You wake up in jail and have no memory of how you got there. As you pace around the cell, you find five items in your pocket from the night before. As you look at each piece, the night slowly comes back to you. Write about your night, why you have these five items and how you ended up in jail.
A big nug.
That was her first thought. Her second was that she felt pain everywhere and wished someone wasn’t shaking her. As consciousness seeped in, she realised it wasn’t a nug she was staring at, it was a gun, settled on a hip, and it was likely attached to the voice that was penetrating the fog.
“Rachel! Rachel Bourke. Here’s your things; you can wash up at the sink in the corner and clear out. You’re lucky no charges have been pressed. Get your sorry hungover butt outta here.”
“Wum?” she asked, but the gun, the shaking and the voice retreated. She’d have to find out some other way where she was.
Okay.
One thing at a time.
She peered around her, trying to focus. For a moment everything looked like Strawberry Fields Forever, until she rejigged the wiring on her audios and visuals. Strawberry Fields receded and she could see benches, bars, a metal sink, an open door. Jail. She was probably in a jail cell.
Well, it was a start.
She stared at the little tray that had been shoved at her, trying to get the objects on it to take shape.
First object: her pocket book. Good. Credit cards there, drivers licence there, some cash there. But where was her handbag? That triggered the first memory: standing by her bed at home, deciding to leave the handbag behind to be safe. Safe? She tried to snag the context but gave up.
Her mobile phone was there too. She lifted it to her face. 5 missed calls from Toby. Okay. That released a flood of memory. Her brother Toby ringing to demand she come to the march with him. That’s right, the anti-Bush march. At the Opera House forecourt. “Time you got political,” he’d said. She’d wondered why you’d bother to get political about someone as void of intellect or principles as George W Bush, especially when he wasn’t even your country’s problem. But she’d agreed to go along to protect her radical little brother and his mob of activist uni friends.
So that’s where she’d been. At the march.
This was confirmed by the next object that lurched into her view: a scratched button labelled, “Go home Bush” and in smaller letters, “Oz says NO to police state.”
The next item on the tray sent a chill.
It was her watch, and the face of it was shattered. She remembered, oh, she remembered, she remembered in sharp images the sudden chaos: the police battling their way into the surging crowd, the bullhorns, reaching out for Toby, a baton striking down on her arm, flailing toward Toby, something, something happening...
Her hand flew to her ribs; she lifted her shirt to reveal a circular purple bruise with two small red spots in the middle of it.
Holding her breath, she reached for the last object in the tray, a business card.
“Peter Finch, Attorney at Law”, it said. She flipped it over. On the back, dashed in a hasty scramble of black letters, were the words, “I saw you get tased. Ring me.”
She leaned back against the wall to quell her trembling. The haze of concern and confusion worked itself into a laser point of fury. She reached for her phone and dialed.
“Peter Finch, please? Tell him this is Rachel.”
Sunday 29 March 2009
Saturday 28 March 2009
Sue. In jail
Jim tries to snuggle down. He’s cold and stiff and his feather duvet feels light, course and hairy. There’s no pillow, only his rolled by jacket. And there’s no mattress. He gingerly opens one eye. Little black dots dance into his vision and fuzzy bars wave against a small slot of blue sky.
“What the hell?” and he slowly opens the other eye.
The walls are almost within reach. They look like dirty grey cement. The door looks normal but it’s closed. As he sits up, his brain wobbles like a jelly just out of the fridge. He hugs the revolting, smelly blanket.
“Jail! I’m in jail! Good god what happened? Where am I?”
The shock wakes a bit of sense into his brain. He notices he’s wearing his dinner suit. It’s smeared with mud and patches of what looks like oil. The knees are torn and a bit of bloody flesh peeps through. He empties his pockets.
A dice, the ace of diamonds, a champagne cork, his bow tie and his wallet.
“Phew. Thank goodness I’ve got my wallet” and he lays out all the pieces like bits of a jigsaw.
“Well, the casino I ‘spose” he’s not sure.
His brain still wobbles but it’s starting to thaw.
“Casino?”
He pulls at his fringe, wrestling it into curls.
“Goddamn it man, think”
He picks up the black leather wallet, smooth from the years of sliding in and out of his pocket. He fondles it almost lovingly.
“What the fuck?” and he drops it like a hot potato. It’s empty.
He rests his head in his hands and tries to massage out his memory.
“Got it. You bastard”
A vivid snapshot of an ugly, skinny wretch of a guy jumps into view. He’s tall, blond and wears a red velvet bow tie. He’s got a grin that stretches from ear to ear. His arm is tightly around amy, his beautiful wife. Damn it, no. His ex wife. Jim grinned. God had he hit him. He’d socked him right in the mouth. Bits of tooth and blood had oozed down his face.
The lead up to the fight played before his eyes. It was his ex wife’s 60th and his kids had arranged a surprise party. Of course Jim was invited and slobber chops was obviously there. At the end of a very civilized party, although Jim knew he was drinking too much, the guys decided to keep partying and ten of then ended up in the back room of the local sleazy convenience store.
Jim rubbed his eyes as he remembered the thick smokey room, the champagne glass, one minute full and the next empty, then full again. He recalled Amy was there serving the booze. Every now and again she would casually lay her arm around ass holes shoulder.
The dice rolled, the cards snapped, the money came, went, came, went.
Then. The fight. Then. The rest of the night faded in and out and then went black.
“What the hell?” and he slowly opens the other eye.
The walls are almost within reach. They look like dirty grey cement. The door looks normal but it’s closed. As he sits up, his brain wobbles like a jelly just out of the fridge. He hugs the revolting, smelly blanket.
“Jail! I’m in jail! Good god what happened? Where am I?”
The shock wakes a bit of sense into his brain. He notices he’s wearing his dinner suit. It’s smeared with mud and patches of what looks like oil. The knees are torn and a bit of bloody flesh peeps through. He empties his pockets.
A dice, the ace of diamonds, a champagne cork, his bow tie and his wallet.
“Phew. Thank goodness I’ve got my wallet” and he lays out all the pieces like bits of a jigsaw.
“Well, the casino I ‘spose” he’s not sure.
His brain still wobbles but it’s starting to thaw.
“Casino?”
He pulls at his fringe, wrestling it into curls.
“Goddamn it man, think”
He picks up the black leather wallet, smooth from the years of sliding in and out of his pocket. He fondles it almost lovingly.
“What the fuck?” and he drops it like a hot potato. It’s empty.
He rests his head in his hands and tries to massage out his memory.
“Got it. You bastard”
A vivid snapshot of an ugly, skinny wretch of a guy jumps into view. He’s tall, blond and wears a red velvet bow tie. He’s got a grin that stretches from ear to ear. His arm is tightly around amy, his beautiful wife. Damn it, no. His ex wife. Jim grinned. God had he hit him. He’d socked him right in the mouth. Bits of tooth and blood had oozed down his face.
The lead up to the fight played before his eyes. It was his ex wife’s 60th and his kids had arranged a surprise party. Of course Jim was invited and slobber chops was obviously there. At the end of a very civilized party, although Jim knew he was drinking too much, the guys decided to keep partying and ten of then ended up in the back room of the local sleazy convenience store.
Jim rubbed his eyes as he remembered the thick smokey room, the champagne glass, one minute full and the next empty, then full again. He recalled Amy was there serving the booze. Every now and again she would casually lay her arm around ass holes shoulder.
The dice rolled, the cards snapped, the money came, went, came, went.
Then. The fight. Then. The rest of the night faded in and out and then went black.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Amnesia (Kerry)
Amnesia
The throbbing in my head is excruciating. I feel so sick. The nausea is overwhelming when I stand up. I ease myself down again onto the hard bed and close my eyes. I remember nothing of last night but it’s clear I’m in jail. Things must have got out of hand. Not my usual style. I’m generally very careful. I like to know what’s going on, no unnecessary risks.
As I roll over painfully I feel something sharp press in to my hip. The key I pull out of my pocket has a numbered tag on it. Looks like a locker key. It’s the key to my gym locker. Mostly people use their gym locker for a change of clothes but I have found it a very useful place for other things; temporary space for things that come and go, if you get my drift. I won’t go into too much detail here. I don’t want to incriminate myself.
My eyes are a bit blurry but I can see something stuck to the key. It’s a small square of aluminium foil. I peel it carefully off the metal and spread it out. I know exactly what this is for. There’s still some white powder on the inside. Nothing wrong with a little enhancement when you’re having a good time. As I said, I’m pretty careful. I’d never try to take it with me overseas or anything. You’d have to have rocks in your head. Seems I must have been having a bit of a party last night.
I dig in to my pocket to see what else I can find. The bloodstained tissue could mean anything but I reckon it collaborates my vague recollection of a party. I can be pretty belligerent when provoked, specially if I’ve been stoking myself up. Getting into fights is nothing new for me. I prefer to settle my differences amicably but sometimes there just isn’t any way the other bloke will see my point of view. That would explain my bruised cheek and the blood on the front of my shirt.
