“Mr Belizo?”, the stewardess said to Percy for the 2nd time, getting his attention at last and handing him his martini. Percy Willis was on his way to Rio and would have to start getting used to people calling him Umberto Belizo. That’s the name that was on his brand new passport.
Percy had been reflecting on a month of firsts as he gazed out the window on the clouds far below. This was the first time he had ever flown first class to anywhere. This was the first time he had ever left North America. This was the first time he had ever used a fake passport. This was the first time he had ever transferred $45,000,000 of his boss’s money to Umberto’s numbered account in Lichtenstein, a country still renowned for its banking secrecy.
And being a man who recognizes patterns, he also reflected that this was a month of lasts for him. It was the last time he would be known as Percy Willis. It was the last time he would meekly take the abuse and insults from his boss. It was the last time his wife would cheat on him.
He knew right from the beginning that marrying Marie was a big mistake. He was lead programmer at Penshurst Securities and prided himself on his impeccable logic. Where was his brain when he proposed to her? It was overdosing on testosterone obviously and incapable of computing that Marie was a body and face only. Of course Marie loved him. There never was a man she met she didn’t love. Marriage didn’t change that.
He stopped counting her affairs when he got to 7. He became indifferent to her cheating but when he saw her leaving his office with the boss, he changed. He might have ignored it as just another fling, but his boss had always regarded him as a bit of a door mat and took a sadistic pleasure in insulting Percy whenever the opportunity came up. Percy should have stood up for himself but he wasn’t very good at confrontation. He loved the money and the work and used that as his justification for taking the abuse. But somehow, thinking about Marie with that moron was like the final straw.
It’s amazing the skills Percy had picked up over the years. If it could be done on a computer, Percy could do it. And getting an entire new identity, citizenship, bank account and life were there for the creating. And he was very, very good at his work. It would be a few days before the money would be missed and it wouldn’t be traced to Umberto Belizo, Percy Willis or anyone else connect to him.
And even though he knew he would never be found, he added his final bit of security to his adventure. It was still impossible to extradite someone from Brazil on any crime involving theft or embezzlement.
Sunday 26 April 2009
Where will I travel and why - Sue
Flick, pause, flick, flick, pa.............use. The photo of the African elephant zooms off the page of the travel brochure. He’s in full charge with ears flapping and a beautiful wrinkly grey trunk extended. I briefly take in the magic of the photo, how the photographer has captured the elephant in flight, all in perfect focus, even his eyebrows.
I’m lying along the black leather sofa with big comfy feather cushions supporting my back. With my long tanned legs bent, I am perfectly balancing the magazine against my knees. Bob Marley’s soft sexy reggae voice sends shivers down my back. My tummy turns sommersaults as I look at the photo.
I have just inherited $100,000. That is like five years income for me and even that is erratic. The life of a travel writer is definitely unpredictable. This is the chance of a lifetime. To travel where I want to go, for as long as I like. No strings attached to that editor. Not answerable to anyone. My tummy catapults up towards my throat, I gasp as I run out of breath, my eyes water with awe. God, that elephant is beautiful.
The travel agent is a specialist for Africa and tonight’s video night is a first for me. Usually all the travel planning and bookings are done for me and all I have to do is turn up and write. But this is mine, all mine, to research, to plan. All I really know is, I want to go to Namibia and as my thoughts wander off and my memory recalls that elephant, I vaguely hear someone talking to me.
“So Sue, why Africa, why Namibia?”
Ï’ve just always wanted to go. It’s a sort of romantic yearning. I can only imagine exploring the wild, wide open spaces and experiencing that space of nothing but everything. Of winding my way around those enormous enveloping sand dunes that hug the south coast, of camping under the stars, of making the first footprints in the virginal sand, of watching the wisps of sand dance off the knife edge dunes as the wind picks up the tiny sandy grains. Add to all of that the animals, the local African villages and the sheer joy of doing this myself, for as long as I like.
I am sitting on a hard backed chair, hunched forward with my head in my hands. I’m transfixed as the slideshow takes me into the world of my dreams. The giraffes, on their spindly legs graze happily at the top of the acacia trees. The elephants roll around in the muddy waterhole, the babies frolicking and snorting in the shallows. The hilarious wart hog dashes across the screen as he’s chased by a young golden lioness.
I’m there, there in the desert.
The lights go on. There’s a bubbling, babble of voices only just within my thoughts. They get louder. There’s laughter, there’s comraderie, there’s excitement.
“Well Sue, are you coming with us?”
“You be......................”. I jam shut my mouth. I’m usually so impulsive but right now I can hear my little inner voice.
“Hey, not so fast. You said you wanted to research, to plan, to savour every moment of the preparation. To live like the locals, to dwell in their world. To ponder the possibilities. To live your dream”.
I’m lying along the black leather sofa with big comfy feather cushions supporting my back. With my long tanned legs bent, I am perfectly balancing the magazine against my knees. Bob Marley’s soft sexy reggae voice sends shivers down my back. My tummy turns sommersaults as I look at the photo.
I have just inherited $100,000. That is like five years income for me and even that is erratic. The life of a travel writer is definitely unpredictable. This is the chance of a lifetime. To travel where I want to go, for as long as I like. No strings attached to that editor. Not answerable to anyone. My tummy catapults up towards my throat, I gasp as I run out of breath, my eyes water with awe. God, that elephant is beautiful.
The travel agent is a specialist for Africa and tonight’s video night is a first for me. Usually all the travel planning and bookings are done for me and all I have to do is turn up and write. But this is mine, all mine, to research, to plan. All I really know is, I want to go to Namibia and as my thoughts wander off and my memory recalls that elephant, I vaguely hear someone talking to me.
“So Sue, why Africa, why Namibia?”
Ï’ve just always wanted to go. It’s a sort of romantic yearning. I can only imagine exploring the wild, wide open spaces and experiencing that space of nothing but everything. Of winding my way around those enormous enveloping sand dunes that hug the south coast, of camping under the stars, of making the first footprints in the virginal sand, of watching the wisps of sand dance off the knife edge dunes as the wind picks up the tiny sandy grains. Add to all of that the animals, the local African villages and the sheer joy of doing this myself, for as long as I like.
I am sitting on a hard backed chair, hunched forward with my head in my hands. I’m transfixed as the slideshow takes me into the world of my dreams. The giraffes, on their spindly legs graze happily at the top of the acacia trees. The elephants roll around in the muddy waterhole, the babies frolicking and snorting in the shallows. The hilarious wart hog dashes across the screen as he’s chased by a young golden lioness.
I’m there, there in the desert.
The lights go on. There’s a bubbling, babble of voices only just within my thoughts. They get louder. There’s laughter, there’s comraderie, there’s excitement.
“Well Sue, are you coming with us?”
“You be......................”. I jam shut my mouth. I’m usually so impulsive but right now I can hear my little inner voice.
“Hey, not so fast. You said you wanted to research, to plan, to savour every moment of the preparation. To live like the locals, to dwell in their world. To ponder the possibilities. To live your dream”.
Ethiopia with love (Kerry)
It was the rhythmical action of the Chinese woman knitting on the train that had first caught my attention. Needle through, wool around, needle under, off; needle through, wool around, needle under, off. The woman herself was serenely oblivious to anyone else; totally engrossed in her stitch-by-stitch activity.
When she paused to start a new row I asked her what she was knitting. Her response was a surprising one.
“I’m knitting squares for the Fistula Hospital in Addis Ababa,” she replied brightly. “It’s for the ABC’s Wrap With Love project. Some others sew the squares into blankets and they’re sent all over the world wherever they’re needed.”
I knew then that I wanted to visit Ethiopia and the amazing hospital in the capital, Addis Ababa. I was particularly interested in the Australian doctor in charge of the hospital, the eighty year old Dr Catherine Hamlin. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to understand what motivated her to leave her own country and spend her life working in Africa among the poor and underprivileged.
It took several months to organise the visit but I have just finished my first week at the hospital. I am running art classes for the women. They are already being offered classes in nutrition and needlework, as well as reading and writing.
There is such a feeling of love and goodwill in this place. The patients are so grateful to be here. They love having other people to talk to. They are totally accepted for who they are, not judged by their condition. It is a new experience for many of them who have spent years in isolation, living virtually as hermits.
Many of the women who are treated here remain at the hospital as staff. As I look out the window of the classroom I see several women, some draped in colourful knitted wraps, walking around the gardens in pairs or sitting chatting happily in groups. Noticing one woman, Mariam, sitting by herself, I wander out and sit quietly beside her. She is knitting.
I have been told some of Mariam’s story. Like many young girls in Ethiopia, she was married when she was only thirteen and became pregnant soon after. She had a difficult labour without medical assistance and was badly injured during the birth. When it was apparent that she had developed a fistula, she was rejected by her husband and his family and left to wander the countryside. It took her ten years to save the money to pay for the hazardous 500 km bus trip from her home to Addis Ababa. Mariam is cured, but because she is unable to have more children, she doesn’t want to return to her husband. She now works at the hospital.
I speak to her in my halting Ethiopian. “Hello. How are you?”
Miraculously she understands. She adjusts her wrap around her shoulders and replies with conviction and a broad smile, “I am here. I am here.”
_______________________
Postscript
I had seen a documentary on TV of the remarkable work of Dr Catherine Hamlin and had heard an interview with her on the ABC. She totally inspired me. She and her husband, both doctors, had gone to Ethiopia in the 1950s to work with women who suffered from the condition called obstetric fistula. It is a condition that is rampant in Ethiopia and many other countries with the lethal combination of poverty, poor education and poor obstetric care. A tear in the bladder or rectum wall during difficult births causes a chronic problem of leaking urine or faeces. The women are ostracised by their community and are often left to fend for themselves. Dr Hamlin is involved with surgery once a week on Thursday mornings to keep her hand in and to keep in touch with the residents and her staff. She spends a lot of her time raising funds for the hospital and making people around the world aware of the tragedy of obstetric fistula. She is determined to have the hospital financially secure before she dies so that women can continue to be treated here for free. She is also training women to be mid-wives and nurses to ease the shortage of people with medical skills throughout the country.
When she paused to start a new row I asked her what she was knitting. Her response was a surprising one.
“I’m knitting squares for the Fistula Hospital in Addis Ababa,” she replied brightly. “It’s for the ABC’s Wrap With Love project. Some others sew the squares into blankets and they’re sent all over the world wherever they’re needed.”
I knew then that I wanted to visit Ethiopia and the amazing hospital in the capital, Addis Ababa. I was particularly interested in the Australian doctor in charge of the hospital, the eighty year old Dr Catherine Hamlin. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to understand what motivated her to leave her own country and spend her life working in Africa among the poor and underprivileged.
