[You risk your life in defending a belief you hold dearly. Tell the story of what happens.]
My heart was pounding and my breath came in ragged gasps as I ran with the others. It must have been adrenalin that kept my legs working and allowed me to ignore the pain of the blows to my back and arms from the soldiers' batons. At any moment I expected to feel the sting of a bullet but my mind was filled by the horror of the last few minutes.
I had been tempted to flee at the moment when we came face to face with the soldiers in the main street outside her house. But I had no chance, wedged in the crowd of unarmed demonstrators. The soldiers had advanced en masse, anonymous in their riot gear, guns raised and batons at the ready. I had witnessed the senseless slaughter of my friends whose bodies now lay crumpled on the ground. I could not blot out the sight of their blood spilt on the paving stones and the sound of their cries as they lay wounded and dying. The silent menace of the soldiers had chilled my heart.
I had left my house that morning with the words of Aung San Suu Kyi ringing in my ears. ‘It is not power that corrupts but fear. Fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who are subject to it.’
I was not afraid. The rally that day was going to be huge. All my student friends were solidly behind Suu Kyi’s fight for the freedom of the people of Myanmar and we knew that there was a large group of workers who were going to come to the demonstration as well. We had right on our side. The military junta had had its day. It was time for the people to take a stand. We were prepared for the resistance but were convinced that the soldiers would not fire on their own people. We were wrong.
Taking a quick glance behind, I could see that we were no longer being followed. We were far away from the main street. We slumped on the ground behind a nearby building to catch our breath. No word was spoken. Our bodies were bruised and broken. Our ideals were shattered. We were exhausted.
I leaned against the wall, my head held in my hands, heaving with sadness. I sobbed for my friends who were lost. I sobbed for the destruction of our ideals and our innocence. I sobbed for the blackness of Myanmar’s future. In that moment my belief in Suu Kyi’s campaign of passive resistance was dead. There was no possibility.
Eventually my sobbing subsided. My legs were shaking as I stood with the others. We wrapped our arms around each other, a shared moment of mourning and solidarity.
The shaky flame of resistance was ignited once more. We would go on. We could not turn back. The military junta would not overpower us. Fear would not keep us down.
Alternative titles:
Resistance in Rangoon
Igniting the Flame
Friday 26 June 2009
Tuesday 23 June 2009
It's Time to Reflect
Walk through dramatic sandstone scenery along narrow tracks, then clamber over huge boulders, squeeze through narrow clefts in the rocks and sit for a while to share and reflect at some of the most fascinating aboriginal rock art sites to be found around Cooktown in far North Queensland. This is Willie Gordon’s childhood playground. His Guurrbi Tours, “it’s time to reflect” will take you into the “bush” to experience the magic of a whole new world.
Hear how Mother Nature or in aboriginal thinking, the Rainbow Serpent has created plants and animals that are part of a pattern for survival. The wattle tree flowers to tell us to travel to the coast as the oysters are hibernating. She provides a home to the witcherty grubs, in the base of the dying Grass Tree and the tasty green ants are the perfect ingredient for a refreshing citrus drink. The casing of the ant nest is burnt to deter “mossies” and the Cooktown Ironwood makes glue and tar for canoes and spears. Willie recreates these past traditions and also reminds us that in today’s modern times Mother Nature’s recipes, like Granny’s apple pie, have been superseded by the supermarket.
Willie leads us to art sites, just a sample of the 49 sites in the area. As a story teller, he keeps both the paintings and the stories about them, alive. Alive to ensure the survival of the cultural and spiritual values for future generations. At the Birth Cave hear stories of how the ladies relaxed, made baskets and dyed the grasses. Speculate on the issues facing Willie’s grandfather when his wife gave birth to a little girl with a lighter coloured skin. How did he decide whether to keep her? Did he accept her?
And there are paintings of food sources and tools – spears, clubs and boomerangs alongside the emu or kangaroo. There’s even art to remind you that through life’s journey there are bad people to take you off track. Temptations to wander off course. All this rock art tells the story of this pattern for survival. Life’s map. ( or Life’s journey?)
This 5.5 hour tour is either self drive or pick up from Cooktown. Book at the Information Centre. Also available is a 3.5 hour afternoon tour.
Hear how Mother Nature or in aboriginal thinking, the Rainbow Serpent has created plants and animals that are part of a pattern for survival. The wattle tree flowers to tell us to travel to the coast as the oysters are hibernating. She provides a home to the witcherty grubs, in the base of the dying Grass Tree and the tasty green ants are the perfect ingredient for a refreshing citrus drink. The casing of the ant nest is burnt to deter “mossies” and the Cooktown Ironwood makes glue and tar for canoes and spears. Willie recreates these past traditions and also reminds us that in today’s modern times Mother Nature’s recipes, like Granny’s apple pie, have been superseded by the supermarket.