Inside the tissue there’s a ticket. It’s for the Big Day Out. That was yesterday. Looks like the pieces might be falling into place. I do remember looking forward to the Big Day Out. Now there’s a rumble. I planned to go with my best mate. What an opportunity to let your hair down, listen to some great music, and really party hard. Other years it’s been easy to get some extra partying ingredients into the show but I heard this year there were going to be some sniffer dogs about. I reckoned it would be worth the risk though; I look so respectable. So I did take some stuff with me. Not to trade of course, strictly for my own use. It’s coming back now.
My mate and I have a standing arrangement for the Big Day Out. Meet in the morning, do all the bands, have a quiet one or two then head for the nearest club. I remember being with him yesterday but we argued. He wanted to go home early and not party on at the club, reckoned I was boring him out of his mind. I took offence of course. The fight must have drawn the attention of the police. And, as they say, the rest is history.
I always carry my mate’s phone number with me when we’re out together in case we get separated. The scrap of paper at the bottom of my pocket bears that out. His name and number is scrawled across it in his handwriting. I’m going to hang on to it but I won’t call him yet. He can stew for a while.
The throbbing in my head is excruciating. I feel so sick. The nausea is overwhelming when I stand up. I ease myself down again onto the hard bed and close my eyes. I remember nothing of last night but it’s clear I’m in jail. Things must have got out of hand. Not my usual style. I’m generally very careful. I like to know what’s going on, no unnecessary risks.
As I roll over painfully I feel something sharp press in to my hip. The key I pull out of my pocket has a numbered tag on it. Looks like a locker key. It’s the key to my gym locker. Mostly people use their gym locker for a change of clothes but I have found it a very useful place for other things; temporary space for things that come and go, if you get my drift. I won’t go into too much detail here. I don’t want to incriminate myself.
My eyes are a bit blurry but I can see something stuck to the key. It’s a small square of aluminium foil. I peel it carefully off the metal and spread it out. I know exactly what this is for. There’s still some white powder on the inside. Nothing wrong with a little enhancement when you’re having a good time. As I said, I’m pretty careful. I’d never try to take it with me overseas or anything. You’d have to have rocks in your head. Seems I must have been having a bit of a party last night.
I dig in to my pocket to see what else I can find. The bloodstained tissue could mean anything but I reckon it collaborates my vague recollection of a party. I can be pretty belligerent when provoked, specially if I’ve been stoking myself up. Getting into fights is nothing new for me. I prefer to settle my differences amicably but sometimes there just isn’t any way the other bloke will see my point of view. That would explain my bruised cheek and the blood on the front of my shirt.
Inside the tissue there’s a ticket. It’s for the Big Day Out. That was yesterday. Looks like the pieces might be falling into place. I do remember looking forward to the Big Day Out. Now there’s a rumble. I planned to go with my best mate. What an opportunity to let your hair down, listen to some great music, and really party hard. Other years it’s been easy to get some extra partying ingredients into the show but I heard this year there were going to be some sniffer dogs about. I reckoned it would be worth the risk though; I look so respectable. So I did take some stuff with me. Not to trade of course, strictly for my own use. It’s coming back now.
My mate and I have a standing arrangement for the Big Day Out. Meet in the morning, do all the bands, have a quiet one or two then head for the nearest club. I remember being with him yesterday but we argued. He wanted to go home early and not party on at the club, reckoned I was boring him out of his mind. I took offence of course. The fight must have drawn the attention of the police. And, as they say, the rest is history.
I always carry my mate’s phone number with me when we’re out together in case we get separated. The scrap of paper at the bottom of my pocket bears that out. His name and number is scrawled across it in his handwriting. I’m going to hang on to it but I won’t call him yet. He can stew for a while.
Sunday 22 March 2009
[The Bundt Wrapped] - Kerry
“What are you trying to do? What are you doing with all that silver paper?” Gordon asks. He has just come in and is astounded by the tangle of aluminium foil apparently moulded roughly around a strangely-shaped object. I am binding it frantically with a length of white ribbon but the shape is defeating me.
“That’s not the outside layer, is it?” he enquires unbelievingly when he realises this is a wedding present.
I pull the ribbon tightly one way and it slips off somewhere else. In despair I unwind the ribbon and remove the layers of foil. Grudgingly I have to admit this mess simply wouldn’t cut it at the wedding reception.
The invitation to the wedding came weeks ago with an insert inviting us to buy a gift at the Myer gift registry. The wedding is in a few days but I only just went to Myers this week. Very little remained on the list; a coffee machine, a rolling pin, assorted baking pans and a box of Classic Scrabble.
Having first purchased the Scrabble, I also chose to buy a mysterious Bundt baking pan. The best way to think of it is as a high ring tin in the jelly mould style. But the most peculiar feature of this pan is that it is constructed of rubbery, silicone material. Its rigidity is maintained by a circle of metal around the rim. I struggle to imagine how to cook a cake in it.
However my more immediate struggle is how to wrap it. The Scrabble box is easy but how does one wrap a flexible, irregular-shaped object?
Straightaway I think of Christo. In 1995 he undertook a project called Wrapping the Reichstag. Yes, the actual Reichstag, in Berlin. Years before that, in 1969, he had come to Sydney and wrapped Little Bay, rocks and all. Surely I can get some ideas from him.
I would have to discard the normal wedding wrapping paper I had bought. There will be too many corners and bits that poke out and look ugly. I could try aluminium foil and crush the jagged bits. Or perhaps some fine net curtain material with some stretch in it. Christo tied down his wrapping material with rope. The equivalent for me could be ribbon, string or thread. I love the idea of transforming the gift with creative wrapping. I’m beginning to enjoy the possibilities.
But my attempt with foil is a disaster. I wonder why gifts have to be wrapped at all. Is an unwrapped present equivalent to arriving at the wedding with no clothes on? The ultimate exposure. I have to admit that the wrapping does beautify the gift, removes it from the mundane. It wouldn’t do to have the gift table with a jumble of household appliances and kitchenware looking like a sale table at Myers.
“You could just get a box to put it in,” Gordon suggests helpfully. I can see the logic in his idea but it has none of the creative romance of The Bundt Wrapped.
“That’s not the outside layer, is it?” he enquires unbelievingly when he realises this is a wedding present.
I pull the ribbon tightly one way and it slips off somewhere else. In despair I unwind the ribbon and remove the layers of foil. Grudgingly I have to admit this mess simply wouldn’t cut it at the wedding reception.
The invitation to the wedding came weeks ago with an insert inviting us to buy a gift at the Myer gift registry. The wedding is in a few days but I only just went to Myers this week. Very little remained on the list; a coffee machine, a rolling pin, assorted baking pans and a box of Classic Scrabble.
Having first purchased the Scrabble, I also chose to buy a mysterious Bundt baking pan. The best way to think of it is as a high ring tin in the jelly mould style. But the most peculiar feature of this pan is that it is constructed of rubbery, silicone material. Its rigidity is maintained by a circle of metal around the rim. I struggle to imagine how to cook a cake in it.
However my more immediate struggle is how to wrap it. The Scrabble box is easy but how does one wrap a flexible, irregular-shaped object?
Straightaway I think of Christo. In 1995 he undertook a project called Wrapping the Reichstag. Yes, the actual Reichstag, in Berlin. Years before that, in 1969, he had come to Sydney and wrapped Little Bay, rocks and all. Surely I can get some ideas from him.
I would have to discard the normal wedding wrapping paper I had bought. There will be too many corners and bits that poke out and look ugly. I could try aluminium foil and crush the jagged bits. Or perhaps some fine net curtain material with some stretch in it. Christo tied down his wrapping material with rope. The equivalent for me could be ribbon, string or thread. I love the idea of transforming the gift with creative wrapping. I’m beginning to enjoy the possibilities.
But my attempt with foil is a disaster. I wonder why gifts have to be wrapped at all. Is an unwrapped present equivalent to arriving at the wedding with no clothes on? The ultimate exposure. I have to admit that the wrapping does beautify the gift, removes it from the mundane. It wouldn’t do to have the gift table with a jumble of household appliances and kitchenware looking like a sale table at Myers.
“You could just get a box to put it in,” Gordon suggests helpfully. I can see the logic in his idea but it has none of the creative romance of The Bundt Wrapped.
Saturday 21 March 2009
something wrapped - Sue
In the 1930s breakfast was a formal affair. Even the dining room was formal with dark oak wooden furniture and heavy velvet drapes. Along the sideboard, silver lidded dishes hid the mandatory kippers and eggs. But it was the table that was so fascinating.
A white damask tablecloth covered the polished top. White linen serviettes neatly rolled into silver serviette rings lay perfectly alongside the heavy silver cutlery. In the centre there were the condiments, sugars and spreads. The sugar was neatly arranged in a little glass bowl. Cubes of white crystal balanced on top of each other occasionally slipping onto their sides. A pair of silver tongs, like a mini set of BBQ tongs lay across the top. The salt was in a tiny blue glass dish, slightly oval. It was loose and a tiny salt spoon with the base about the size of my little fingernail sat inside. The idea was to take a small amount onto the spoon and gently tap the spoon so the salt, hopefully fell evenly onto the food. The pepper was similar in a little matching dish. The butter was almost unrecognizable hidden under a fancy and intricately decorated china lid, with matching base. A little handle or loop was there to lift the lid. A big fancy teapot, always china and always with a funny woolly cover sat off to one side next to a jug of fresh thick creamy milk and a silver tea strainer with a matching dish. Sometimes someone would forget to use the strainer and big lumps of tea leaf floated on top of the tea.