It took several months to organise the visit but I have just finished my first week at the hospital. I am running art classes for the women. They are already being offered classes in nutrition and needlework, as well as reading and writing.
There is such a feeling of love and goodwill in this place. The patients are so grateful to be here. They love having other people to talk to. They are totally accepted for who they are, not judged by their condition. It is a new experience for many of them who have spent years in isolation, living virtually as hermits.
Many of the women who are treated here remain at the hospital as staff. As I look out the window of the classroom I see several women, some draped in colourful knitted wraps, walking around the gardens in pairs or sitting chatting happily in groups. Noticing one woman, Mariam, sitting by herself, I wander out and sit quietly beside her. She is knitting.
I have been told some of Mariam’s story. Like many young girls in Ethiopia, she was married when she was only thirteen and became pregnant soon after. She had a difficult labour without medical assistance and was badly injured during the birth. When it was apparent that she had developed a fistula, she was rejected by her husband and his family and left to wander the countryside. It took her ten years to save the money to pay for the hazardous 500 km bus trip from her home to Addis Ababa. Mariam is cured, but because she is unable to have more children, she doesn’t want to return to her husband. She now works at the hospital.
I speak to her in my halting Ethiopian. “Hello. How are you?”
Miraculously she understands. She adjusts her wrap around her shoulders and replies with conviction and a broad smile, “I am here. I am here.”
_______________________
Postscript
I had seen a documentary on TV of the remarkable work of Dr Catherine Hamlin and had heard an interview with her on the ABC. She totally inspired me. She and her husband, both doctors, had gone to Ethiopia in the 1950s to work with women who suffered from the condition called obstetric fistula. It is a condition that is rampant in Ethiopia and many other countries with the lethal combination of poverty, poor education and poor obstetric care. A tear in the bladder or rectum wall during difficult births causes a chronic problem of leaking urine or faeces. The women are ostracised by their community and are often left to fend for themselves. Dr Hamlin is involved with surgery once a week on Thursday mornings to keep her hand in and to keep in touch with the residents and her staff. She spends a lot of her time raising funds for the hospital and making people around the world aware of the tragedy of obstetric fistula. She is determined to have the hospital financially secure before she dies so that women can continue to be treated here for free. She is also training women to be mid-wives and nurses to ease the shortage of people with medical skills throughout the country.
Thursday 23 April 2009
Get a move on
Just so you know how this turns out, I am writing this from the balcony of a little B&B in Mondello, overlooking a blue-green Mediterranean while the morning sun spills over the hills in nearby Palermo. I’m nibbling on a bit of left-over lobster tortellini I couldn’t finish at the restaurant last night. But the story itself happened a week ago on a cool autumn day at our home near Katoomba in the Blue Mountains.
Get a move on
I sat by the window with my cup of coffee, speculating. My 63rd birthday was coming up in four days.
It would have been a minor event except for the online survey I had filled in yesterday (sent out by my electronic greeting card supplier, of all things). The survey had gone fine until the last question, which had asked me to specify my age category. The last choice on the list was “Over 63”. After my initial indignation (“What kind of a number is 63 to have heading up a category?!”), I had fallen into a low grade panic that had stayed with me since. You’d better get a move on, a demanding voice in my head kept whispering.
So this morning I had sat down with my cup of coffee, intent on planning a celebration that would quiet the urgent get-a-move-on voice. Obviously that meant a travel celebration, appropriate as travel was a thing I was most enjoying since my retirement a year ago.
Spike, my husband of 30 years who was having a bit of a sleep in, would go along with anything. He loved an adventure as much as I did. And although he hadn’t realised it, he was in the last category too.
I turned it around in my head for awhile and finally moved to the computer and called up Google World. I stared at big orange Australia filling the screen in front of me. The cat jumped into my lap, demanding a bit of attention. I stroked it idly while I contemplated the Kimberlies, Broome, Margaret River. All wonderful choices and all on the wish list. But the get-a-move-on voice was pushing me further afield.
I used my mouse and thoughtfully spun the globe.
Malaysia. Hmmm.
India. Nepal.
The Middle East?
An African safari!
France – always a favourite destination. Spain, never been there. Italy. Hmmmm – Italy. My heart tripped a little.
Another rotation took me to the Americas. No, not this time. Galapagos Islands. Without a doubt, near the top of the list. Imagine snorkelling in those sublime waters with those wonderful creatures. I lost myself in the Galapagos for an hour while I trolled Google Maps and Wikipedia.
The cat sat patiently on the floor beside me.
You know, it didn’t really matter where. The world was so full of wonder and beauty and adventure that it really didn’t matter.
In the end, the mouse wandered back to Europe, and began to home in on Italy. It paused near Tuscany, Umbria. Ahhhh, Palermo. Sunshine, antiquity, Mediterranean waters. I mean, why not, when you’re making the big move into the last category. Spike would fuss a bit about the money but he knew as well as I did that we had enough.
I turned to the cat. “All right, it’s been decided. Palermo it is. You’re going to the neighbours for a couple weeks.” The cat turned its back to me.
“Spike? Come on, get up. We’ve got things to do, places to go.”
Get a move on
I sat by the window with my cup of coffee, speculating. My 63rd birthday was coming up in four days.
It would have been a minor event except for the online survey I had filled in yesterday (sent out by my electronic greeting card supplier, of all things). The survey had gone fine until the last question, which had asked me to specify my age category. The last choice on the list was “Over 63”. After my initial indignation (“What kind of a number is 63 to have heading up a category?!”), I had fallen into a low grade panic that had stayed with me since. You’d better get a move on, a demanding voice in my head kept whispering.
So this morning I had sat down with my cup of coffee, intent on planning a celebration that would quiet the urgent get-a-move-on voice. Obviously that meant a travel celebration, appropriate as travel was a thing I was most enjoying since my retirement a year ago.
Spike, my husband of 30 years who was having a bit of a sleep in, would go along with anything. He loved an adventure as much as I did. And although he hadn’t realised it, he was in the last category too.
I turned it around in my head for awhile and finally moved to the computer and called up Google World. I stared at big orange Australia filling the screen in front of me. The cat jumped into my lap, demanding a bit of attention. I stroked it idly while I contemplated the Kimberlies, Broome, Margaret River. All wonderful choices and all on the wish list. But the get-a-move-on voice was pushing me further afield.
I used my mouse and thoughtfully spun the globe.
Malaysia. Hmmm.
India. Nepal.
The Middle East?
An African safari!
France – always a favourite destination. Spain, never been there. Italy. Hmmmm – Italy. My heart tripped a little.
Another rotation took me to the Americas. No, not this time. Galapagos Islands. Without a doubt, near the top of the list. Imagine snorkelling in those sublime waters with those wonderful creatures. I lost myself in the Galapagos for an hour while I trolled Google Maps and Wikipedia.
The cat sat patiently on the floor beside me.
You know, it didn’t really matter where. The world was so full of wonder and beauty and adventure that it really didn’t matter.
In the end, the mouse wandered back to Europe, and began to home in on Italy. It paused near Tuscany, Umbria. Ahhhh, Palermo. Sunshine, antiquity, Mediterranean waters. I mean, why not, when you’re making the big move into the last category. Spike would fuss a bit about the money but he knew as well as I did that we had enough.
I turned to the cat. “All right, it’s been decided. Palermo it is. You’re going to the neighbours for a couple weeks.” The cat turned its back to me.
“Spike? Come on, get up. We’ve got things to do, places to go.”
Wednesday 22 April 2009
A chapter of loathing - by Rick
A chapter of loathing? I could write a book. Chapter 1 – Loathing, Chapter 2 – Loathing, Chapter 3 – well you get the picture. Each chapter a variation on the theme of loathing, each one more depressing and filled with despair than the previous, on and on until all you feel like is drinking a bottle or two of scotch to reach the safety of unconsciousness.
How did I get into this state of affairs? How did a fun-loving, bridge-playing, girl-chasing, beer-drinking healthy young 26 year old get into this fine mess?
It all started with reading a book. If ignorance is bliss, then maybe knowledge is loathing. Makes sense if you think about it and that’s what reading a book did for me – it got me thinking. My mentor in this was Ayn Rand whose books The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged left me transformed forever. Up until reading these books, I thought logic was something you used to solve puzzles or program computers. I didn’t draw the conclusion that logic was something that man used to live life with.
As I started to brighten my life with my new found knowledge, I shone it more and more on the social and political arenas of human affairs. I started to read the front pages of the newspapers rather than just the comics and bridge columns. So much was about politics, about corruption, about bankruptcies and bailouts – anything that was sensational.
What I found was that logic had taken a holiday. There wasn’t any. What I found were rationalisations and justifications everywhere to try and explain why some piece of legislation had created a boondoggle instead of the promised Nirvana. And that’s when the loathing began.
I began to take it all personally and very seriously. That $50,000 grant to study the mating habits of mosquitoes was taken directly out of my tax dollars as was the study of Parisienne cafes by my member of parliament that cost me $150,000. Every broken political promise was done on purpose to upset me. I would watch the news on TV and come away seething with self-righteous indignation. How dare they? How could they be so stupid?
I took action. I joined up with a bunch of like-minded folk and created a political party. I ran for office under the Libertarian platform of a minimalist government. When the public saw that they had an alternative to the status quo of big, expensive and all intrusive government, they would leap at it with joy and gratitude.
Not so. Turns out people like governments that promise them things and my cohorts and I were soundly rejected. So my loathing expanded from conniving and corrupt politicians to the public at large. Everyone was conspiring against me. No one took the brilliance of my logic seriously. No one thought of the devastating long term consequences of the actions we were taking. We were all doomed and nothing could be done about it. Armageddon approacheth.
I was very significant. But there was no breakthrough in the loathing until I began to use the logic on myself. Who said I had to take on “saving” the world? I did. Was that a logical thing to do? Had I thought it all out? Did it make sense? Well, no, no and no. What I saw was that I too could take logic and put it on the shelf when it suited me. How about that!
Over time, especially after doing the Forum, I got to see the world in a much more expanded view and bit by bit the loathing evaporated. Yes I still see red when I hear about the latest bit of nonsense from Howard or Rudd or the like but it’s short and goes away quickly like stomach gas.
It’s kind of corny I know, but I would have to say that my life has transformed from a book of loathing to a book of loving. And that is one of the most logical things I’ve ever done.
How did I get into this state of affairs? How did a fun-loving, bridge-playing, girl-chasing, beer-drinking healthy young 26 year old get into this fine mess?
It all started with reading a book. If ignorance is bliss, then maybe knowledge is loathing. Makes sense if you think about it and that’s what reading a book did for me – it got me thinking. My mentor in this was Ayn Rand whose books The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged left me transformed forever. Up until reading these books, I thought logic was something you used to solve puzzles or program computers. I didn’t draw the conclusion that logic was something that man used to live life with.