Willie leads us to art sites, just a sample of the 49 sites in the area. As a story teller, he keeps both the paintings and the stories about them, alive. Alive to ensure the survival of the cultural and spiritual values for future generations. At the Birth Cave hear stories of how the ladies relaxed, made baskets and dyed the grasses. Speculate on the issues facing Willie’s grandfather when his wife gave birth to a little girl with a lighter coloured skin. How did he decide whether to keep her? Did he accept her?
And there are paintings of food sources and tools – spears, clubs and boomerangs alongside the emu or kangaroo. There’s even art to remind you that through life’s journey there are bad people to take you off track. Temptations to wander off course. All this rock art tells the story of this pattern for survival. Life’s map. ( or Life’s journey?)
This 5.5 hour tour is either self drive or pick up from Cooktown. Book at the Information Centre. Also available is a 3.5 hour afternoon tour.
Sunday 21 June 2009
A Dark Past (Gordon)
I thought I saw ….
The ducks rose off the water with a flapping and loud quacking that could be heard far across the early morning silence. Their wings flapped up and down showing the white patches underneath like a swarm of flashing lights. They were like scythes cutting the air that then lifted them high with the power of vortexes. Three shots rang out, crack, crack, crack. The ducks circled with a steep turn and landed a distance away with a sequence of feet skidding across the water on their little water skis that quickly sank into the water. Calm settled across the cold morning again as the fog dampened the thick air.
“Jim, did you get him?” Andy asked in a loud hushed voice and with a quizzical and uncomfortable smile that comes from doing something that, although not illegal, was at the edges of social acceptability. Jim said: “dunno”. Then with that sharpness that comes with much experience, said in a loud whisper: “Shut up, you’ll frighten the bloody ducks.” For Andy, much Jim’s junior, the excitement of the moment was squashed out of existence. It was like a football coach at half time telling you how poorly you played and then sends you back to the bench.
The tee-tree was thick and tall and Jim pressed through the prickly wood holding the shotgun vertically against his shoulder and separating the thin trees with his other hand. Andy tried to follow as quietly as he could knowing that if he had to get a duck then it was his job to get wet. It was cold and he hated the idea of walking home with wet trouser legs. Jim whispered back through the trees: “Andy, go quietly, I want to get another shot.”
They were soon near the waters edge and glimpsed the hundred or so ducks quietly, yet nervously, swimming amongst the steam rising off the surface of the lake. Again, the sounds of shots shattered the silence as the flock rose off the water and circled overhead. One bird fell out of the sky into the waters edge near where Andy was standing. “Jim, yer got one”, exclaimed Andy. “I know, at bloody last”, said Jim. Quickly Andy ran out into the shallow water and rapidly sank to waist deep in muddy, slushy, oozing water. “Gez its cold Jim”, Andy said. As Andy rushed toward the quickly sinking duck, lying on the waters surface, he tripped over a log in the water and fell face first with a large splash. “Gez be carefull” Jim shouted at the top of his voice, which was nearly drowned out by the noise of the squawking and fleeing ducks over head. The seconds seemed like minutes while Jim watched his mate try to half walk and half swim in clothes and boots to reach toward the dead duck. “Jim, I’ve got him”, yelled Andy grabbing the limp and feathered wet body.
Andy stood in the ooze and turned slowly and looked very briefly down into the dark, yet slightly stirred, muddy shallow water. To Andy’s horror he saw what looked like the shape of a human arm stuck in the mud just a few feet away from him. It appeared to shiver in the reflected water. As he struggled through the ooze and mud to leave the lake, and holding the duck by its legs, he yelled to Jim. “Hey, Jim, I thought I saw a dead body in the lake”. “Andy, get yourself out of there, you’re just imagining things”, Jim said, recalling a past far more terrible than the death of a duck.
Other titles
A Dead Duck
Muddy Past
The Shooter
Gordon MacAulay
22 June 2009
The ducks rose off the water with a flapping and loud quacking that could be heard far across the early morning silence. Their wings flapped up and down showing the white patches underneath like a swarm of flashing lights. They were like scythes cutting the air that then lifted them high with the power of vortexes. Three shots rang out, crack, crack, crack. The ducks circled with a steep turn and landed a distance away with a sequence of feet skidding across the water on their little water skis that quickly sank into the water. Calm settled across the cold morning again as the fog dampened the thick air.
“Jim, did you get him?” Andy asked in a loud hushed voice and with a quizzical and uncomfortable smile that comes from doing something that, although not illegal, was at the edges of social acceptability. Jim said: “dunno”. Then with that sharpness that comes with much experience, said in a loud whisper: “Shut up, you’ll frighten the bloody ducks.” For Andy, much Jim’s junior, the excitement of the moment was squashed out of existence. It was like a football coach at half time telling you how poorly you played and then sends you back to the bench.