Now it’s 2009. Breakfast is eaten on the run. Out of the fridge comes three cartons of milk, full cream possibly organic, lite and yuck, that grey coloured look of skimmed. The butter is cut into little thin rectangles wrapped in gold foil. Each pat is an individual serving of low fat butter and is usually an insipid shade of yellow. The pepper and salt, bought in bulk, are wrapped into small paper squares, the only difference between the two being the words “salt” or “pepper”. Even the contents look much the same.
Now the tea and the coffee are another story.
Tea bags, little see-through bags, can contain a myriad of flavours. Ranging from “real”, hopefully off the tea bush, to herbal infusions like peppermint or lemongrass. Then there’s Roibus meaning red bush, a strong tea look-alike from Africa but no caffeine. Yes believe it or not you can get decaffeinated “real tea”.
Coffee is almost as confusing. There’s caffeinated and “decaf”. There’s “real” as in ground beans which can be made as a filter coffee or using an Italian espresso machine in which case the coffee is wrapped into a little capsule, pre-packed for one. And there’s coffee bags, a larger size tea bag which packs just the right amount of ground beans into a little bag.
Today’s pre-packed hygienically wrapped food may be convenient but it sure generates a lot of waste. Just think of all the excess food and all that dreadful non biodegradable wrapping.
A white damask tablecloth covered the polished top. White linen serviettes neatly rolled into silver serviette rings lay perfectly alongside the heavy silver cutlery. In the centre there were the condiments, sugars and spreads. The sugar was neatly arranged in a little glass bowl. Cubes of white crystal balanced on top of each other occasionally slipping onto their sides. A pair of silver tongs, like a mini set of BBQ tongs lay across the top. The salt was in a tiny blue glass dish, slightly oval. It was loose and a tiny salt spoon with the base about the size of my little fingernail sat inside. The idea was to take a small amount onto the spoon and gently tap the spoon so the salt, hopefully fell evenly onto the food. The pepper was similar in a little matching dish. The butter was almost unrecognizable hidden under a fancy and intricately decorated china lid, with matching base. A little handle or loop was there to lift the lid. A big fancy teapot, always china and always with a funny woolly cover sat off to one side next to a jug of fresh thick creamy milk and a silver tea strainer with a matching dish. Sometimes someone would forget to use the strainer and big lumps of tea leaf floated on top of the tea.
Now it’s 2009. Breakfast is eaten on the run. Out of the fridge comes three cartons of milk, full cream possibly organic, lite and yuck, that grey coloured look of skimmed. The butter is cut into little thin rectangles wrapped in gold foil. Each pat is an individual serving of low fat butter and is usually an insipid shade of yellow. The pepper and salt, bought in bulk, are wrapped into small paper squares, the only difference between the two being the words “salt” or “pepper”. Even the contents look much the same.
Now the tea and the coffee are another story.
Tea bags, little see-through bags, can contain a myriad of flavours. Ranging from “real”, hopefully off the tea bush, to herbal infusions like peppermint or lemongrass. Then there’s Roibus meaning red bush, a strong tea look-alike from Africa but no caffeine. Yes believe it or not you can get decaffeinated “real tea”.
Coffee is almost as confusing. There’s caffeinated and “decaf”. There’s “real” as in ground beans which can be made as a filter coffee or using an Italian espresso machine in which case the coffee is wrapped into a little capsule, pre-packed for one. And there’s coffee bags, a larger size tea bag which packs just the right amount of ground beans into a little bag.
Today’s pre-packed hygienically wrapped food may be convenient but it sure generates a lot of waste. Just think of all the excess food and all that dreadful non biodegradable wrapping.
Thursday 19 March 2009
Do you remember? (Heather)
This is a story from my childhood.
I am nine (though I could be ten, or eleven, or twelve) and it is the mid-’fifties.
It is a warm July late morning (though it could be any day during the summer holidays, or even an autumn Saturday). My mother is in the garden picking peas (though it could be weeding carrots or painting fence or making raspberry jam).
I am making a lunch to take to my father who is working in the fields. I take six slices of bread from the package, on this occasion my favourite, white Wonderbread, rather than home-made tricky-to-cut. Four of the slices are for Dad, two for myself. I zip to the fridge for ingredients for the sandwiches: butter, Kraft sandwich spread and bologna. I find a leg of chicken left over from last night’s supper. I get a little plastic container from the cupboard and fill it with raspberries and cream. I boil water while dropping a couple teaspoons of instant coffee in the thermos. I remember spoons and a paper napkin.
I rip a sheet of waxed paper off the roll and place the sandwich carefully in the middle. I fold in each side, wrap and tuck. It looks just like Mum’s would.
Finally, I put the lot into a small cardboard box. I carry it carefully outside to where my red bicycle is leaning against the fence, and place the cardboard box into its sturdy wire basket (which is well-dented from a few good tumbles it’s taken). I shout goodbye to Mum and I’m off in a flash of pedals and spinning knees.
In the kitchen I might be a bit cautious, but here on my bicycle I know no limits! – I understand everything you need to know about gravity. I know every rut in the driveway, every dip and every rock I might hit. I sharply reverse the pedals to break when I reach the road, checking carefully for the remote possibility of an oncoming vehicle. I’m not keen on the prospect of getting caught in the ruts on the dirt road with a vehicle coming up behind me; it’s happened before and I don’t like having to climb off the bike, drag it onto the soft shoulder and wait like a fish out of water til the vehicle goes by.
Once I hit the road, I fly! I gain speed with every stand-up pedal stroke. The half mile or so to Souke’s Corner is covered in a flash. I lean into the turn and zip around the corner into the side road to our back fields. Here where I know I won’t be seen by anyone I experiment with a wheelie. I practice the world’s sharpest stop, with one hand on the thermos so it doesn’t fly out. I get a good head of speed up and squeeze my feet up onto the handlebars while my machine glides.
Best of all is when I realise I can hear the tractor and I know Dad is close by. I cruise through the gate into the field. He’s down near the creek, mowing (though on another day might be seeding, raking, combining or ploughing). He’s been watching for me, because he sees me immediately and waves.
As soon as he stops the tractor, I run to the toolbox and grab out the blanket we keep there. I spread it out in the shade under a poplar tree. I fish the box out of my bike basket and proudly lay out the lunch. I unwrap the sandwiches so he can get to them easily.
He is absolutely delighted with the lunch, exclaims over the sandwiches, can’t wait to get to the raspberries and cream, and tucks straight into the piece of chicken.
There’s a complete stillness in the air, in spite of the birdsong and buzz of grasshoppers and bees. My Dad and I sit on the blanket, chatting about important things.
I have never been so happy. (I am almost always this happy.)
Mission accomplished!
I am nine (though I could be ten, or eleven, or twelve) and it is the mid-’fifties.
It is a warm July late morning (though it could be any day during the summer holidays, or even an autumn Saturday). My mother is in the garden picking peas (though it could be weeding carrots or painting fence or making raspberry jam).
I am making a lunch to take to my father who is working in the fields. I take six slices of bread from the package, on this occasion my favourite, white Wonderbread, rather than home-made tricky-to-cut. Four of the slices are for Dad, two for myself. I zip to the fridge for ingredients for the sandwiches: butter, Kraft sandwich spread and bologna. I find a leg of chicken left over from last night’s supper. I get a little plastic container from the cupboard and fill it with raspberries and cream. I boil water while dropping a couple teaspoons of instant coffee in the thermos. I remember spoons and a paper napkin.
I rip a sheet of waxed paper off the roll and place the sandwich carefully in the middle. I fold in each side, wrap and tuck. It looks just like Mum’s would.
Finally, I put the lot into a small cardboard box. I carry it carefully outside to where my red bicycle is leaning against the fence, and place the cardboard box into its sturdy wire basket (which is well-dented from a few good tumbles it’s taken). I shout goodbye to Mum and I’m off in a flash of pedals and spinning knees.
In the kitchen I might be a bit cautious, but here on my bicycle I know no limits! – I understand everything you need to know about gravity. I know every rut in the driveway, every dip and every rock I might hit. I sharply reverse the pedals to break when I reach the road, checking carefully for the remote possibility of an oncoming vehicle. I’m not keen on the prospect of getting caught in the ruts on the dirt road with a vehicle coming up behind me; it’s happened before and I don’t like having to climb off the bike, drag it onto the soft shoulder and wait like a fish out of water til the vehicle goes by.
Once I hit the road, I fly! I gain speed with every stand-up pedal stroke. The half mile or so to Souke’s Corner is covered in a flash. I lean into the turn and zip around the corner into the side road to our back fields. Here where I know I won’t be seen by anyone I experiment with a wheelie. I practice the world’s sharpest stop, with one hand on the thermos so it doesn’t fly out. I get a good head of speed up and squeeze my feet up onto the handlebars while my machine glides.