As I started to brighten my life with my new found knowledge, I shone it more and more on the social and political arenas of human affairs. I started to read the front pages of the newspapers rather than just the comics and bridge columns. So much was about politics, about corruption, about bankruptcies and bailouts – anything that was sensational.
What I found was that logic had taken a holiday. There wasn’t any. What I found were rationalisations and justifications everywhere to try and explain why some piece of legislation had created a boondoggle instead of the promised Nirvana. And that’s when the loathing began.
I began to take it all personally and very seriously. That $50,000 grant to study the mating habits of mosquitoes was taken directly out of my tax dollars as was the study of Parisienne cafes by my member of parliament that cost me $150,000. Every broken political promise was done on purpose to upset me. I would watch the news on TV and come away seething with self-righteous indignation. How dare they? How could they be so stupid?
I took action. I joined up with a bunch of like-minded folk and created a political party. I ran for office under the Libertarian platform of a minimalist government. When the public saw that they had an alternative to the status quo of big, expensive and all intrusive government, they would leap at it with joy and gratitude.
Not so. Turns out people like governments that promise them things and my cohorts and I were soundly rejected. So my loathing expanded from conniving and corrupt politicians to the public at large. Everyone was conspiring against me. No one took the brilliance of my logic seriously. No one thought of the devastating long term consequences of the actions we were taking. We were all doomed and nothing could be done about it. Armageddon approacheth.
I was very significant. But there was no breakthrough in the loathing until I began to use the logic on myself. Who said I had to take on “saving” the world? I did. Was that a logical thing to do? Had I thought it all out? Did it make sense? Well, no, no and no. What I saw was that I too could take logic and put it on the shelf when it suited me. How about that!
Over time, especially after doing the Forum, I got to see the world in a much more expanded view and bit by bit the loathing evaporated. Yes I still see red when I hear about the latest bit of nonsense from Howard or Rudd or the like but it’s short and goes away quickly like stomach gas.
It’s kind of corny I know, but I would have to say that my life has transformed from a book of loathing to a book of loving. And that is one of the most logical things I’ve ever done.
Monday 20 April 2009
A chapter of loathing (by Heather)
Create a story, poem, or any piece based on this metaphor: “a chapter of loathing”. 1110 words.
Jason watched as the repossessors grabbed the last piece of furniture and left the apartment.
His eyes met Rosie’s. She stood glaring at him, an unreadable expression on her tense face.
“Well, at least we have each other,” he said, attempting to lighten the moment.
Rosie’s reaction was not the one he was after. “Get out of here,” she hissed. “I can’t bear to look at you. Get out of my life.” Her palpable hatred hurled him out of the apartment.
Jason pressed the lift button robotically and caught the lift down. He stood in the lobby, barely able to breathe. He pulled out his mobile phone and looked at it blankly. This may be the only thing in the world I own now, he thought. He found Chris in his recent call list and rang the number.
Chris replied after several rings with a wary hello.
Jason flipped the phone into his other hand. “Chris? That you? Jesus, Chris, it’s all fallen over. It’s all gone!”
“Hey, slow down, man. What’s happened?”
“The repo guys have been here all afternoon and they’ve taken everything. Everything! And Rosie’s…” he nearly choked, “left me. I don’t know what to do. I’m panicking here. What should I do, Chris? How can I get it all back?”
Chris’ reply was slow in coming. “Okay, get a grip, man. You know you can’t get it back. You got the boot at the bank, your investments all fell over, you lost all your money, you borrowed from a loan shark and now you’re saying you lost Rosie. It’s all over, Jase. You can’t get it back. Don’t be an idiot.”
“But you know we all thought the market was going to rally. December looked so promising. You said yourself that it was just a matter of tiding ourselves over til the new year. I mean, you’re the one who set me up with Max, for chrissake.”
Chris’ voice took a dangerous tone. “Hey, don’t lay it on me, man. I warned you, you knew you were talking to the underworld. You knew it was a dangerous place. All you could see was protecting your precious high flyer life. Don’t you even think of trying to lay it on me.”
Jason tried to think but found his mind disturbingly out of gear. “Chris, I got no place to stay tonight. Can I come over? Just for a few days til I get this sorted?”
There was a pause. “Hey, Jase, you know I’d have you over in a minute, but I’ve just scored the schoolteacher with the red BMW, remember her? – first time she’s coming over and I need the place to myself. Maybe you could try Johnson.”
Jason drew himself up from the wall he’d been slumped against. “Yeah, cool. I’ll do that. Talk to you later.” He snapped shut the phone. A wave of hatred came at him, so strong he could feel it compressing his heart into a lump of iron. Chris had one thing right – he’d just wanted to protect his life: to protect Rosie with her developing career as an artist, his own career, their lifestyle, even to protect Chris and the guys at work. Was that so wrong? He brought his fist to his chest, unable to believe the force of the hate. Deserted by everyone!
Rosie gone. The sudden throb of pain in his chest belied the lump of iron.
Across the street in the next block was the old pub he and Rosie had frequented from time to time. He dropped onto a stool at the bar and ordered a schooner. He sat, fingering his glass, boxed in with a roiling mass of bitter thoughts – with the utter hopelessness of his self-made situation.
There was a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a girl of 19 or 20; cute, perky, full of herself.
“Hi there,” she said. “I thought you looked a little gloomy there and might like a bit of company. I’m Michelle.” She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly.
Jason looked at her blankly, then took her hand and said, “Jason.” She eased up onto the stool beside him and popped her drink down.
Indicating a nearby table of girls, she forged on. “We were just talking about how a life is like a book, and we’re all in the middle of chapters in our lives. It’s a romantic idea, isn’t it?”
He found his voice. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, you could have, like, a chapter of adventure. Or a chapter of enlightenment. Or a chapter of love,” she said coyly, tossing a mane of casually groomed hair. “What chapter are you in, Jason?”
The lump of iron stirred in Jason’s chest. He looked directly at her. “Don’t know. Maybe yours is an empty chapter. Do you see blank pages?”
She drew back as if he had struck her, then laughed shortly. “Boy, you sure got a chip on your shoulder!” She grabbed her drink and her handbag, and headed back to the table where her girlfriends watched like wolves.
He turned away and flinched when he saw behind the bar a dishevelled guy with wild eyes, eyes so angry that Jason checked quickly to make sure the guy didn’t have a gun. With a start, he realised that what he was seeing was a reflection of himself in the mirror behind the bar.
He stared at the reflection. What chapter are you in, Jason? he mimicked. This is the chapter of loathing, he thought, savouring the word. For months now he had hated his job, hated his life, hated himself. Christ almighty, how long was the chapter of loathing going to be?
Was this the last chapter of his book?
He threw some change on the bar, got up and left. He walked back toward the apartment and stood across the street in the shadows, watching the window upstairs. He was jolted to see Rosie at the window, her canvas on an easel she’d managed to protect from the repossessors. She was painting, staring intently out at the view, then back to the easel. How could she paint at a time like this? What was she still doing up there in that empty apartment anyway?
He watched her until she disappeared from the window. Moments later the lights went out.
He moved toward the apartment door. She’d be coming out soon, with a few meagre possessions and no place to go.
The lump of iron in his chest flexed, softened by concern, by wonder at Rosie. He could hear the lift doors opening now, and for the first time in months of anguish, the tears came.
Jason watched as the repossessors grabbed the last piece of furniture and left the apartment.
His eyes met Rosie’s. She stood glaring at him, an unreadable expression on her tense face.
“Well, at least we have each other,” he said, attempting to lighten the moment.
Rosie’s reaction was not the one he was after. “Get out of here,” she hissed. “I can’t bear to look at you. Get out of my life.” Her palpable hatred hurled him out of the apartment.
Jason pressed the lift button robotically and caught the lift down. He stood in the lobby, barely able to breathe. He pulled out his mobile phone and looked at it blankly. This may be the only thing in the world I own now, he thought. He found Chris in his recent call list and rang the number.
Chris replied after several rings with a wary hello.
Jason flipped the phone into his other hand. “Chris? That you? Jesus, Chris, it’s all fallen over. It’s all gone!”
“Hey, slow down, man. What’s happened?”
“The repo guys have been here all afternoon and they’ve taken everything. Everything! And Rosie’s…” he nearly choked, “left me. I don’t know what to do. I’m panicking here. What should I do, Chris? How can I get it all back?”
Chris’ reply was slow in coming. “Okay, get a grip, man. You know you can’t get it back. You got the boot at the bank, your investments all fell over, you lost all your money, you borrowed from a loan shark and now you’re saying you lost Rosie. It’s all over, Jase. You can’t get it back. Don’t be an idiot.”
“But you know we all thought the market was going to rally. December looked so promising. You said yourself that it was just a matter of tiding ourselves over til the new year. I mean, you’re the one who set me up with Max, for chrissake.”
Chris’ voice took a dangerous tone. “Hey, don’t lay it on me, man. I warned you, you knew you were talking to the underworld. You knew it was a dangerous place. All you could see was protecting your precious high flyer life. Don’t you even think of trying to lay it on me.”
Jason tried to think but found his mind disturbingly out of gear. “Chris, I got no place to stay tonight. Can I come over? Just for a few days til I get this sorted?”
There was a pause. “Hey, Jase, you know I’d have you over in a minute, but I’ve just scored the schoolteacher with the red BMW, remember her? – first time she’s coming over and I need the place to myself. Maybe you could try Johnson.”
Jason drew himself up from the wall he’d been slumped against. “Yeah, cool. I’ll do that. Talk to you later.” He snapped shut the phone. A wave of hatred came at him, so strong he could feel it compressing his heart into a lump of iron. Chris had one thing right – he’d just wanted to protect his life: to protect Rosie with her developing career as an artist, his own career, their lifestyle, even to protect Chris and the guys at work. Was that so wrong? He brought his fist to his chest, unable to believe the force of the hate. Deserted by everyone!
Rosie gone. The sudden throb of pain in his chest belied the lump of iron.
Across the street in the next block was the old pub he and Rosie had frequented from time to time. He dropped onto a stool at the bar and ordered a schooner. He sat, fingering his glass, boxed in with a roiling mass of bitter thoughts – with the utter hopelessness of his self-made situation.
There was a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a girl of 19 or 20; cute, perky, full of herself.
“Hi there,” she said. “I thought you looked a little gloomy there and might like a bit of company. I’m Michelle.” She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly.
Jason looked at her blankly, then took her hand and said, “Jason.” She eased up onto the stool beside him and popped her drink down.
Indicating a nearby table of girls, she forged on. “We were just talking about how a life is like a book, and we’re all in the middle of chapters in our lives. It’s a romantic idea, isn’t it?”