The tee-tree was thick and tall and Jim pressed through the prickly wood holding the shotgun vertically against his shoulder and separating the thin trees with his other hand. Andy tried to follow as quietly as he could knowing that if he had to get a duck then it was his job to get wet. It was cold and he hated the idea of walking home with wet trouser legs. Jim whispered back through the trees: “Andy, go quietly, I want to get another shot.”
They were soon near the waters edge and glimpsed the hundred or so ducks quietly, yet nervously, swimming amongst the steam rising off the surface of the lake. Again, the sounds of shots shattered the silence as the flock rose off the water and circled overhead. One bird fell out of the sky into the waters edge near where Andy was standing. “Jim, yer got one”, exclaimed Andy. “I know, at bloody last”, said Jim. Quickly Andy ran out into the shallow water and rapidly sank to waist deep in muddy, slushy, oozing water. “Gez its cold Jim”, Andy said. As Andy rushed toward the quickly sinking duck, lying on the waters surface, he tripped over a log in the water and fell face first with a large splash. “Gez be carefull” Jim shouted at the top of his voice, which was nearly drowned out by the noise of the squawking and fleeing ducks over head. The seconds seemed like minutes while Jim watched his mate try to half walk and half swim in clothes and boots to reach toward the dead duck. “Jim, I’ve got him”, yelled Andy grabbing the limp and feathered wet body.
Andy stood in the ooze and turned slowly and looked very briefly down into the dark, yet slightly stirred, muddy shallow water. To Andy’s horror he saw what looked like the shape of a human arm stuck in the mud just a few feet away from him. It appeared to shiver in the reflected water. As he struggled through the ooze and mud to leave the lake, and holding the duck by its legs, he yelled to Jim. “Hey, Jim, I thought I saw a dead body in the lake”. “Andy, get yourself out of there, you’re just imagining things”, Jim said, recalling a past far more terrible than the death of a duck.
Other titles
A Dead Duck
Muddy Past
The Shooter
Gordon MacAulay
22 June 2009
The fugitive (Kerry)
I thought I saw a flash of light in the dark shadows ahead but when I looked again the distant beach had been swallowed in a blanket of swirling mist. I crouched back against the gunwales and pulled the heavy rug more tightly around my shoulders to ward off the chill of the morning. Encouraged by the fog, the oarsmen ferried the boat quietly towards the shoreline.
I studied my companion, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Her body, tense and upright, reminded me again of her courage and loyalty in the face of danger. She sensed that I was watching her and turned her face toward me.
In the darkness I recalled our first meeting. I was ill and exhausted when my friends had carried me into her home on the island. I sensed that she and her father were not true supporters of my cause but she had immediately taken control and ordered my companions to carry me to an upstairs bedroom. She had followed us with a bowl of hot broth, dispatched her maid to light the fire in the room and sent my companions away to rest. She maintained a quiet vigil by my bed throughout the night. After weeks of being on the run, I had at last found a place of refuge.
Gradually my strength returned as a result of her ministrations. I convalesced in the warmth of the summer sun, knowing however that I was destined to move on. I was a wanted man with a heavy ransom on my head. I knew of the gathering disquiet amongst the residents on the island, the fear that I would be found, that there would be severe repercussions on those sheltering me.
It was her idea to convey me to the safety of the neighbouring island where I had a community of sympathisers willing to take me home. To confuse the soldiers who would surely be waiting for my arrival, she had suggested I disguise myself as her maid. I was furious that I should have to suffer such indignity. She dismissed my bad-tempered response and began organising our journey.
I was brought back to my senses when I heard the rough scraping of the boat on sand. The order was given to abandon the boat and make for the shore. I lifted my skirts gracelessly and clambered over the side into the icy water. Chivalrously, I turned back to help my companion out, embarrassed that in the circumstances I could not carry her to shore. As we waded to the beach I was shocked by the coldness of her hand in mine. She was shivering.
My worst fears were realized when we saw the soldiers waiting beside the rocks above the beach. My heart froze as we approached them. They looked suspiciously at me. I felt their scrutiny through every pore but held my eyes demurely on the ground.
The story that my companion told so boldly persuaded them of the innocence of our journey. I was thus delivered safely to my trusted friends.
Alternative titles:
Contraband Delivered
A Wanted Man
I studied my companion, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Her body, tense and upright, reminded me again of her courage and loyalty in the face of danger. She sensed that I was watching her and turned her face toward me.