Best of all is when I realise I can hear the tractor and I know Dad is close by. I cruise through the gate into the field. He’s down near the creek, mowing (though on another day might be seeding, raking, combining or ploughing). He’s been watching for me, because he sees me immediately and waves.
As soon as he stops the tractor, I run to the toolbox and grab out the blanket we keep there. I spread it out in the shade under a poplar tree. I fish the box out of my bike basket and proudly lay out the lunch. I unwrap the sandwiches so he can get to them easily.
He is absolutely delighted with the lunch, exclaims over the sandwiches, can’t wait to get to the raspberries and cream, and tucks straight into the piece of chicken.
There’s a complete stillness in the air, in spite of the birdsong and buzz of grasshoppers and bees. My Dad and I sit on the blanket, chatting about important things.
I have never been so happy. (I am almost always this happy.)
Mission accomplished!
Sunday 15 March 2009
A knife's life (Kerry)
Pub meals are the worst. The steaks are so tough. Bill always brings me out in preference to the worn-out hotel steak knives; their serrations have seen better days. Mine, on the other hand, has been a sheltered life. Spent lying alluringly on a collector’s shelf, showing off my fine carved handle and sparkling blade, my serrations are as splendidly sharp as ever.
I have very little experience with owners. Bill is my first real one. I mean he’s the first to actually use me. He simply came in one day and picked me up off the shelf. I heard him muttering something about liking the cut of my jib. I think he might have been referring to my bone handle. Next thing I know I’m being dropped into his smelly, dark pocket.
I confess to suffering a little from claustrophobia and being in this enclosed space was not a pleasant experience. However, using all my ingenuity, I managed to scrape a tiny hole in the corner of his pocket with the rough texture of my carvings. Just enough to give me a bit of fresh air. You may ask why I didn’t use my fine blade to escape but I am not equipped to self-propel.
Upon my word! Excuse me. We’re in the washroom at the hotel and Bill has dug me out of his pocket. He has flicked me open and is using me to pick his teeth. This is grotesque. Abominable. He wipes my blade on his trousers and closes me up. I cannot tolerate this gross misuse of my fine qualities.
I had been following some of the muffled conversations Bill had with his partner back there in the pub lounge. I am forming the opinion that Bill is up to no good. There was talk of ‘picking the lock’ and ‘keeping watch’. These are not activities I have been involved with before but I will have no choice of course if I am forced to participate.
I feel Bill’s hand. He is stroking my handle. I think he likes having me in his pocket. Now he clutches me and draws me out carefully. It’s dark out here. We’re outside in a laneway. Someone is breathing heavily. There’s no talk, just slow shuffling noises. I’m afraid. Bill has flicked me open. He’s pointing me.
He stabs. My blade slips easily through fabric, and into flesh. It’s warm momentarily then I am released to the cold air. Another stab. Another.
This is unbearable. I feel ill.
I am grabbed from behind. Another powerful thrust. I feel a shudder and hear a gurgle. A body slumps on the ground and I clatter noisily onto stones.
Someone picks me up and throws me. I spiral through the air, the wind blowing against my blood-smeared blade. The cold force of water slaps me unexpectedly. I have no resistance against its dragging current and slide slowly downwards until I feel myself settle ignominiously onto freezing mud.
I have very little experience with owners. Bill is my first real one. I mean he’s the first to actually use me. He simply came in one day and picked me up off the shelf. I heard him muttering something about liking the cut of my jib. I think he might have been referring to my bone handle. Next thing I know I’m being dropped into his smelly, dark pocket.
I confess to suffering a little from claustrophobia and being in this enclosed space was not a pleasant experience. However, using all my ingenuity, I managed to scrape a tiny hole in the corner of his pocket with the rough texture of my carvings. Just enough to give me a bit of fresh air. You may ask why I didn’t use my fine blade to escape but I am not equipped to self-propel.
Upon my word! Excuse me. We’re in the washroom at the hotel and Bill has dug me out of his pocket. He has flicked me open and is using me to pick his teeth. This is grotesque. Abominable. He wipes my blade on his trousers and closes me up. I cannot tolerate this gross misuse of my fine qualities.
I had been following some of the muffled conversations Bill had with his partner back there in the pub lounge. I am forming the opinion that Bill is up to no good. There was talk of ‘picking the lock’ and ‘keeping watch’. These are not activities I have been involved with before but I will have no choice of course if I am forced to participate.
I feel Bill’s hand. He is stroking my handle. I think he likes having me in his pocket. Now he clutches me and draws me out carefully. It’s dark out here. We’re outside in a laneway. Someone is breathing heavily. There’s no talk, just slow shuffling noises. I’m afraid. Bill has flicked me open. He’s pointing me.
He stabs. My blade slips easily through fabric, and into flesh. It’s warm momentarily then I am released to the cold air. Another stab. Another.
This is unbearable. I feel ill.
I am grabbed from behind. Another powerful thrust. I feel a shudder and hear a gurgle. A body slumps on the ground and I clatter noisily onto stones.
Someone picks me up and throws me. I spiral through the air, the wind blowing against my blood-smeared blade. The cold force of water slaps me unexpectedly. I have no resistance against its dragging current and slide slowly downwards until I feel myself settle ignominiously onto freezing mud.
The Knife and the Thief (Gordon)
The Knife and the Thief
For months, I lay on the store shelf, sensing the world around me. There were many sounds but not my language. It was lonely. My place was on a high shelf above the reach of small people and I was electronically activated.
Late one afternoon, a shadow passed over me making my world dark for a moment. Swiftly, and very lightly, two fingers clasped me and I was carried into the palm of a hot sweaty hand. In a seeming rush of air I was suddenly squeezed tight. I could no longer see or even hear but could feel the warmth of the hand pressing hard on me. With a sense of being moved in slow moving leaps and bounds I was then placed in a dark yet soft pocket with cloth all around me. I was amongst keys on a round silver coloured ring, a soft and fluffy handkerchief and a dark shiny wallet. I tried to speak to them, but none understood. They must be from another country.
Again we bounced along for a little while and then stopped. I heard doors opening and shutting. Then, I felt a sudden downward movement as though going down a big hole. I remember the opposite feeling, long ago, of being lifted upwards.
The bouncing started again, and all of a sudden there was a very large sound of an alarm ringing. The bouncing became violent and I was so mixed up with the handkerchief and the key ring I could not sort out what was up or down. Quickly the rapid motion slowed to regular leaps and bounds with bouncing in amongst the key ring, handkerchief and wallet. They were chattering to themselves in a rather excited way. I sensed that something was wrong. Eventually, all was calm and my life settled down to sitting inside a pocket, day after day.
It was a hot steamy evening and I travelled a long distance listening to the throaty roar of a motorbike engine. It stopped. A ragged and aggressive argument pursued. The warm sweaty hand took tight hold. I sensed anger, panic and threat but could see nothing of the drama that was unfolding. I could sense pushing and shoving as I moved backwards and forwards. It was terror unfolding. Then, held so tightly I was nearly strangled, I was taken out of the pocket and my blade opened. In the bright sunlight I could see a very tall man and I was in the iron-fisted grip of another.
With a frightening lunge, I was headed for the chest of the tall man, slightly at an angle. My silver blade was ready to penetrate his rib cage when I was hit so hard that I flew, spinning, up into the air and into the middle of a large tree. My blade smashed into the bark. I stuck there. There I hung, year after year, rain wind and snow, wondering how close I came to killing that tall, good-looking man.
Gordon MacAulay
15 March 2009
For months, I lay on the store shelf, sensing the world around me. There were many sounds but not my language. It was lonely. My place was on a high shelf above the reach of small people and I was electronically activated.
Late one afternoon, a shadow passed over me making my world dark for a moment. Swiftly, and very lightly, two fingers clasped me and I was carried into the palm of a hot sweaty hand. In a seeming rush of air I was suddenly squeezed tight. I could no longer see or even hear but could feel the warmth of the hand pressing hard on me. With a sense of being moved in slow moving leaps and bounds I was then placed in a dark yet soft pocket with cloth all around me. I was amongst keys on a round silver coloured ring, a soft and fluffy handkerchief and a dark shiny wallet. I tried to speak to them, but none understood. They must be from another country.
Again we bounced along for a little while and then stopped. I heard doors opening and shutting. Then, I felt a sudden downward movement as though going down a big hole. I remember the opposite feeling, long ago, of being lifted upwards.
The bouncing started again, and all of a sudden there was a very large sound of an alarm ringing. The bouncing became violent and I was so mixed up with the handkerchief and the key ring I could not sort out what was up or down. Quickly the rapid motion slowed to regular leaps and bounds with bouncing in amongst the key ring, handkerchief and wallet. They were chattering to themselves in a rather excited way. I sensed that something was wrong. Eventually, all was calm and my life settled down to sitting inside a pocket, day after day.
It was a hot steamy evening and I travelled a long distance listening to the throaty roar of a motorbike engine. It stopped. A ragged and aggressive argument pursued. The warm sweaty hand took tight hold. I sensed anger, panic and threat but could see nothing of the drama that was unfolding. I could sense pushing and shoving as I moved backwards and forwards. It was terror unfolding. Then, held so tightly I was nearly strangled, I was taken out of the pocket and my blade opened. In the bright sunlight I could see a very tall man and I was in the iron-fisted grip of another.