He found his voice. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, you could have, like, a chapter of adventure. Or a chapter of enlightenment. Or a chapter of love,” she said coyly, tossing a mane of casually groomed hair. “What chapter are you in, Jason?”
The lump of iron stirred in Jason’s chest. He looked directly at her. “Don’t know. Maybe yours is an empty chapter. Do you see blank pages?”
She drew back as if he had struck her, then laughed shortly. “Boy, you sure got a chip on your shoulder!” She grabbed her drink and her handbag, and headed back to the table where her girlfriends watched like wolves.
He turned away and flinched when he saw behind the bar a dishevelled guy with wild eyes, eyes so angry that Jason checked quickly to make sure the guy didn’t have a gun. With a start, he realised that what he was seeing was a reflection of himself in the mirror behind the bar.
He stared at the reflection. What chapter are you in, Jason? he mimicked. This is the chapter of loathing, he thought, savouring the word. For months now he had hated his job, hated his life, hated himself. Christ almighty, how long was the chapter of loathing going to be?
Was this the last chapter of his book?
He threw some change on the bar, got up and left. He walked back toward the apartment and stood across the street in the shadows, watching the window upstairs. He was jolted to see Rosie at the window, her canvas on an easel she’d managed to protect from the repossessors. She was painting, staring intently out at the view, then back to the easel. How could she paint at a time like this? What was she still doing up there in that empty apartment anyway?
He watched her until she disappeared from the window. Moments later the lights went out.
He moved toward the apartment door. She’d be coming out soon, with a few meagre possessions and no place to go.
The lump of iron in his chest flexed, softened by concern, by wonder at Rosie. He could hear the lift doors opening now, and for the first time in months of anguish, the tears came.
Sunday 19 April 2009
A Case to Answer (Gordon)
Gordon: Prompt of 19 April 2009, 500 words—A Chapter of Loathing
A garish coloured novel lay on the table amongst a sprawling bundle of books and papers and a devastating letter. Catherine picked the novel up and yelled at the top of her voice: “I hate you.” There was terror in her words and given forth with a venom she had not realised was possible for a human to express. Her emotional level was at breaking point. The questions were racing through her mind in a torrent of “whys”, “hows” and “what if only” that all had no answer and no possibility of answer. Her reputation had been destroyed forever. She felt a tightening in her stomach that almost reached the level of pain and her breathing was intense and rapid. Her heart was racing and she felt a heightened strength that almost reached to dizziness.
Exhausted, she sat down, bent over and cried great sobbing tears.
With emotional release came a profound tiredness and resignation. Her resignation became translated into hopelessness. Catherine thought long and hard. What can I do? Who will help me? Should I sue? All that work wasted? Does it all matter? What if it is really a dream and completely made up?
She picked up the newspaper chaotically spread on the floor. Carefully she put the pages together again, matching the folds and the edges so it looked like it had never been read. As she closed the front page over the others she noticed a headline that struck her with dramatic force. It read: “Author sues for defamation.” It was in large black bold print. Immediately she opened the paper out and read the story over and over again. It was as though she could float herself into the character of the defamed author. She could hear herself standing in court saying to the judge: “It is not just.” “The story was wrong.” “I did not copy.” “I wrote the book myself.”
In that moment she felt terribly alone and living in her head. The world around her was closed, grey and fuzzy and out of focus. Her beautiful kitchen view out the windows took on a green blur and the glasses and cups and cutlery on the sink had a presence but no definition. She suddenly jerked her head up, stood tall and walked quickly to the phone and rang her lawyer friend.
Months later, her fury had long subsided to a deep seated hate for the editor who wrote to her saying, “Chapter 2 was copied and we are pulping all copies of the book.” Sitting in court, she felt justified. Opposite was Ted Brand, the focus of her loathing and as they all stood to hear the judgement she could only glance at him. Then came the verdict: “There is no case to answer, copyright has not been breached.” Again, tears flowed, but this time, it was tears of release and the muscles on her face could only offer a small forgiving smile which only for a second hid her loathing.
Gordon MacAulay
19 April 2009
A garish coloured novel lay on the table amongst a sprawling bundle of books and papers and a devastating letter. Catherine picked the novel up and yelled at the top of her voice: “I hate you.” There was terror in her words and given forth with a venom she had not realised was possible for a human to express. Her emotional level was at breaking point. The questions were racing through her mind in a torrent of “whys”, “hows” and “what if only” that all had no answer and no possibility of answer. Her reputation had been destroyed forever. She felt a tightening in her stomach that almost reached the level of pain and her breathing was intense and rapid. Her heart was racing and she felt a heightened strength that almost reached to dizziness.
Exhausted, she sat down, bent over and cried great sobbing tears.
With emotional release came a profound tiredness and resignation. Her resignation became translated into hopelessness. Catherine thought long and hard. What can I do? Who will help me? Should I sue? All that work wasted? Does it all matter? What if it is really a dream and completely made up?
She picked up the newspaper chaotically spread on the floor. Carefully she put the pages together again, matching the folds and the edges so it looked like it had never been read. As she closed the front page over the others she noticed a headline that struck her with dramatic force. It read: “Author sues for defamation.” It was in large black bold print. Immediately she opened the paper out and read the story over and over again. It was as though she could float herself into the character of the defamed author. She could hear herself standing in court saying to the judge: “It is not just.” “The story was wrong.” “I did not copy.” “I wrote the book myself.”
In that moment she felt terribly alone and living in her head. The world around her was closed, grey and fuzzy and out of focus. Her beautiful kitchen view out the windows took on a green blur and the glasses and cups and cutlery on the sink had a presence but no definition. She suddenly jerked her head up, stood tall and walked quickly to the phone and rang her lawyer friend.
Months later, her fury had long subsided to a deep seated hate for the editor who wrote to her saying, “Chapter 2 was copied and we are pulping all copies of the book.” Sitting in court, she felt justified. Opposite was Ted Brand, the focus of her loathing and as they all stood to hear the judgement she could only glance at him. Then came the verdict: “There is no case to answer, copyright has not been breached.” Again, tears flowed, but this time, it was tears of release and the muscles on her face could only offer a small forgiving smile which only for a second hid her loathing.
Gordon MacAulay
19 April 2009
Saturday 18 April 2009
A Chapter of Loathing
I follow “A Chapter of Loving” and we are both part of a book on emotions and feelings. The book has a soft cover with a weird bit of artwork on the front which is in all the colours of the rainbow. The book is ten years old and the pages are dog eared and in some cases even torn. We are owned by a healer who lives up in the Nepalese mountains.
But, back to me, I get really jealous of “Loving”. I mean loathing is a bit of a yuck topic. Loving makes me feel warm, comfortable and safe. Loathing, well is just yuck. As you can imagine, I seriously have to entice readers to my section of the book. My colour helps. My pages are yellow and the other chapters have a different colour, red of course is for loving.
Yellow. If I think of loathing, this could be the colour of vomit or jaundice. Or it could be the colour of the sun or the beach. So I’ve painted a large smiling sun at the top of my first page; that always has people stop, and hopefully read me.
Strange though it may seem some people loathe the sun. Treat it with disrespect and it will burn like hell. To avoid this loathsome feeling, people wear silly floppy hats, long pants and soft floaty long sleeve shirts and then they feel so claustrophobic in their clothes that they feel loathsome again. And what they hate most is the endless traipse around to find the right designer sunglasses with wrap around and funky polarized lenses.
My chapter is not all bad. For each loathsome habit, I suggest alternative ways to survive. I mean I am part of a healing book. So for sunburn I suggest you get a parasol. It would have to be very gorgeous in maybe a silk, and it would have to match the new look designer layered clothes that believe it or not can become a love rather than a loathe.
Next I talk about the beach. How can you loathe the beach? Well you do get grains of sand in your sandwich and of course the sand sticks to your greasy skin. It’s impossible to read on the beach without getting back ache and your bum goes to sleep if you sit too long.
So here’s the recipe for loving. Make up a fruit and nut mix so you don’t notice the grit. And, this is the best bit. Have someone read to you.
Sooner or later, I get to the yuck bits. Vomit really is pretty loathsome. It smells, it splatters down your trousers and it makes your mouth taste revolting. It is possible to have another perspective. By vomiting you are getting rid of all the poison. Now you can acknowledge and love your body.
And to finish off, jaundice. You look pale and ill and your eyes are sunken and dark. Aaah, but did you know that the new season’s look is just that? Add a pair of silver dangly earrings and you will look just the part.
But, back to me, I get really jealous of “Loving”. I mean loathing is a bit of a yuck topic. Loving makes me feel warm, comfortable and safe. Loathing, well is just yuck. As you can imagine, I seriously have to entice readers to my section of the book. My colour helps. My pages are yellow and the other chapters have a different colour, red of course is for loving.
Yellow. If I think of loathing, this could be the colour of vomit or jaundice. Or it could be the colour of the sun or the beach. So I’ve painted a large smiling sun at the top of my first page; that always has people stop, and hopefully read me.
Strange though it may seem some people loathe the sun. Treat it with disrespect and it will burn like hell. To avoid this loathsome feeling, people wear silly floppy hats, long pants and soft floaty long sleeve shirts and then they feel so claustrophobic in their clothes that they feel loathsome again. And what they hate most is the endless traipse around to find the right designer sunglasses with wrap around and funky polarized lenses.
My chapter is not all bad. For each loathsome habit, I suggest alternative ways to survive. I mean I am part of a healing book. So for sunburn I suggest you get a parasol. It would have to be very gorgeous in maybe a silk, and it would have to match the new look designer layered clothes that believe it or not can become a love rather than a loathe.
Next I talk about the beach. How can you loathe the beach? Well you do get grains of sand in your sandwich and of course the sand sticks to your greasy skin. It’s impossible to read on the beach without getting back ache and your bum goes to sleep if you sit too long.
So here’s the recipe for loving. Make up a fruit and nut mix so you don’t notice the grit. And, this is the best bit. Have someone read to you.
Sooner or later, I get to the yuck bits. Vomit really is pretty loathsome. It smells, it splatters down your trousers and it makes your mouth taste revolting. It is possible to have another perspective. By vomiting you are getting rid of all the poison. Now you can acknowledge and love your body.
And to finish off, jaundice. You look pale and ill and your eyes are sunken and dark. Aaah, but did you know that the new season’s look is just that? Add a pair of silver dangly earrings and you will look just the part.
Friday 17 April 2009
Black Book (Kerry)
Crunch of boots on brittle stone
Innocent sleep suspended
Guns glow dark reflecting clouds
Weakening moon transcended
Vision lost ...
Blast of screaming in the night
Blistering fire is sated
In darkness lit by burning life
Humanity violated
This chapter of loathing ...
Black snake birthing fear and hate
Stealth and greed demented
Mount of separation built
Stone on stone cemented
Impenetrable ...
