so wrong? The scene flashes unbidden into my mind. I was so embarrassed and angry.

An invitation to The Whalers had certainly impressed my friends. The fancy restaurant, expansive ocean views, and reputedly great food were exciting, and flattering I have to say. We had a table out on the deck and the waiters were very attentive. In honour of Valentine’s Day, they brought a bottle of champagne to the table first up, on the house.

It was when John announced that he already done the ordering for both of us that I began to get a little uncomfortable. My disquiet increased when all the old Valentine’s Day clichés appeared.

I really like oysters but at The Whalers I had been looking forward to sampling their signature tuna entrée. I know that sounds ungrateful but I’m not likely to be back there in this lifetime. The lobster main was delicious. Aphrodite would have been in her element but I’m not really one to enjoy all that dripping and oozing. As for sucking the fingers and other disgusting displays, no thanks.

The ultimate aphrodisiac dessert has to be passionfruit pavlova; sweet white fluff smothered with whipped cream and seductive passionfruit. John had obviously forgotten that I’m allergic to eggs. I scraped some of the passionfruit off the top but it was far from satisfactory.

By then I was embarrassed. I felt I had taken the shine off the night by being less than enthusiastic about the meal. But John hadn’t seemed to notice. He was on a high, excited and chattering. My likes and dislikes were the least of his worries.

My worries increased however when the violinist came alongside the table and began serenading us. At the same time the waiter reappeared with a plate of chocolates. Perched in the centre of the chocolates was a red velvet box.

My heart sank.

John picked up the box, got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. Just like that.

I realised that the other guests in the restaurant were in on the surprise. They had all stood up and were waiting expectantly.

I stared at him. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Anger flooded through my body, overwhelming me. I pushed back my chair and fled from the restaurant. I felt the sharp intake of breath from the guests as I passed.

The only refuge I could find was this toilet block on the beach. I came in here and cried my eyes out. I think I must have dozed off. Next thing I know it’s dark and the door is locked. There’s nothing to sit on unless you count the silent line of loos in the cubicles on the opposite wall. And plenty of time to consider my predicament before the council worker unlocks in the morning.

Sunday 1 February 2009

The story of the locket (Heather)

Write a 500-word story about 'letting go' with a factory worker as the main character and a locket as the key object. Set the story in a small apartment.

I’m sitting there at my computer, playing SpaceAge and getting pretty battered, knackered as I am from standing on the assembly line all day. I’ve got the sound turned down low so the witch upstairs doesn’t start banging on my ceiling with her broom handle. I hear the knock on the door, a good loud determined knock. Who the fuck could THAT be? I pause the game and make for the door.

Standing there on the doorstep is this little old grey haired lady, who says, “Hello; is this Matthew?” in a mincy accent. I say, “Yes, and who are you?” And then, if you can believe it, she asks to come in. She says she has something important she wants to discuss.

I head her off at the pass. “I’m not interested in talking about God or Yahweh or whoever.”

She just pushes on. “No, it’s not that at all. It’s something rather more personal and important and please, can we speak inside?”

What can I do? I back in, hooking a pair of underpants that had fallen out of the laundry basket with my left foot and kicking it into the closet. She heads straight for the sofa in the living room, so I race ahead and sweep up the overalls, hard hat and take-away cartons.

She plunks herself down on the edge of the sofa like we’re at the palace or something, clears her throat, and out of her mouth comes the story that changes my life forever.

&&&

I don’t think I have ever felt so frightened in my life. I am standing at his door, knuckle to my lips, hoping my heart won’t give out on me before I get this thing done.

I hear the latch click on the doorknob and there he is, filling the door frame, glowering. My breath stops. He’s the spitting image of his father and Belinda’s presence sweeps over me. I think I might faint. I talk my way past him into his little apartment. He is so caught up with a bit of frantic boy-tidying that he doesn’t notice my state. I head for the sofa in the hopes that I’ll make it there before my legs – and my will – collapse. I clear my throat and begin my story.

&&&

The locket lies on the coffee table between them, open to reveal the tiny photo of the smiling couple on the left and the little boy, leaning eagerly toward the camera, on the right.

“I’d like you to have it. It has been an echo of love through all the sorrow,” Alice says. “If you want never to see me again, I will understand. But I want you to know that I am deeply, abidingly sorry. We were wrong; your grandfather was a hard-headed man. It has cost us all an unimaginable amount.” She swallows. “But for me, that is over.”

The mask he has kept on his face is swept away by the hurricane of a thousand angry questions, which in an instant are washed to become just a thousand questions. And that turmoil is in turn swamped by an unfamiliar sense of a profound relief, of belonging. This old woman he has long forgotten is his family – she too has been caught in a tragedy of prejudice, death, loss and heartache.

In an electrical arc of insight, he sees what has brought her here.

He cannot yet look at her, but he reaches for the locket.

Letting Go - Rick

Steve D’Amico closed the hall door, went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of VB. He had done this every weekday night for the past 4 years and knew that this would be his first beer of many that night. This too had become a ritual – to drink himself to oblivion 7 days a week.

Steve is 32 going on 50. He’s exhausted after another 8 hour shift on the Holden assembly line. 5 years ago he was a supervisor on the line, one of the youngest ever, but his spirit for work died with his spirit for life and after 2 demotions, he found himself back where he started. He knows he’s become an alcoholic and he doesn’t care. He never misses a day of work, always shows up on time and sober but never goes out with the guys anymore, never phones his family, never does anything but work and get drunk.

Loser. Quitter. These two accusations have been hurled at him so often that they no longer have any impact. He’s beyond self pity, beyond self loathing, beyond reach. He sometimes has thought of suicide but the act seems to intentional and full of purpose and he’s beyond purpose and intention.

He knows why too. It’s Marianne’s fault. He knows if she hadn’t died he wouldn’t be this way. And he knows that knowing this doesn’t make any difference to him either. When she died he lost everything. He has lost all capacity to feel.

As he sits on the couch drinking his beer, he picks up the small parcel that was in the mailbox this evening with the bills and junk mail. With no more interest than he took with the Woolie’s circular advertising grapes for $1.99 a kilo, he opens the parcel. It’s a small box. He opens the box and there is this little gold locket and chain. He checks the box and the wrapping paper, but there’s no note of any kind or return address. “Strange”, he thinks to himself.

He opens the locket and his heart stops. There in the locket is a tiny but instantly recognizable picture of Marianne and him. She has her arms around him and it’s the one that was taken 10 seconds after they had completed their first skydiving jump. They were both drunk on the juice of the jump and had never felt so alive before or since. They never jumped again, but they kept the picture on their bedroom dresser.

“Who could have sent this to me?” he asked himself. “I don’t remember giving anyone a copy.”

And as he gazed at their joyous faces, he started to cry. The tears turned quickly to soul-wracking sobs and he found himself curled up on the floor bawling his heart out. After what seemed forever he stopped and then did the strangest thing he had ever done in his life. He closed the locket, put it around his neck and dialed his brother Frank.

“Frank hi. It’s Steve. Want to go out for a beer?”