With a frightening lunge, I was headed for the chest of the tall man, slightly at an angle. My silver blade was ready to penetrate his rib cage when I was hit so hard that I flew, spinning, up into the air and into the middle of a large tree. My blade smashed into the bark. I stuck there. There I hung, year after year, rain wind and snow, wondering how close I came to killing that tall, good-looking man.
Gordon MacAulay
15 March 2009
And they call me Mac the Knife - Heather
WHEW.
Relax, mate, relax, I tell myself.
No kidding, a round of action always leaves me a-quiver – even a totally imbecilic round of action like that one was. I’m embarrassed to even tell you about it, but here’s how it happened.
I feel Robbie starting to tense up – Robbie’s the idiot upstairs I’m hanging with – and next thing I know, I hear him holler, “You there, hand over the bag,” His hand’s fishing around for me, and I’m thinking, ALL RIGHT!!! – some action on the road! – and then CLICK, he presses the button and, SNICK, I’m ready to go – and holy meat-ax, what do I see but a little old lady, 80 if she’s a day, cowering and hanging onto the strap of her handbag, and I’m thinking, Christ, I don’t DO little old ladies, and next thing SNICK and I’ve whistled through the STRAP of her bag, and they’re wrestling away over the handbag, and he drops me, and I accidentally take a slice off his bare leg on my way down, and I’m lying there thinking, “This is really some way to go”. Then Sandy comes to the rescue, barking so fiercely the old lady gives up and lets go of the bag. Robbie (miracle-of-miracles) remembers to scoop me up and off we go.
So now we’re sitting here, me lying on the park bench beside him, Sandy at his feet, and him cursing up a storm and trying to wrap some little handkerchief from the handbag around the bleeding leg. It’s enough to make me wish I’d been born a butter knife; I mean, if you couldn’t get a handbag off an old lady with a butter knife, you should think about changing your line of work.
Anyway, that’s the trio. There’s me, SCO – Switchblade in Charge of Operations. Next in the chain is Sandy, the sharpest canine I’ve ever worked with; notices everything, doesn’t miss a trick, always there exactly when you need him. And bringing up the rear is Robbie. Robbie is a long way from being the sharpest tool in the shed. The only blood this guy’s drawn so far is his own. He came close to taking his finger off the first time he pressed my button; he sliced a hole in his hand in his excitement the first time we got into action; he ripped an inch off his arm when he tripped over a guy’s briefcase. And now, this leg business, which is going to require a stitch or two if I’m not mistaken. If you were a little unkind, you’d say Robbie was hopeless. But he grows on you.
Not for the first time, I find myself wistfully remembering the good old days with Fierce Franz, sending people into the hospital left and right and every single one of them truly deserving it. Ahhhh, Fierce Franz knew how to play the game, but to tell the truth he was a little fixated. This more sedate pace with Robbie and Sandy as offsiders suits me somewhat.
So here we are, sitting on the park bench and counting today’s takings. From what I can gather listening to Robbie’s mutterings, it’s been another day, another 35 cents. Sandy gives him a sympathetic lick and we all watch the sun dip into the ocean.
Relax, mate, relax, I tell myself.
No kidding, a round of action always leaves me a-quiver – even a totally imbecilic round of action like that one was. I’m embarrassed to even tell you about it, but here’s how it happened.
I feel Robbie starting to tense up – Robbie’s the idiot upstairs I’m hanging with – and next thing I know, I hear him holler, “You there, hand over the bag,” His hand’s fishing around for me, and I’m thinking, ALL RIGHT!!! – some action on the road! – and then CLICK, he presses the button and, SNICK, I’m ready to go – and holy meat-ax, what do I see but a little old lady, 80 if she’s a day, cowering and hanging onto the strap of her handbag, and I’m thinking, Christ, I don’t DO little old ladies, and next thing SNICK and I’ve whistled through the STRAP of her bag, and they’re wrestling away over the handbag, and he drops me, and I accidentally take a slice off his bare leg on my way down, and I’m lying there thinking, “This is really some way to go”. Then Sandy comes to the rescue, barking so fiercely the old lady gives up and lets go of the bag. Robbie (miracle-of-miracles) remembers to scoop me up and off we go.
So now we’re sitting here, me lying on the park bench beside him, Sandy at his feet, and him cursing up a storm and trying to wrap some little handkerchief from the handbag around the bleeding leg. It’s enough to make me wish I’d been born a butter knife; I mean, if you couldn’t get a handbag off an old lady with a butter knife, you should think about changing your line of work.
Anyway, that’s the trio. There’s me, SCO – Switchblade in Charge of Operations. Next in the chain is Sandy, the sharpest canine I’ve ever worked with; notices everything, doesn’t miss a trick, always there exactly when you need him. And bringing up the rear is Robbie. Robbie is a long way from being the sharpest tool in the shed. The only blood this guy’s drawn so far is his own. He came close to taking his finger off the first time he pressed my button; he sliced a hole in his hand in his excitement the first time we got into action; he ripped an inch off his arm when he tripped over a guy’s briefcase. And now, this leg business, which is going to require a stitch or two if I’m not mistaken. If you were a little unkind, you’d say Robbie was hopeless. But he grows on you.
Not for the first time, I find myself wistfully remembering the good old days with Fierce Franz, sending people into the hospital left and right and every single one of them truly deserving it. Ahhhh, Fierce Franz knew how to play the game, but to tell the truth he was a little fixated. This more sedate pace with Robbie and Sandy as offsiders suits me somewhat.
So here we are, sitting on the park bench and counting today’s takings. From what I can gather listening to Robbie’s mutterings, it’s been another day, another 35 cents. Sandy gives him a sympathetic lick and we all watch the sun dip into the ocean.
Saturday 14 March 2009
Peter the pocket knife
“Phew” sighs Peter the pocket knife “I’m bushed” and he threw himself down into the corner of the pocket as far away from his master’s grubby hands as possible.
“Thank goodness, it’s the weekend. It’s sure been one hell of a week” and he sighs again to nestle further into the fluffy corner.
To clear his mind, he recaps on the jobs that he and Harry had done. Wednesday was particularly huge and his biggest challenge ever. The day had dawned grey and cloudy. Peter knew this because during the week his place overnight was the little brass plate beside the bed. Not the pocket. Anyhow back to Wednesday and inside the pocket, they’d left early to get to the school before the Mum’s rush. And what Mums! They were amazing. They’d roar up in their station wagons (a bit of power play Peter thought), open the doors and almost push their kids out into the school yard. For some reason they were always in such a hurry to get to the tennis courts. So Peter, and Harry of course, ambled round the corner too. Even from a distance they could see a pile of clothes, purses and bags heaped up onto the bench beside the courts.
“OK, so my pocket has a little peep hole. A barely distinguishable flap that I can lift up to see what’s going on”. Peter takes over telling the story to the dark pocket corner.
“Harry casually leaves me on the bench and wanders over to the courts to chat to the girls. Give them some coaching, I suspect, Harry thinks he knows everything”.
“Here’s what I had to do”. I jump onto the end of my red cover and a little sharp blade automatically pops up. It’s sharp and I think used to get stones out of horses hoofs. Or it can act as a spear and stab money. Notes of course. In just a few minutes I stabbed about 20 $100 notes. A good catch Eh! I wait anxiously in case the notes blow away in the wind but it’s only a few minutes before me and the notes are back in the pocket. Safe as houses.
Peter closes his eyes and rests at a comfortable angle into the corner of the pocket. All his blades including the cork screw and the stone remover have been removed as Harry cleans then over the weekend. Peter feels light and free, relaxed and sleepy. The pocket is inside a dark green denim pair of jeans. It sits sort of mid thigh and is deep and roomy. Apart from the peep hole, the pocket fastens securely, firstly with a strip of noisy velcrose and then a metal zip. The inside is soft and fleecy and often hides a couple of gems or earrings.
Peter wakes up with a start. He finds it difficult to breath. Something is filling up the space above him. He fumbles around and the something is soft, like material but squashed into a ball. The ball starts to uncurl and corners gradually slide towards Peter. It smells like lavender.
“What the …………….?”. Then he remembers the gorgeous young mum with long blond hair. He’d not taken any of her money but he had stolen her pale pink hanky. Just as a reminder that even pocket knives have hearts and are allowed to dream from time to time.
“Thank goodness, it’s the weekend. It’s sure been one hell of a week” and he sighs again to nestle further into the fluffy corner.
To clear his mind, he recaps on the jobs that he and Harry had done. Wednesday was particularly huge and his biggest challenge ever. The day had dawned grey and cloudy. Peter knew this because during the week his place overnight was the little brass plate beside the bed. Not the pocket. Anyhow back to Wednesday and inside the pocket, they’d left early to get to the school before the Mum’s rush. And what Mums! They were amazing. They’d roar up in their station wagons (a bit of power play Peter thought), open the doors and almost push their kids out into the school yard. For some reason they were always in such a hurry to get to the tennis courts. So Peter, and Harry of course, ambled round the corner too. Even from a distance they could see a pile of clothes, purses and bags heaped up onto the bench beside the courts.