Generations prejudiced
Lack of understanding
Tales repeated lap to lap
Clothed in metal banding
Endless ignorance ...
Rock by rock thrown dams the flow
Of streams to parched earth blackened
Putrid scum forms crusts of hate
On mud of black pus crackened
Festers eternity ...
Life condemned to death by fear
Impervious to thunder
Distorted, deafened by the hate
That drags the whole world under
Yet ...
The seed springs, faltering word
Spoken wary, still half-formed
Fledgling chapter easily crushed
Augers birth of hope reformed
Forgiveness ...
Innocent sleep suspended
Guns glow dark reflecting clouds
Weakening moon transcended
Vision lost ...
Blast of screaming in the night
Blistering fire is sated
In darkness lit by burning life
Humanity violated
This chapter of loathing ...
Black snake birthing fear and hate
Stealth and greed demented
Mount of separation built
Stone on stone cemented
Impenetrable ...
Generations prejudiced
Lack of understanding
Tales repeated lap to lap
Clothed in metal banding
Endless ignorance ...
Rock by rock thrown dams the flow
Of streams to parched earth blackened
Putrid scum forms crusts of hate
On mud of black pus crackened
Festers eternity ...
Life condemned to death by fear
Impervious to thunder
Distorted, deafened by the hate
That drags the whole world under
Yet ...
The seed springs, faltering word
Spoken wary, still half-formed
Fledgling chapter easily crushed
Augers birth of hope reformed
Forgiveness ...
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Sue - the wish
“I wanna go to the park. Oh stop rain, stop. Mum why won’t the rain stop?”
Mary leans into the cool window, squashing her nose. The rain has been pouring down for three days now. Not only cats and dogs but elephants and rhinos too. The back lawn is puddles. There’s hardly any grass to be seen.
“I hate this rain. Muuuuuuuuum? What can I do? There’s nothing to do” Mary pushes off from the glass and stamps her bare foot.
“Enough Mary, enough. Here’s your yellow sou’wester, your wellington boots and don’t forget your new hat, the one that comes down over your ears. We’re off to the park”
“No, I hate that hat, it’s stupid. I hate the rain. You know I hate getting wet. This is all your fault.”
Somehow Mum drags her down the street.
“Muuuuuuuuuuuuum” and tears fall down her cheek to land as cold bits on her neck.
“where are we going?” she hiccupped and coughed “this isn’t the way”
Down at the end of the lane there’s a round stone wall house with a little red tiled roof. Mary’s never seen it before and darts ahead.
“Mum, a wishing well. Look a little well. And a bucket. Does it work? Can I make a wish Mum? Can I, please?”
The penny rises into the air and only just makes the little wall.
“plop”. Mary bends over the little wall, being careful not to topple in. She tries to see the water but it’s just a big black hole.
“Mum, what will I wish?”
“You decide darling. It’s your wish. Don’t forget to keep it a secret. It won’t come true if you tell me or Dad.
The next day, Mary wakes up with the blanket in a pile on the floor. The bright yellow sun streams through the curtains and the rays are already hot, like a knife piercing the thin cotton sheet.
“Phew, it’s hot” and little bubbles of sweat run down her forehead. Mary pulls on her shorts and her favourite red tee shirt. She flings back her loose blonde hair and skips down the stairs singing.
“Mum, my wish has come true. Look it’s sunny. It’s off to the park for me. ”
“Isn’t it lovely darling. But I’m afraid it’s far too hot for the park. Today’s going to be scorcher. You’d fry your fair skin. No, today is an indoor day.
“Muuuuuuuuuuuum. It’s not fa…………ir” she only just got out the fair bit when she bit her tongue and gobbled. She suddenly realizes this is her fault, it is her wish after all.
“Uuuummm” she thinks
“Mum?”
“Can we make dinner? You know just you and me in the kitchen. We can make a surprise pasta for Dad and can I make some scones, Mum? Can I, all by myself?”
Mary leans into the cool window, squashing her nose. The rain has been pouring down for three days now. Not only cats and dogs but elephants and rhinos too. The back lawn is puddles. There’s hardly any grass to be seen.
“I hate this rain. Muuuuuuuuum? What can I do? There’s nothing to do” Mary pushes off from the glass and stamps her bare foot.
“Enough Mary, enough. Here’s your yellow sou’wester, your wellington boots and don’t forget your new hat, the one that comes down over your ears. We’re off to the park”
“No, I hate that hat, it’s stupid. I hate the rain. You know I hate getting wet. This is all your fault.”
Somehow Mum drags her down the street.
“Muuuuuuuuuuuuum” and tears fall down her cheek to land as cold bits on her neck.
“where are we going?” she hiccupped and coughed “this isn’t the way”
Down at the end of the lane there’s a round stone wall house with a little red tiled roof. Mary’s never seen it before and darts ahead.
“Mum, a wishing well. Look a little well. And a bucket. Does it work? Can I make a wish Mum? Can I, please?”
The penny rises into the air and only just makes the little wall.
“plop”. Mary bends over the little wall, being careful not to topple in. She tries to see the water but it’s just a big black hole.
“Mum, what will I wish?”
“You decide darling. It’s your wish. Don’t forget to keep it a secret. It won’t come true if you tell me or Dad.
The next day, Mary wakes up with the blanket in a pile on the floor. The bright yellow sun streams through the curtains and the rays are already hot, like a knife piercing the thin cotton sheet.
“Phew, it’s hot” and little bubbles of sweat run down her forehead. Mary pulls on her shorts and her favourite red tee shirt. She flings back her loose blonde hair and skips down the stairs singing.
“Mum, my wish has come true. Look it’s sunny. It’s off to the park for me. ”
“Isn’t it lovely darling. But I’m afraid it’s far too hot for the park. Today’s going to be scorcher. You’d fry your fair skin. No, today is an indoor day.
“Muuuuuuuuuuuum. It’s not fa…………ir” she only just got out the fair bit when she bit her tongue and gobbled. She suddenly realizes this is her fault, it is her wish after all.
“Uuuummm” she thinks
“Mum?”
“Can we make dinner? You know just you and me in the kitchen. We can make a surprise pasta for Dad and can I make some scones, Mum? Can I, all by myself?”
Monday 13 April 2009
Maughold miracle (Kerry)
“Lie back and think of England,” I call through the fog to Sally. She snorts appreciatively at my inept reference, flings her pack on the ground and stretches out on the wet rock to ease her aching back.
I know how she feels. Every muscle is burning with exhaustion, my shoulders are aching from the pull of the heavy backpack, my hands are freezing inside wet gloves and my feet are rubbed raw by wet socks. This is the tenth day of our trek and we have experienced the full blast of bitter weather off the Irish Sea every day.
Sally has been moving more slowly this morning and I have climbed on ahead of her to see if I can get a glimpse of the country beyond the fog. I ease my pack off as well and lower myself gingerly onto a rock. I close my eyes for a few minutes but it’s impossible to erase the vision of foliage dripping in the mist and paths treacherously slippery with wet mossy rocks.
I am worried about Sally. She has developed an alarming cough and is complaining of a sore throat. In the tent last night she was tossing fitfully in her sleeping bag. Neither of us slept well.
I call to her again when I hear her coughing weakly in the distance. “Fancy a stiff whisky, Sal?”
She doesn’t answer immediately and I wonder whether I should go back to check on her. But then I hear her defiant response. “Double, on the rocks, please.”
I smile to myself. “Take a rain-check on it?” I ask.
"Very amusing," she mutters, loudly enough for me to hear.
To encourage her back on to the climb I add, “Let’s go, Sal. It’s only a mile to Maughold from here.”
“OK, slave-driver,” she shouts bravely.
I am waiting for her with my pack on when she emerges slowly through the mist a few minutes later. She looks pale and strained. The dark rings under her eyes are a warning to me that she needs medical attention and I wonder whether Maughold has a clinic. It’s a tiny village with little more than a church, according to the guide.
We climb the final steep slope up to the village in silence. We are both out of breath and exhausted.
The arrow to the well seems to be pointing down the cliff face on our left and we almost pass by without noticing it. We are drawn down the narrow path to the well. It is set back against the cliff on a small flat area.
Following the directions on the faded sign, we each kneel at the well, slip off our gloves and scoop the water up in the palm of our hands three times. I fervently revolve my wish around in my mind. Despite being icy cold, the water has a mysterious warming effect as I swallow.
Afterwards, Sally and I lean with our backs against the cliff. I hold her freezing hand as we gaze out at the fog ahead of us.
Slowly our world opens up. We watch in stunned silence as the mist dissolves, revealing the sun high in a cloudless sky. I feel Sally’s hand warming in my grasp and see the rings under her eyes fade as we stand, stupefied by the miracle of our wishes coming true.
I know how she feels. Every muscle is burning with exhaustion, my shoulders are aching from the pull of the heavy backpack, my hands are freezing inside wet gloves and my feet are rubbed raw by wet socks. This is the tenth day of our trek and we have experienced the full blast of bitter weather off the Irish Sea every day.
Sally has been moving more slowly this morning and I have climbed on ahead of her to see if I can get a glimpse of the country beyond the fog. I ease my pack off as well and lower myself gingerly onto a rock. I close my eyes for a few minutes but it’s impossible to erase the vision of foliage dripping in the mist and paths treacherously slippery with wet mossy rocks.
I am worried about Sally. She has developed an alarming cough and is complaining of a sore throat. In the tent last night she was tossing fitfully in her sleeping bag. Neither of us slept well.
I call to her again when I hear her coughing weakly in the distance. “Fancy a stiff whisky, Sal?”
She doesn’t answer immediately and I wonder whether I should go back to check on her. But then I hear her defiant response. “Double, on the rocks, please.”
I smile to myself. “Take a rain-check on it?” I ask.
"Very amusing," she mutters, loudly enough for me to hear.
To encourage her back on to the climb I add, “Let’s go, Sal. It’s only a mile to Maughold from here.”
“OK, slave-driver,” she shouts bravely.
I am waiting for her with my pack on when she emerges slowly through the mist a few minutes later. She looks pale and strained. The dark rings under her eyes are a warning to me that she needs medical attention and I wonder whether Maughold has a clinic. It’s a tiny village with little more than a church, according to the guide.
We climb the final steep slope up to the village in silence. We are both out of breath and exhausted.
The arrow to the well seems to be pointing down the cliff face on our left and we almost pass by without noticing it. We are drawn down the narrow path to the well. It is set back against the cliff on a small flat area.
Following the directions on the faded sign, we each kneel at the well, slip off our gloves and scoop the water up in the palm of our hands three times. I fervently revolve my wish around in my mind. Despite being icy cold, the water has a mysterious warming effect as I swallow.
Afterwards, Sally and I lean with our backs against the cliff. I hold her freezing hand as we gaze out at the fog ahead of us.
Slowly our world opens up. We watch in stunned silence as the mist dissolves, revealing the sun high in a cloudless sky. I feel Sally’s hand warming in my grasp and see the rings under her eyes fade as we stand, stupefied by the miracle of our wishes coming true.
The toss of the coin (by Heather)
You've just had one of the most grueling days of your life when you stumble upon a wishing well. While you don't typically believe in such things, you need a pick-me-up. So you toss a penny down the well and make a wish. Lo and behold, it comes true.
The door slammed fiercely enough that the picture on the wall listed to the left.
Scott, sitting white-faced behind his desk, picked up his pen and made a few doodles for appearances sake. He knew that everyone in the nearby workstations would be looking through the glass windows into his office to check him out and speculate about what had happened.
It was the last retrenchment of the day. There’d been three of them, victims of the GFC rather than of any incompetence, and Scott was scraped so raw that he could barely hold the pen, never mind keep up appearances. The first one, early this afternoon with Janine, he’d botched pathetically, resorting to a “this hurts me more than it hurts you” approach which was transparent bullshit. The second one, an hour a half later, he’d handled slightly better – a straighter conversation that left its victim Max with at least a little dignity. And this final one – well, the tilted picture (a beloved photograph of a remote Chinese village that he’d brought from home) spoke for the success of that.
A few minutes later, Barney stuck his head into the office saying, “I’m just going for a coffee, boss. Want the usual?” The office grapevine was a highly polished part of the machine, and there was obviously some sympathy for him from the survivors. Scott nodded numbly, fished a couple of $2 coins out of his pocket and tossed them to Barney.
His pen doodled a bit of mountain, with a tortuous winding path leading up toward it. He adjusted his backpack and pushed more strongly into the fierce Nepalese climb. There was a stiff breeze pressing his hair off his forehead and his walking stick clipped against the loose pebbles. He stayed firmly on the rocky track until Barney arrived with his coffee and Scott was forced to return to reality.
The day was obviously beyond repair and it was near enough to 5:00 that Scott decided to drop the pretense of working and head for home. He grabbed his jacket and walked through the office trying to look matter-of-fact. His team, eyeing him warily, chorused their goodbyes and he headed for the train station.
A half hour later, when the train pulled into Wollstonecraft station, Scott decided to take the longer walk home through Smiley Park ravine. The ravine was always soothing, a great place for a walk at the end of the day. You’d never know you were in the heart of a large city. The traffic noise remained at higher altitudes; down here in the thick foliage, birds, insects and reptiles abounded. At the foot of the ravine, Scott paused beside the whimsical little circular stone well casually built by someone to catch a bit of the stream. It always contained a few coins tossed in by superstitious passers-by. He walked on, paused, returned and fished in his pocket to find a coin, finding a nice big 50 cent piece. With a quick check to make sure there was no one around, he tossed it into the little well. “I wish I would never again have a day like this one,” he muttered. He shook his head ruefully at himself and walked on.
Half way up the other side of the ravine a little stone bench nestled under a gum tree’s low spreading branches. Scott stopped, sat down, and dropped his head into his hands. Reduced to throwing coins into wishing wells, he thought? Perhaps it was time to take stock of himself, his dreams, the routine of his day-to-day existence.
All right, he mumbled to himself, there’s two ways I can go with this. It was an easy wish – on one hand, he clearly was never going to have another day exactly like this in his life. The old wish genie could head off to a harder job because this one was already handled.
He could accomplish the wish just by putting one foot in front of the other. Tomorrow would be different.
But would it be meaningfully different? Would it invigorate his life?
There was another way to make tomorrow different. He could quit work, say goodbye to a job and a team that he liked but knew inside out – and head out into the world to travel, to see new things, to sample some of the vast array of the world’s offerings. He could throw his bicycle onto the roof-rack of his car, head north, fly out to China from Darwin…
He felt in his pocket for a coin. There was only one left. “Heads I stay, tails I go,” he said and tossed the coin onto the ground at his feet.
The coin came up heads. It took three more tosses before he got it to come up tails.
“Well, that’s it, then!” he said, walking home with a brand new stride in his step.
The door slammed fiercely enough that the picture on the wall listed to the left.
Scott, sitting white-faced behind his desk, picked up his pen and made a few doodles for appearances sake. He knew that everyone in the nearby workstations would be looking through the glass windows into his office to check him out and speculate about what had happened.
It was the last retrenchment of the day. There’d been three of them, victims of the GFC rather than of any incompetence, and Scott was scraped so raw that he could barely hold the pen, never mind keep up appearances. The first one, early this afternoon with Janine, he’d botched pathetically, resorting to a “this hurts me more than it hurts you” approach which was transparent bullshit. The second one, an hour a half later, he’d handled slightly better – a straighter conversation that left its victim Max with at least a little dignity. And this final one – well, the tilted picture (a beloved photograph of a remote Chinese village that he’d brought from home) spoke for the success of that.
A few minutes later, Barney stuck his head into the office saying, “I’m just going for a coffee, boss. Want the usual?” The office grapevine was a highly polished part of the machine, and there was obviously some sympathy for him from the survivors. Scott nodded numbly, fished a couple of $2 coins out of his pocket and tossed them to Barney.
His pen doodled a bit of mountain, with a tortuous winding path leading up toward it. He adjusted his backpack and pushed more strongly into the fierce Nepalese climb. There was a stiff breeze pressing his hair off his forehead and his walking stick clipped against the loose pebbles. He stayed firmly on the rocky track until Barney arrived with his coffee and Scott was forced to return to reality.
The day was obviously beyond repair and it was near enough to 5:00 that Scott decided to drop the pretense of working and head for home. He grabbed his jacket and walked through the office trying to look matter-of-fact. His team, eyeing him warily, chorused their goodbyes and he headed for the train station.
A half hour later, when the train pulled into Wollstonecraft station, Scott decided to take the longer walk home through Smiley Park ravine. The ravine was always soothing, a great place for a walk at the end of the day. You’d never know you were in the heart of a large city. The traffic noise remained at higher altitudes; down here in the thick foliage, birds, insects and reptiles abounded. At the foot of the ravine, Scott paused beside the whimsical little circular stone well casually built by someone to catch a bit of the stream. It always contained a few coins tossed in by superstitious passers-by. He walked on, paused, returned and fished in his pocket to find a coin, finding a nice big 50 cent piece. With a quick check to make sure there was no one around, he tossed it into the little well. “I wish I would never again have a day like this one,” he muttered. He shook his head ruefully at himself and walked on.
Half way up the other side of the ravine a little stone bench nestled under a gum tree’s low spreading branches. Scott stopped, sat down, and dropped his head into his hands. Reduced to throwing coins into wishing wells, he thought? Perhaps it was time to take stock of himself, his dreams, the routine of his day-to-day existence.
All right, he mumbled to himself, there’s two ways I can go with this. It was an easy wish – on one hand, he clearly was never going to have another day exactly like this in his life. The old wish genie could head off to a harder job because this one was already handled.
He could accomplish the wish just by putting one foot in front of the other. Tomorrow would be different.
But would it be meaningfully different? Would it invigorate his life?
There was another way to make tomorrow different. He could quit work, say goodbye to a job and a team that he liked but knew inside out – and head out into the world to travel, to see new things, to sample some of the vast array of the world’s offerings. He could throw his bicycle onto the roof-rack of his car, head north, fly out to China from Darwin…
He felt in his pocket for a coin. There was only one left. “Heads I stay, tails I go,” he said and tossed the coin onto the ground at his feet.
The coin came up heads. It took three more tosses before he got it to come up tails.
“Well, that’s it, then!” he said, walking home with a brand new stride in his step.
Monday 6 April 2009
Going down in flames - Kerry
Written in chalk, the sign reads “Homeless - anything your heart can spare is welcome”. Gus Pravdi has walked along Flinders Street past this man countless times on the way to his downtown office and has often spared him a coin or two. It’s a generosity that has stood him in good stead all his life. He has created a couple of charities for worthy causes over the years and has been on various boards for charitable institutions such as the Red Cross.
But these days he feels way more connected with the man sitting on the pavement in Flinders Street.
You will have heard of Gus Pravdi, former CEO Everyman Company, if you read the Business Section of the Sydney Morning Herald or the Financial Review. He’s been headlining the business news for nearly a year. Everyman went under at the beginning of the year. There were some unfortunate deals, bad timing, nothing underhand or illegal. And in the present climate, with the Global Financial Crisis, Everyman had nowhere to go. Gus was left with nothing. All his equity in the company was lost. Any cash he had was required to pay off debts.
But Gus is an optimist. Despite losing everything, he decided he could salvage something from the experience. He would write a book about it while he re-assessed his future. He got himself a job as a cleaner at the local village school and set about his task. But he hadn’t reckoned on the weather.
In February Victoria was scorched by some of the hottest weather on record. Gus lost his house in Marysville and all his belongings on Black Saturday. He had reached a new low.
This latest blow really shook his confidence. For some days after the fire he had been allocated shelter in the school hall at Warburton. At night he would lie on his borrowed sleeping bag re-living the horror of his escape, seeing again the awful flames and feeling the searing winds. He couldn’t rid himself of the smell of smoke.
Gus talked with others in the shelter and heard some of the appalling stories they had to relate. It was healing for them to share their experiences. Many of them were neighbours or people he was acquainted with from the village. Most had lost their homes and many had lost friends and family. Gradually, as the days past, the homeless were allocated temporary accommodation in places like caravan parks. Gus was one of these.
He had been given a handout from the government to tide him over until he could find work. In the meantime he was determined to make something of this new experience, shattering though it had been.
He remembered the man sitting outside Flinders Street Station in the city.
With nothing but a tape recorder, a notebook and a pen, he began collecting stories from the victims of the fire. His plan is to publish a book to raise money for people like his mate in Flinders Street.
But these days he feels way more connected with the man sitting on the pavement in Flinders Street.
You will have heard of Gus Pravdi, former CEO Everyman Company, if you read the Business Section of the Sydney Morning Herald or the Financial Review. He’s been headlining the business news for nearly a year. Everyman went under at the beginning of the year. There were some unfortunate deals, bad timing, nothing underhand or illegal. And in the present climate, with the Global Financial Crisis, Everyman had nowhere to go. Gus was left with nothing. All his equity in the company was lost. Any cash he had was required to pay off debts.
But Gus is an optimist. Despite losing everything, he decided he could salvage something from the experience. He would write a book about it while he re-assessed his future. He got himself a job as a cleaner at the local village school and set about his task. But he hadn’t reckoned on the weather.
In February Victoria was scorched by some of the hottest weather on record. Gus lost his house in Marysville and all his belongings on Black Saturday. He had reached a new low.