“OK, so my pocket has a little peep hole. A barely distinguishable flap that I can lift up to see what’s going on”. Peter takes over telling the story to the dark pocket corner.
“Harry casually leaves me on the bench and wanders over to the courts to chat to the girls. Give them some coaching, I suspect, Harry thinks he knows everything”.
“Here’s what I had to do”. I jump onto the end of my red cover and a little sharp blade automatically pops up. It’s sharp and I think used to get stones out of horses hoofs. Or it can act as a spear and stab money. Notes of course. In just a few minutes I stabbed about 20 $100 notes. A good catch Eh! I wait anxiously in case the notes blow away in the wind but it’s only a few minutes before me and the notes are back in the pocket. Safe as houses.
Peter closes his eyes and rests at a comfortable angle into the corner of the pocket. All his blades including the cork screw and the stone remover have been removed as Harry cleans then over the weekend. Peter feels light and free, relaxed and sleepy. The pocket is inside a dark green denim pair of jeans. It sits sort of mid thigh and is deep and roomy. Apart from the peep hole, the pocket fastens securely, firstly with a strip of noisy velcrose and then a metal zip. The inside is soft and fleecy and often hides a couple of gems or earrings.
Peter wakes up with a start. He finds it difficult to breath. Something is filling up the space above him. He fumbles around and the something is soft, like material but squashed into a ball. The ball starts to uncurl and corners gradually slide towards Peter. It smells like lavender.
“What the …………….?”. Then he remembers the gorgeous young mum with long blond hair. He’d not taken any of her money but he had stolen her pale pink hanky. Just as a reminder that even pocket knives have hearts and are allowed to dream from time to time.
Sunday 8 March 2009
Sleeper (Jenny)
Sleeper (Jenny)
Trina didn't know what she had seen, that day. The events of that day
merged seamlessly with the rest of her ordinary middle-class childhood -
barely remembered, and certainly not remembered in any detail. Just one
of series of ordinary days, part of an ordinary childhood in an ordinary
street, somewhere in an ordinary suburb of a middle-sized city.
She remembered dropping her apple.
The big old oak tree in the woods was a favourite place, but you had to
be careful to hold tightly to whatever you carried up there.
Earlier experiences had taught her to take a bag with her, swinging off
her shoulder on a leather strap, banging inconveniently as she climbed,
a nuisance, but a necessary nuisance if hunger was not to drive her out
of her eyrie long before she otherwise would have left.
But she was eating the apple this day, so it wasn't in the bag.
It was in her hand when she heard the voices, and peered through the
branches at the people below.
It was hard to see, and it took her a while to find the right vantage point.
The man had thinning hair, and he combed it over - she remembered
wondering why he did that. She had asked her mother, but the response
was sufficiently unsatisfying that memory had failed to record it.
The girl was wearing the uniform of the local high school, dark blue
skirt, white shirt. Her hair was dark blonde.
Trina watched through the branches, catching glimpses here and there,
hearing the voices without really understanding the conversation, but
understanding all too well the tone. The hushed voices, the giggles, the
pauses to scan the surroundings - all these subconscious clues of
deception grabbed her attention and held her riveted, even though she
couldn't make sense of what she was seeing.
Until she dropped her apple.
Helplessly, she watched it bounce - once, twice, three times - against
branches, praying it would divert its course far enough that she would
escape detection.
The noises from below stopped as the apple hit the ground with a sodden
thump.
There was a breathless pause, and the man said "what was that?"
"Nothin'," said the girl, without straightening up to look around.
"Hurry up an' finish, now, I've got to get 'ome."
The man's head turned, this way and that, the bald patch rotating
between the branches. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it
started its back-and-forth motion, and the noises resumed.
Trina stayed perfectly still until they had finished, and walked off in
separate directions. She waited a long time more, just to be sure,
before climbing down.
It was fifteen years later when she realised what she had seen. The
morning paper, the headlines, pictures of the church minister and the
three women accusing him of molesting them when they were schoolgirls.
Funny, thought Trina, frozen in place, staring at the front page. You'd
think he'd have given up on the comb-over by now. There's almost nothing
left to comb ...
Trina didn't know what she had seen, that day. The events of that day
merged seamlessly with the rest of her ordinary middle-class childhood -
barely remembered, and certainly not remembered in any detail. Just one
of series of ordinary days, part of an ordinary childhood in an ordinary
street, somewhere in an ordinary suburb of a middle-sized city.
She remembered dropping her apple.
The big old oak tree in the woods was a favourite place, but you had to
be careful to hold tightly to whatever you carried up there.
Earlier experiences had taught her to take a bag with her, swinging off
her shoulder on a leather strap, banging inconveniently as she climbed,
a nuisance, but a necessary nuisance if hunger was not to drive her out
of her eyrie long before she otherwise would have left.
But she was eating the apple this day, so it wasn't in the bag.
It was in her hand when she heard the voices, and peered through the
branches at the people below.
It was hard to see, and it took her a while to find the right vantage point.
The man had thinning hair, and he combed it over - she remembered
wondering why he did that. She had asked her mother, but the response
was sufficiently unsatisfying that memory had failed to record it.
The girl was wearing the uniform of the local high school, dark blue
skirt, white shirt. Her hair was dark blonde.
Trina watched through the branches, catching glimpses here and there,
hearing the voices without really understanding the conversation, but
understanding all too well the tone. The hushed voices, the giggles, the
pauses to scan the surroundings - all these subconscious clues of
deception grabbed her attention and held her riveted, even though she
couldn't make sense of what she was seeing.
Until she dropped her apple.
Helplessly, she watched it bounce - once, twice, three times - against
branches, praying it would divert its course far enough that she would
escape detection.
The noises from below stopped as the apple hit the ground with a sodden
thump.
There was a breathless pause, and the man said "what was that?"
"Nothin'," said the girl, without straightening up to look around.
"Hurry up an' finish, now, I've got to get 'ome."
The man's head turned, this way and that, the bald patch rotating
between the branches. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it
started its back-and-forth motion, and the noises resumed.
Trina stayed perfectly still until they had finished, and walked off in
separate directions. She waited a long time more, just to be sure,
before climbing down.
It was fifteen years later when she realised what she had seen. The
morning paper, the headlines, pictures of the church minister and the
three women accusing him of molesting them when they were schoolgirls.
Funny, thought Trina, frozen in place, staring at the front page. You'd
think he'd have given up on the comb-over by now. There's almost nothing
left to comb ...
Saturday 7 March 2009
The apple
“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” and Susie opens her left eye just a tiny weeny bit. She’s snuggled down in her bed with the pink flowery duvet tucked up around her chin. Her blond hair flops around her head and lies in straggles on the soft pillow.
The moon has managed to squeeze through the curtains and a strong beam of light lands on the bottom of the bed alongside Susie’s big thick red knitted sock. So far the sock is flat and empty.
“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” this time another stream of light shines in from the hallway as the door gently moves into the room. Someone is standing there. The body is all dark and black. But Susie can make out the long flowing cape that just touches the ground. Her left eye opens just a bit more. She holds her breath. She daren’t move.
“It’s him. It’s Santa” she stops herself from letting him know she’s awake.
Santa creeps towards the bed and the moonlight catches the edge of the cape.
“Oh look, there’s no fur trim” her little brain rattles along.
She opens both eyes but keeps her lashes closed.
“It’s blue. His cape is blue?”
Her tummy does a little shift and she gently straightens her legs. A lump starts to rise from her tummy to her throat. Santa looks straight at her. Susie slams her eyes closed and tries not to choke. She peeps again, with just one eye. The curtain billows and the moons light moves up the room and rests on Santa’s face. Santa is still staring with a gentle smile across his face.
“It’s Mummy. Hurry Mummy, get out of here. Santa will be too shy to come” Susie doesn’t say a word though. She has this weird sort of feeling that Mummy is Santa. Her tummy grumbles and agrees.
Mummy hovers a moment, goes back into the hall and returns with a sack which she rests on the floor. She bends, disappears below the bed and comes back up with an armful of presents.
“There’s my new doll, and look, new books” How Susie stays quiet is beyond her but she knows if she says a word, or even utters a squeak Santa will go away and never, like never come back.
Mummy disappears again. This time she’s back with an apple, a tangerine and a handful of nuts. Although Susie can’t clearly see these things, she knows, from before, that fruit and nuts are always at the top of the sock.
Mummy creeps back out to the hall, the light disappears, the moon goes behind a cloud. The room is really dark, Susie opens her eyes wide.
She pushes one leg to the bottom of the bed. The sock is heavy and lumpy.
“Mummy, Daddy. Santa’s been. He’s been. There’s presents. Can I get up now? Can I open my presents?”
Footsteps land along the hall and the door flings open. Mummy has her pink pyjamas on, Dad his boxer shorts. Mummy sweeps the curtains open and the sun stream in, bouncing across the bed to the red woolly sock.
“Yes darling, let’s see what Santa’s bought you”
“Was it all a dream?” Susie wondered as she emptied the sack on the bed.
The moon has managed to squeeze through the curtains and a strong beam of light lands on the bottom of the bed alongside Susie’s big thick red knitted sock. So far the sock is flat and empty.
“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” this time another stream of light shines in from the hallway as the door gently moves into the room. Someone is standing there. The body is all dark and black. But Susie can make out the long flowing cape that just touches the ground. Her left eye opens just a bit more. She holds her breath. She daren’t move.
“It’s him. It’s Santa” she stops herself from letting him know she’s awake.
Santa creeps towards the bed and the moonlight catches the edge of the cape.
“Oh look, there’s no fur trim” her little brain rattles along.
She opens both eyes but keeps her lashes closed.
“It’s blue. His cape is blue?”
Her tummy does a little shift and she gently straightens her legs. A lump starts to rise from her tummy to her throat. Santa looks straight at her. Susie slams her eyes closed and tries not to choke. She peeps again, with just one eye. The curtain billows and the moons light moves up the room and rests on Santa’s face. Santa is still staring with a gentle smile across his face.
“It’s Mummy. Hurry Mummy, get out of here. Santa will be too shy to come” Susie doesn’t say a word though. She has this weird sort of feeling that Mummy is Santa. Her tummy grumbles and agrees.
Mummy hovers a moment, goes back into the hall and returns with a sack which she rests on the floor. She bends, disappears below the bed and comes back up with an armful of presents.
“There’s my new doll, and look, new books” How Susie stays quiet is beyond her but she knows if she says a word, or even utters a squeak Santa will go away and never, like never come back.
Mummy disappears again. This time she’s back with an apple, a tangerine and a handful of nuts. Although Susie can’t clearly see these things, she knows, from before, that fruit and nuts are always at the top of the sock.
Mummy creeps back out to the hall, the light disappears, the moon goes behind a cloud. The room is really dark, Susie opens her eyes wide.
She pushes one leg to the bottom of the bed. The sock is heavy and lumpy.
“Mummy, Daddy. Santa’s been. He’s been. There’s presents. Can I get up now? Can I open my presents?”
Footsteps land along the hall and the door flings open. Mummy has her pink pyjamas on, Dad his boxer shorts. Mummy sweeps the curtains open and the sun stream in, bouncing across the bed to the red woolly sock.
“Yes darling, let’s see what Santa’s bought you”
“Was it all a dream?” Susie wondered as she emptied the sack on the bed.
The Apple (Kerry)
The Apple
The girl crept stealthily from the kitchen. The apple was hidden in her apron pocket. She could feel the weight of it as she marched quickly across the square. She wanted to hold it, to stop it bouncing against her legs, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. If she weren’t swinging her arms in the regulation style, one of the sentinels mingling in the crowd would single her out and admonish her. She couldn’t afford to have that happen today.
Fear was causing her breath to come in short, sharp gasps. Her chest was tight. She was worried that someone would notice the guilt etched onto her face. She imagined her secret sitting like a monkey on her shoulders in full view to the world. It terrified her.
It was some relief for her to step through the doorway of her hut and out of the public gaze. But even here the security cameras fitted in each room were watching her. She had to behave normally so as not to rouse any suspicion. She picked up her book lying on the table and sat in the chair facing away from the camera until she could compose herself.
She felt absolutely alone. There was no-one she could confide in. If she mentioned her discovery to any of the adults, even her mother, they would be obliged to report her to the Council. However life in the village had trained her to be independent and resourceful. She knew she would find a solution to her dilemma. And she would have to rely on her own resources.
She had taken an enormous risk stealing the apple in daylight but there was no other way. The kitchen was locked at night and the Council had instigated a curfew after dark. She’d had to slip the apple in to her pocket during a diversion when the security camera had swung away from the pantry. Her next problem was to get it to the barn. That would have to wait until the morning.
As the sun rose, the girl untied her two goats from their hitching post behind the hut. She led them, as always, out into the square. She forced herself to smile at the lone sentinel as she marched along the near-empty road. Her heart was pounding. She knew that the danger of being searched had passed once she had crossed the village border, out through the open gates in the stone wall. Outside she would not be monitored unless a Council vehicle came along the road and the sentinels decided to undertake a spot check.
The goats followed her down the overgrown path through the forest. This was a short cut to the field where they would graze. It was along here that the girl had discovered the old barn the previous day.
She had heard his moaning first. It had stopped her in her tracks. Every instinct warned her to keep walking, to ignore it, but she couldn’t. The sounds had come from an old building, back off the path, that she hadn’t really noticed before. She had tied the goats to a tree and walked quietly to the building.
Through the broken doorway she could see the sentinel lying on the ground in the corner. He had spoken softly to her, imploring her to help him, not to be afraid. He had escaped from the village. Sentinels were contracted to duty for a year but he had to get home to his own village urgently to see his dying father.
She could see that he was ill. She had shared her water bottle with him and left him with some of the bread and cheese she had packed for her own lunch, promising to return the next day.
Now she lifted the precious apple out of her pocket and handed it to him. He reached over, smiling, and accepted her gift. It would be sufficient to give him the strength to continue his journey.
Kerry MacAulay
8th March 2009
The girl crept stealthily from the kitchen. The apple was hidden in her apron pocket. She could feel the weight of it as she marched quickly across the square. She wanted to hold it, to stop it bouncing against her legs, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. If she weren’t swinging her arms in the regulation style, one of the sentinels mingling in the crowd would single her out and admonish her. She couldn’t afford to have that happen today.
Fear was causing her breath to come in short, sharp gasps. Her chest was tight. She was worried that someone would notice the guilt etched onto her face. She imagined her secret sitting like a monkey on her shoulders in full view to the world. It terrified her.
It was some relief for her to step through the doorway of her hut and out of the public gaze. But even here the security cameras fitted in each room were watching her. She had to behave normally so as not to rouse any suspicion. She picked up her book lying on the table and sat in the chair facing away from the camera until she could compose herself.
She felt absolutely alone. There was no-one she could confide in. If she mentioned her discovery to any of the adults, even her mother, they would be obliged to report her to the Council. However life in the village had trained her to be independent and resourceful. She knew she would find a solution to her dilemma. And she would have to rely on her own resources.
She had taken an enormous risk stealing the apple in daylight but there was no other way. The kitchen was locked at night and the Council had instigated a curfew after dark. She’d had to slip the apple in to her pocket during a diversion when the security camera had swung away from the pantry. Her next problem was to get it to the barn. That would have to wait until the morning.
As the sun rose, the girl untied her two goats from their hitching post behind the hut. She led them, as always, out into the square. She forced herself to smile at the lone sentinel as she marched along the near-empty road. Her heart was pounding. She knew that the danger of being searched had passed once she had crossed the village border, out through the open gates in the stone wall. Outside she would not be monitored unless a Council vehicle came along the road and the sentinels decided to undertake a spot check.
The goats followed her down the overgrown path through the forest. This was a short cut to the field where they would graze. It was along here that the girl had discovered the old barn the previous day.
She had heard his moaning first. It had stopped her in her tracks. Every instinct warned her to keep walking, to ignore it, but she couldn’t. The sounds had come from an old building, back off the path, that she hadn’t really noticed before. She had tied the goats to a tree and walked quietly to the building.
Through the broken doorway she could see the sentinel lying on the ground in the corner. He had spoken softly to her, imploring her to help him, not to be afraid. He had escaped from the village. Sentinels were contracted to duty for a year but he had to get home to his own village urgently to see his dying father.
She could see that he was ill. She had shared her water bottle with him and left him with some of the bread and cheese she had packed for her own lunch, promising to return the next day.
Now she lifted the precious apple out of her pocket and handed it to him. He reached over, smiling, and accepted her gift. It would be sufficient to give him the strength to continue his journey.
Kerry MacAulay
8th March 2009
Tuesday 3 March 2009
The ant and the apple (by Heather)
A child has discovered a terrifying secret. Include an apple in the story.
Sandra, sitting on the steps at the front of her house, took a big bite from the apple. It shot a little spurt onto the side of her lip, as often happened with apples. Usually she took great pleasure from this process, but today everything felt cloudy. She’d come outside hoping it would be better out here, and because she wanted to think about what her dad had told her. Her mother was in her room and had hardly come out all day. That was because, daddy said, Gran was dead and mummy felt too sad to want to do anything today. He had held her close, sounding very sad and tight, like this was a hard thing to talk about. He had talked about how that meant she wouldn’t see Gran again. Not ever. He had been especially clear about that, when Sandra had pressed him, not tonight for dinner or this weekend for baby-sitting or ever again.
She could hear the sound her teeth made as they chomped up the big piece of apple. She set the apple carefully down on the step beside her.
Chew, chew, chew and finally the whole bite was gone. She thought a bit about Gran and her enthusiastic hugs, and about what daddy had said. She picked up the apple, regarding it carefully as she raised it for the next big chomp. That’s when a little ant came around the side of the apple into her view. She drew back and watched as he approached her thumb, then quickly moved her fingers so the ant was kept at a distance. She raised her left hand and gave the ant a little flick with her index finger, as she’d been learning to do. The ant dropped to the ground. Quick as a flash, she lifted her foot to the step beside her and stomped on it.