This latest blow really shook his confidence. For some days after the fire he had been allocated shelter in the school hall at Warburton. At night he would lie on his borrowed sleeping bag re-living the horror of his escape, seeing again the awful flames and feeling the searing winds. He couldn’t rid himself of the smell of smoke.
Gus talked with others in the shelter and heard some of the appalling stories they had to relate. It was healing for them to share their experiences. Many of them were neighbours or people he was acquainted with from the village. Most had lost their homes and many had lost friends and family. Gradually, as the days past, the homeless were allocated temporary accommodation in places like caravan parks. Gus was one of these.
He had been given a handout from the government to tide him over until he could find work. In the meantime he was determined to make something of this new experience, shattering though it had been.
He remembered the man sitting outside Flinders Street Station in the city.
With nothing but a tape recorder, a notebook and a pen, he began collecting stories from the victims of the fire. His plan is to publish a book to raise money for people like his mate in Flinders Street.
At least I have you (by Heather)
Write about a millionaire who suddenly loses his fortune and finds himself without any possessions.
“I missed that. Run that by me again,” Rosie said, articulating carefully through clenched teeth. Jason leaned in closer, trying to converse privately over the general commotion in the apartment. A skinny guy in a bomber jacket and blue jeans stepped in front of them, grabbed the Matt Blatt coffee table, swung it over his shoulder and headed out of the room. A fat guy in a jacket and track pants picked up the Jimmy Possum recliner, Jason’s favourite, and lumbered after him.
Jason looked warily at Rosie. “I was explaining about how the margin calls caught me out. I mean, they caught a LOT of us out. Willy, Matt, Geoff, they all lost millions.” He met her hard eyes and then glanced away. “A margin call is when…”
She cut in furiously. “I married a stockbroker: I know what a margin call is. But somehow in the education you gave me I missed the part where Mafia types come into your apartment and take everything you own….” She stopped and willed back tears.
“I know, I know, I’ll explain,” Jason put a hand on her knee, which swiftly slid out from under his gesture. He forged on. “When the margin calls came in and I had to repay all the money, well, I was only $20,000 short at that point. So I borrowed it from a guy Matt knows…”
She controlled her voice. “Jason, a lot of people are losing a lot of money these days. But you gambled away our salaries, your mother’s inheritance, the money from my paintings, every penny we’ve saved in the last five years together. And I don’t know any other idiots who got themselves so tangled up that guys show up to take everything in the house.”
Jason swallowed. Fat Trackies returned to stand, legs akimbo, in front of them. He spoke: “I gotta take the sofa. You gotta get off.”
Rosie wasn’t sure her knees would work so stood carefully. Walking toward the window, she nearly bumped into Skinny Jeans, making another trip from the bedroom, this time with a stainless steel shoe rack containing 12 pairs of Jason’s Berlutis and Florsheims under one arm.
At that moment, Skinny Jeans reached for the watercolour on the wall behind them. Rosie swung toward him. “Don’t even think of taking that. That’s a painting I did, it’s mine personally, you can’t have it.”
“Yeah, well, ma’am, we gotta take everything.”
She looked at him evenly. “You touch that painting and I tear your eyes out of your head whether or not you get your gun out and shoot me.” She noticed the bag he was carrying on top of the shoe rack. “And put that canvas bag down because you will not be taking my painting supplies either.”
The pair looked uneasily at each other. “Well, whatever.” They did a cursory inspection of the art bag and dropped it at Rosie’s feet.
Skinny Jeans said, “Well, okay then, that’s the end of it. We’re outta here.” He and Fat Trackies shuffled out of the apartment with their final cargo.
Rosie and Jason stood facing each other as the door slammed, echoing slightly in the empty apartment. Jason’s white face forced a smile. “Well, at least we have each other,” he said.
The comment fuelled in Rosie an intense desire to scrape skin off with her words. “You’re outta here too, Jason,” she said calmly. “Get nicked before I say something I’ll regret.”
Defeated, Jason looked around for his jacket, then realised he no longer had one. Hands in his pockets, he walked to the door, closing it softly behind him.
Rosie slid down to the floor and buried her head in her hands. Moments later, she stood and walked over to the windows. This might be the last time she’d look out the floor-to-ceiling windows of this expensive apartment with its renowned views of Bondi Beach. She pressed her forehead to the glass.
The furniture, joyously selected with Jason when they moved into the apartment three years ago: gone. Their wine collection: gone. Her designer clothing, mostly chosen by Jason: gone.
All of it: gone.
And what she saw in that moment as she watched the fading light playing on the water, was a truth forged in the heat of the events of the day – that none of it had any value to her, really. It was game she’d played, a game that had been stripped bare this afternoon over the course of a couple of hours.
Then: Jason, gone.
Her heart tripped. Did he have any value to her? She wasn’t sure. He’d been stupid. But then, she’d been stupid. Was his an irreparable character flaw any more than hers was?
In front of her, the water glowed. The rays of the sun slanted in from the west, turning the waves to black and gold. A tanker hung on the horizon, waiting for its call into the harbour.
Rosie grabbed her sketch pad out of the canvas sack. She flicked to a clean page and sketched furiously for a few moments. Then she yanked out her waterpaints and brushes, got some water from the sink and started to swirl colour onto the paper.
Within an hour the roiling sea, the tanker, the lights and the people in the bustling cafés below emerged on the paper. The painting captured for Rosie a world of beauty, life, industry. She gathered up her remaining things and walked to the door. She paused to look back into the apartment, thinking of Jason’s last words. “At least I have this,” she whispered.
“I missed that. Run that by me again,” Rosie said, articulating carefully through clenched teeth. Jason leaned in closer, trying to converse privately over the general commotion in the apartment. A skinny guy in a bomber jacket and blue jeans stepped in front of them, grabbed the Matt Blatt coffee table, swung it over his shoulder and headed out of the room. A fat guy in a jacket and track pants picked up the Jimmy Possum recliner, Jason’s favourite, and lumbered after him.
Jason looked warily at Rosie. “I was explaining about how the margin calls caught me out. I mean, they caught a LOT of us out. Willy, Matt, Geoff, they all lost millions.” He met her hard eyes and then glanced away. “A margin call is when…”
She cut in furiously. “I married a stockbroker: I know what a margin call is. But somehow in the education you gave me I missed the part where Mafia types come into your apartment and take everything you own….” She stopped and willed back tears.
“I know, I know, I’ll explain,” Jason put a hand on her knee, which swiftly slid out from under his gesture. He forged on. “When the margin calls came in and I had to repay all the money, well, I was only $20,000 short at that point. So I borrowed it from a guy Matt knows…”
She controlled her voice. “Jason, a lot of people are losing a lot of money these days. But you gambled away our salaries, your mother’s inheritance, the money from my paintings, every penny we’ve saved in the last five years together. And I don’t know any other idiots who got themselves so tangled up that guys show up to take everything in the house.”
Jason swallowed. Fat Trackies returned to stand, legs akimbo, in front of them. He spoke: “I gotta take the sofa. You gotta get off.”
Rosie wasn’t sure her knees would work so stood carefully. Walking toward the window, she nearly bumped into Skinny Jeans, making another trip from the bedroom, this time with a stainless steel shoe rack containing 12 pairs of Jason’s Berlutis and Florsheims under one arm.
At that moment, Skinny Jeans reached for the watercolour on the wall behind them. Rosie swung toward him. “Don’t even think of taking that. That’s a painting I did, it’s mine personally, you can’t have it.”
“Yeah, well, ma’am, we gotta take everything.”
She looked at him evenly. “You touch that painting and I tear your eyes out of your head whether or not you get your gun out and shoot me.” She noticed the bag he was carrying on top of the shoe rack. “And put that canvas bag down because you will not be taking my painting supplies either.”
The pair looked uneasily at each other. “Well, whatever.” They did a cursory inspection of the art bag and dropped it at Rosie’s feet.
Skinny Jeans said, “Well, okay then, that’s the end of it. We’re outta here.” He and Fat Trackies shuffled out of the apartment with their final cargo.
Rosie and Jason stood facing each other as the door slammed, echoing slightly in the empty apartment. Jason’s white face forced a smile. “Well, at least we have each other,” he said.
The comment fuelled in Rosie an intense desire to scrape skin off with her words. “You’re outta here too, Jason,” she said calmly. “Get nicked before I say something I’ll regret.”
Defeated, Jason looked around for his jacket, then realised he no longer had one. Hands in his pockets, he walked to the door, closing it softly behind him.
Rosie slid down to the floor and buried her head in her hands. Moments later, she stood and walked over to the windows. This might be the last time she’d look out the floor-to-ceiling windows of this expensive apartment with its renowned views of Bondi Beach. She pressed her forehead to the glass.
The furniture, joyously selected with Jason when they moved into the apartment three years ago: gone. Their wine collection: gone. Her designer clothing, mostly chosen by Jason: gone.
All of it: gone.
And what she saw in that moment as she watched the fading light playing on the water, was a truth forged in the heat of the events of the day – that none of it had any value to her, really. It was game she’d played, a game that had been stripped bare this afternoon over the course of a couple of hours.
Then: Jason, gone.
Her heart tripped. Did he have any value to her? She wasn’t sure. He’d been stupid. But then, she’d been stupid. Was his an irreparable character flaw any more than hers was?
In front of her, the water glowed. The rays of the sun slanted in from the west, turning the waves to black and gold. A tanker hung on the horizon, waiting for its call into the harbour.
Rosie grabbed her sketch pad out of the canvas sack. She flicked to a clean page and sketched furiously for a few moments. Then she yanked out her waterpaints and brushes, got some water from the sink and started to swirl colour onto the paper.
Within an hour the roiling sea, the tanker, the lights and the people in the bustling cafés below emerged on the paper. The painting captured for Rosie a world of beauty, life, industry. She gathered up her remaining things and walked to the door. She paused to look back into the apartment, thinking of Jason’s last words. “At least I have this,” she whispered.
Sunday 5 April 2009
setting up home - Sue
Jonathon pulls at the hefty metal bolts and flings open the double wooden doors of the old warehouse. At first sight is has potential. High rafters are strung across the roof line and huge casement windows let in masses of light. All the walls are timber and the floor the usual dirty grey of cement. Of course it is very dirty, the place has been empty for over five years.
He laughs, in fact he collapses in an uncontrollable fit of giggles as the past flashes past him in a whirl.
Masterson & Co collapsed overnight. He and his mates, his peers have lost everything. In just a few days the banks have foreclosed on his villa and the transport company arrived to collect all the beautiful Italian furniture. The leasing company drove off in his brand new lamborgini. That was a bit cruel.
But, and this was the funny thing, he’d managed to salvage everything he needed to set up home, camp really and to camp in style. And his 6 collages were joining in the fun.