She looked at the ant, lying still and curled up on the step beside her, considering what she’d done. She’d often seen her mother do exactly the same thing, with her BIG foot, but Sandra had never done it herself before. She waited to see what would happen. The ant didn’t move. Sandra picked up a leaf lying on the step and poked at the ant with it. Still no movement.
The ant was dead. She knew that; she’d seen dead things before, like the little torn up mouse that Tippy had brought home one day.
And she thought about Gran. She wondered where Gran was, and thought about Gran not coming for dinner tonight, or baby-sitting at the weekend, or ever seeing her again.
Something was really wrong. Sandra picked up the apple, checking it for ants, and went inside to find her dad. She felt like a cuddle.
Sandra, sitting on the steps at the front of her house, took a big bite from the apple. It shot a little spurt onto the side of her lip, as often happened with apples. Usually she took great pleasure from this process, but today everything felt cloudy. She’d come outside hoping it would be better out here, and because she wanted to think about what her dad had told her. Her mother was in her room and had hardly come out all day. That was because, daddy said, Gran was dead and mummy felt too sad to want to do anything today. He had held her close, sounding very sad and tight, like this was a hard thing to talk about. He had talked about how that meant she wouldn’t see Gran again. Not ever. He had been especially clear about that, when Sandra had pressed him, not tonight for dinner or this weekend for baby-sitting or ever again.
She could hear the sound her teeth made as they chomped up the big piece of apple. She set the apple carefully down on the step beside her.
Chew, chew, chew and finally the whole bite was gone. She thought a bit about Gran and her enthusiastic hugs, and about what daddy had said. She picked up the apple, regarding it carefully as she raised it for the next big chomp. That’s when a little ant came around the side of the apple into her view. She drew back and watched as he approached her thumb, then quickly moved her fingers so the ant was kept at a distance. She raised her left hand and gave the ant a little flick with her index finger, as she’d been learning to do. The ant dropped to the ground. Quick as a flash, she lifted her foot to the step beside her and stomped on it.
She looked at the ant, lying still and curled up on the step beside her, considering what she’d done. She’d often seen her mother do exactly the same thing, with her BIG foot, but Sandra had never done it herself before. She waited to see what would happen. The ant didn’t move. Sandra picked up a leaf lying on the step and poked at the ant with it. Still no movement.
The ant was dead. She knew that; she’d seen dead things before, like the little torn up mouse that Tippy had brought home one day.
And she thought about Gran. She wondered where Gran was, and thought about Gran not coming for dinner tonight, or baby-sitting at the weekend, or ever seeing her again.
Something was really wrong. Sandra picked up the apple, checking it for ants, and went inside to find her dad. She felt like a cuddle.
Robert and Elizabeth (by Heather)
Write out a scene, using as much dialogue as possible, between two people from history that could never have met each other.
Robert Heinlein gazed at the woman who was just entering the drawing room, crisp long skirts sweeping the floor around her. “Well, ma’am, how DO you do?” he said, bowing deeply.
Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell paused in the doorway and regarded him carefully, then stepped forward and reached out her hand. “I am told you are Mr Heinlein? From the Oxford Writers’ Society?”
Robert took the proffered hand, unsure whether to shake it or kiss it, opting for a clumsy gesture somewhere between the two. She looked at him with amusement and a sparkle of curiosity.
“Well,” Robert said. “That might be stretching the truth just a tad, but I AM a writer. I write science fiction. And I was interested in meeting you because I am time travelling and thought that of all the 19th century writers, you’d be one I’d be most inclined to share a cup of good English tea with.”
Mrs Gaskell’s grey eyes regarded him closely. “Although I consider myself to be an educated woman and familiar with the many disciplines of the written word, I do not recognise what you call ‘science fiction’. Perhaps you could explain yourself, and if you are able to do so, without further splitting any infinitives, we will have tea together.” She stood resolutely between Robert and the tea table, laden as it was with delicacies. "If I may speak frankly, I have thus far found you to be quite incomprehensible and therefore of little interest.”
“Pardon my clumsiness, ma’am,” he said. “Let me begin again.”
“That might be in order,” she replied tartly.
Robert observed her cautiously. “I am a writer, and, like yourself, reasonably well-regarded. I have written some 50 books, many of them potboilers for young boys. However, if I say so myself, I’ve done a few novels of real value for thinking adults with a passion for life, two or three of which made it into university curricula and stayed there for decades. Are you following me so far?”
“You are reasonably clear ‘so far’,” Mrs Gaskell replied with some irony. “You must allow me a certain scepticism, as I haven’t heard of you myself. I take it from your rounded vowels that you come from America, and perhaps the obstacle of distance has prevented my making acquaintance of your work for ‘thinking adults’.” She paused. “Are you following me so far?”
Robert grinned. “Like a flea on a dog. Now, this part gets hard to explain. When I say I write science fiction, I mean I write fictional accounts of people who live in the distant future, and the technologies used by those people. The genre comes into existence in about 10 years, your time, with Jules Verne’s ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’. Now, I myself was born, and will no doubt die, in the 20th century…you still with me?”
“Like a flea on a dog.”
Robert took heart from her humour. “And then some remarkable young scientist in the 24th century took a page from my book and developed a time machine.”
“A ‘time machine’ being…”
“…A machine able to travel back through time. Don’t get your skirts in a knot; stay with me. Because he’d got the idea from my writing, he did me the honour of coming back in time to visit me. And now, as I’ve just read and enormously enjoyed your ‘North and South’, I’ve borrowed the time machine and have come back to visit you.”
Mrs Gaskell stepped toward the tea table, her cheeks suddenly ruddy. “Mr Heinlein, will you join me for tea? Please take a seat, if you can abide what I’m sure is a dreadfully out-of-fashion chair, and allow me to pour. After tea, we will visit your time machine, and I will show you my almost-finished manuscript of ‘North and South’. Then you will join Mr Gaskell and myself for dinner and we will plan a trip to visit Mr Shakespeare, a particular source of inspiration to me.”
Robert Heinlein gazed at the woman who was just entering the drawing room, crisp long skirts sweeping the floor around her. “Well, ma’am, how DO you do?” he said, bowing deeply.
Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell paused in the doorway and regarded him carefully, then stepped forward and reached out her hand. “I am told you are Mr Heinlein? From the Oxford Writers’ Society?”
Robert took the proffered hand, unsure whether to shake it or kiss it, opting for a clumsy gesture somewhere between the two. She looked at him with amusement and a sparkle of curiosity.
“Well,” Robert said. “That might be stretching the truth just a tad, but I AM a writer. I write science fiction. And I was interested in meeting you because I am time travelling and thought that of all the 19th century writers, you’d be one I’d be most inclined to share a cup of good English tea with.”
Mrs Gaskell’s grey eyes regarded him closely. “Although I consider myself to be an educated woman and familiar with the many disciplines of the written word, I do not recognise what you call ‘science fiction’. Perhaps you could explain yourself, and if you are able to do so, without further splitting any infinitives, we will have tea together.” She stood resolutely between Robert and the tea table, laden as it was with delicacies. "If I may speak frankly, I have thus far found you to be quite incomprehensible and therefore of little interest.”
“Pardon my clumsiness, ma’am,” he said. “Let me begin again.”
“That might be in order,” she replied tartly.
Robert observed her cautiously. “I am a writer, and, like yourself, reasonably well-regarded. I have written some 50 books, many of them potboilers for young boys. However, if I say so myself, I’ve done a few novels of real value for thinking adults with a passion for life, two or three of which made it into university curricula and stayed there for decades. Are you following me so far?”
“You are reasonably clear ‘so far’,” Mrs Gaskell replied with some irony. “You must allow me a certain scepticism, as I haven’t heard of you myself. I take it from your rounded vowels that you come from America, and perhaps the obstacle of distance has prevented my making acquaintance of your work for ‘thinking adults’.” She paused. “Are you following me so far?”
Robert grinned. “Like a flea on a dog. Now, this part gets hard to explain. When I say I write science fiction, I mean I write fictional accounts of people who live in the distant future, and the technologies used by those people. The genre comes into existence in about 10 years, your time, with Jules Verne’s ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’. Now, I myself was born, and will no doubt die, in the 20th century…you still with me?”
“Like a flea on a dog.”
Robert took heart from her humour. “And then some remarkable young scientist in the 24th century took a page from my book and developed a time machine.”
“A ‘time machine’ being…”
“…A machine able to travel back through time. Don’t get your skirts in a knot; stay with me. Because he’d got the idea from my writing, he did me the honour of coming back in time to visit me. And now, as I’ve just read and enormously enjoyed your ‘North and South’, I’ve borrowed the time machine and have come back to visit you.”
Mrs Gaskell stepped toward the tea table, her cheeks suddenly ruddy. “Mr Heinlein, will you join me for tea? Please take a seat, if you can abide what I’m sure is a dreadfully out-of-fashion chair, and allow me to pour. After tea, we will visit your time machine, and I will show you my almost-finished manuscript of ‘North and South’. Then you will join Mr Gaskell and myself for dinner and we will plan a trip to visit Mr Shakespeare, a particular source of inspiration to me.”
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