His mind flashes forwards and he can see the warehouse all set up.
King size hammocks are strung between the rafters. The bold and wide striped canvas boats are covered in soft feather duvets, each one a different shade of blue silk. The goose down pillows look plump and full. To create some privacy the boys have made full length beaded curtains which tend to clatter a bit in the breeze. Each so called cubicle has a pair of soft leather bean bags and a low table made of melamine. They are a bit ordinary but they serve the purpose. Each table has a cut glass crystal decanter filled with honey coloured whisky and some sort of ornate cigar box. Quite often a “grange” has also been decanted ready for the evening meal.
Across on the other side, is a cocktail bar, standing space only and the old board room table, the only remnant or souvenir from Mastersons. It makes a fine dining table. Fortunately the removalists had missed the wrought iron chairs so these sit sedately ready for dinner. The lounge room is wild, an old army surplus suite is covered with hides and skins from their hunting days in Africa. A large male lion head is secured to one of the walls and a couple more skins, the bear being Jonathon’s favourite, lie on the floor.
The kitchen is a challenge and so is the bathroom. But between them they have a BBQ, a spa pool, a sauna and a solarium. There is one tap in the place.
It’s time for cocktails. The all dress in silk smoking jackets and smart black slacks. Jonathon deftly spins the silver cocktail shaker, Frederick slices the limes and Mark unfolds the little paper umbrellas. David hands round cigars. They create the menu
Smoked trout with imported horseradish and Italian crispbread
Duck L’Orange with baby new potatoes and Italian beans
Tiramisu and strawberries
“This is the life” they all agree.
He laughs, in fact he collapses in an uncontrollable fit of giggles as the past flashes past him in a whirl.
Masterson & Co collapsed overnight. He and his mates, his peers have lost everything. In just a few days the banks have foreclosed on his villa and the transport company arrived to collect all the beautiful Italian furniture. The leasing company drove off in his brand new lamborgini. That was a bit cruel.
But, and this was the funny thing, he’d managed to salvage everything he needed to set up home, camp really and to camp in style. And his 6 collages were joining in the fun.
His mind flashes forwards and he can see the warehouse all set up.
King size hammocks are strung between the rafters. The bold and wide striped canvas boats are covered in soft feather duvets, each one a different shade of blue silk. The goose down pillows look plump and full. To create some privacy the boys have made full length beaded curtains which tend to clatter a bit in the breeze. Each so called cubicle has a pair of soft leather bean bags and a low table made of melamine. They are a bit ordinary but they serve the purpose. Each table has a cut glass crystal decanter filled with honey coloured whisky and some sort of ornate cigar box. Quite often a “grange” has also been decanted ready for the evening meal.
Across on the other side, is a cocktail bar, standing space only and the old board room table, the only remnant or souvenir from Mastersons. It makes a fine dining table. Fortunately the removalists had missed the wrought iron chairs so these sit sedately ready for dinner. The lounge room is wild, an old army surplus suite is covered with hides and skins from their hunting days in Africa. A large male lion head is secured to one of the walls and a couple more skins, the bear being Jonathon’s favourite, lie on the floor.
The kitchen is a challenge and so is the bathroom. But between them they have a BBQ, a spa pool, a sauna and a solarium. There is one tap in the place.
It’s time for cocktails. The all dress in silk smoking jackets and smart black slacks. Jonathon deftly spins the silver cocktail shaker, Frederick slices the limes and Mark unfolds the little paper umbrellas. David hands round cigars. They create the menu
Smoked trout with imported horseradish and Italian crispbread
Duck L’Orange with baby new potatoes and Italian beans
Tiramisu and strawberries
“This is the life” they all agree.
X-Millionaire - From Rick
The DC-3 had begun it’s descent through the thunderstorm. Inside the passengers were oblivious to the sound of the thunder because the sputtering noise of the engines and the roller coaster tossing and turning had convinced most of them that being struck by lightning was the least of their concerns.
“Dude, we’re all going to die. Have you ever been on such a ride?” The young man grabbed Franco’s arm in terror.
“The last plane ride I had crashed in the middle of the Atlantic” replied the older man.
“Crashed in the Atlantic? You’re puttin’ me on.”
“Nope. Then we bobbed around like corks in our life jackets for 2 days before being picked up by an oil tanker. So this doesn’t seem so bad.”
Chris seemed to lose his fear of death for a moment. “So you crashed in the Atlantic and then were rescued by an oil tanker. Is that why you’re going to the mission for volunteer work? You think maybe God gave you a miracle and now you owe Him one? I mean, no offence, but old guys like you don’t usually come out to the middle of Africa to do God’s work.”
“First of all you little snot, I’m 55, not an old guy. And second, while surviving a plane crash and being picked up 2 days later is good luck for sure, it’s hardly a miracle.”
Franco looked out the window as the plane tossed some more. “We’re probably going to die anyway,” he said mischievously, “so let me tell you a bit more.”
“My brother and I were the only people on the plane. He was the pilot and I was the passenger. We were in my Lear jet heading for the Canary Islands from Florida. In the back were 3 suitcases that we didn’t have time to stow properly: one for his duds, one for mine, and one with 8 million dollars in unmarked bills.”
“Lear jet? 8 million dollars? What are you? Mafia? Columbian drug lord? Politician?”
“Shut up and let me finish. Let’s just say we had to leave in a hurry and flying American Airlines was out of the question.”
“Lady luck seemed to be the third passenger. We took off just after sunset I figure about 2 steps ahead of the feds. Everything I owned had been seized, my bank accounts frozen the day before. Same with my brother. But the plane wasn’t in our names so they hadn’t found it yet. It was a perfect night for flying. We had a slight tailwind, the ocean was calm as a prairie pond, and no one seemed to notice our departure. Of course we weren’t keen on being spotted so Gino was keeping the plane under 1,000 feet.”
“We were about 3 hours out when Gino suddenly says ‘Hey, what’s that bright light?’” He points up in the sky straight ahead of us and sure enough, there’s this star, brighter than Venus in the morning, but it’s moving.
“I am in awe. The light is moving and first I think maybe it’s the light from another plane, but it’s way to bright. Then it hits me. ‘It’s a shooting star Gino, but I’ve never seen one before that lasted so long. They usually burn out in a second.’
“Well it didn’t burn out about 3 seconds later, this shooting star goes right through the right wing. It must have been going faster than a rocket because it punched a hole about the size of a baseball and hardly gave the plane a shudder. Gino and I look at each other with our mouths hanging open. We can’t believe what just happened.
Chris’ mouth is hanging open too. He is distracted enough by Franco’s tale to no longer notice the pitching and yawing of the plane and the fact that the wings seem to be bending.
“But then Gino checks his instruments. The fuel indicator is going down so fast we can watch it change.
“It must have punched a hole in the gas tank,” Gino yells at me as if I didn’t already figure that out. “Shit I’m going to have to take it down.
“Next thing I remember I’m bobbing up and down in the water in a life jacket and Gino is next to me. I got knocked out when we hit the water but somehow Gino got us out with our life jackets and nothing else. The jet went straight to the bottom.
“Kid, I haven’t been a good Catholic, but I figured the Man upstairs was giving me a message. Surviving a plane crash is luck. Getting shot down by a meteor is a sign.
As Franco finished his story, the DC-3 touched down and they taxied to the terminal in silence.
“Dude, we’re all going to die. Have you ever been on such a ride?” The young man grabbed Franco’s arm in terror.
“The last plane ride I had crashed in the middle of the Atlantic” replied the older man.
“Crashed in the Atlantic? You’re puttin’ me on.”
“Nope. Then we bobbed around like corks in our life jackets for 2 days before being picked up by an oil tanker. So this doesn’t seem so bad.”
Chris seemed to lose his fear of death for a moment. “So you crashed in the Atlantic and then were rescued by an oil tanker. Is that why you’re going to the mission for volunteer work? You think maybe God gave you a miracle and now you owe Him one? I mean, no offence, but old guys like you don’t usually come out to the middle of Africa to do God’s work.”
“First of all you little snot, I’m 55, not an old guy. And second, while surviving a plane crash and being picked up 2 days later is good luck for sure, it’s hardly a miracle.”
Franco looked out the window as the plane tossed some more. “We’re probably going to die anyway,” he said mischievously, “so let me tell you a bit more.”
“My brother and I were the only people on the plane. He was the pilot and I was the passenger. We were in my Lear jet heading for the Canary Islands from Florida. In the back were 3 suitcases that we didn’t have time to stow properly: one for his duds, one for mine, and one with 8 million dollars in unmarked bills.”
“Lear jet? 8 million dollars? What are you? Mafia? Columbian drug lord? Politician?”
“Shut up and let me finish. Let’s just say we had to leave in a hurry and flying American Airlines was out of the question.”
“Lady luck seemed to be the third passenger. We took off just after sunset I figure about 2 steps ahead of the feds. Everything I owned had been seized, my bank accounts frozen the day before. Same with my brother. But the plane wasn’t in our names so they hadn’t found it yet. It was a perfect night for flying. We had a slight tailwind, the ocean was calm as a prairie pond, and no one seemed to notice our departure. Of course we weren’t keen on being spotted so Gino was keeping the plane under 1,000 feet.”
“We were about 3 hours out when Gino suddenly says ‘Hey, what’s that bright light?’” He points up in the sky straight ahead of us and sure enough, there’s this star, brighter than Venus in the morning, but it’s moving.
“I am in awe. The light is moving and first I think maybe it’s the light from another plane, but it’s way to bright. Then it hits me. ‘It’s a shooting star Gino, but I’ve never seen one before that lasted so long. They usually burn out in a second.’
“Well it didn’t burn out about 3 seconds later, this shooting star goes right through the right wing. It must have been going faster than a rocket because it punched a hole about the size of a baseball and hardly gave the plane a shudder. Gino and I look at each other with our mouths hanging open. We can’t believe what just happened.
Chris’ mouth is hanging open too. He is distracted enough by Franco’s tale to no longer notice the pitching and yawing of the plane and the fact that the wings seem to be bending.
“But then Gino checks his instruments. The fuel indicator is going down so fast we can watch it change.
“It must have punched a hole in the gas tank,” Gino yells at me as if I didn’t already figure that out. “Shit I’m going to have to take it down.
“Next thing I remember I’m bobbing up and down in the water in a life jacket and Gino is next to me. I got knocked out when we hit the water but somehow Gino got us out with our life jackets and nothing else. The jet went straight to the bottom.
“Kid, I haven’t been a good Catholic, but I figured the Man upstairs was giving me a message. Surviving a plane crash is luck. Getting shot down by a meteor is a sign.
As Franco finished his story, the DC-3 touched down and they taxied to the terminal in silence.
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