In the darkness I recalled our first meeting. I was ill and exhausted when my friends had carried me into her home on the island. I sensed that she and her father were not true supporters of my cause but she had immediately taken control and ordered my companions to carry me to an upstairs bedroom. She had followed us with a bowl of hot broth, dispatched her maid to light the fire in the room and sent my companions away to rest. She maintained a quiet vigil by my bed throughout the night. After weeks of being on the run, I had at last found a place of refuge.
Gradually my strength returned as a result of her ministrations. I convalesced in the warmth of the summer sun, knowing however that I was destined to move on. I was a wanted man with a heavy ransom on my head. I knew of the gathering disquiet amongst the residents on the island, the fear that I would be found, that there would be severe repercussions on those sheltering me.
It was her idea to convey me to the safety of the neighbouring island where I had a community of sympathisers willing to take me home. To confuse the soldiers who would surely be waiting for my arrival, she had suggested I disguise myself as her maid. I was furious that I should have to suffer such indignity. She dismissed my bad-tempered response and began organising our journey.
I was brought back to my senses when I heard the rough scraping of the boat on sand. The order was given to abandon the boat and make for the shore. I lifted my skirts gracelessly and clambered over the side into the icy water. Chivalrously, I turned back to help my companion out, embarrassed that in the circumstances I could not carry her to shore. As we waded to the beach I was shocked by the coldness of her hand in mine. She was shivering.
My worst fears were realized when we saw the soldiers waiting beside the rocks above the beach. My heart froze as we approached them. They looked suspiciously at me. I felt their scrutiny through every pore but held my eyes demurely on the ground.
The story that my companion told so boldly persuaded them of the innocence of our journey. I was thus delivered safely to my trusted friends.
Alternative titles:
Contraband Delivered
A Wanted Man
Sunday 7 June 2009
haiku hides (Kerry)
Sunday afternoon warfare
throats raw from laughter
enemies crouch in dry grass
as green melons burst
Avoiding duties
pungent hay-bale hide
mutes mother’s call to wash-up
Enid Blyton trumps
School play
pillow-stuffed butler
shy child playing pompous Jeeves
delights audience
Alternative titles:
hiding the child
behind the scenes
throats raw from laughter
enemies crouch in dry grass
as green melons burst
Avoiding duties
pungent hay-bale hide
mutes mother’s call to wash-up
Enid Blyton trumps
School play
pillow-stuffed butler
shy child playing pompous Jeeves
delights audience
Alternative titles:
hiding the child
behind the scenes
Light and Polite (Jenny)
Light And Polite
I did see it, the day we met,
I saw the sudden blaze,
And smiled politely, nodded lightly,
Breezed on, to other days.
I did feel it, when we talked,
A deep, compelling draw,
And chatted lightly, listening politely,
Always wanting more.
I did know it, the day we kissed,
From lip to heart to soul,
And nodded politely when you left so lightly,
Two parts no more a whole.
We both resisted, yet it persisted,
And like a gravity well,
We spiralled politely, pretending lightly,
That neither of us fell.
I did say it, so much later,
When I give up the fight,
And impolitely held you tightly,
Through an endless night.
So many wasted years, my love,
When you were "just a friend",
Who chatted lightly, and shook hands politely,
But we got there, in the end.
I did see it, the day we met,
I saw the sudden blaze,
And smiled politely, nodded lightly,
Breezed on, to other days.
I did feel it, when we talked,
A deep, compelling draw,
And chatted lightly, listening politely,
Always wanting more.
I did know it, the day we kissed,
From lip to heart to soul,
And nodded politely when you left so lightly,
Two parts no more a whole.
We both resisted, yet it persisted,
And like a gravity well,
We spiralled politely, pretending lightly,
That neither of us fell.
I did say it, so much later,
When I give up the fight,
And impolitely held you tightly,
Through an endless night.
So many wasted years, my love,
When you were "just a friend",
Who chatted lightly, and shook hands politely,
But we got there, in the end.
Saturday 6 June 2009
Ghostly Treasures
When I was 9 or 10 or 11, it doesn’t matter exactly when, the best days of the year were my birthday, Christmas and Halloween in that order. Birthdays and Christmas were when family and close friends gave me presents. Halloween was that extra special time when total strangers, sort of, gave out treats to a wild and weird assortment of costumed characters that came up to their door and yelled out their demands.
The fun began in the preparation. You couldn’t just go out as yourself. You had to go in disguise. Now our family wasn’t well off and we lived in a community that wasn’t well off so we tended to put on pretty much homemade costumes. I remember best the time I went out as a pirate. In Edmonton on the 31st of October we could count on it being cold and snowy so first I had to get on my winter clothes. Then over that came the disguise. No self-respecting pirate would be without his sword so dad made me a nifty wooden one that I stuck into my pirate belt – one of dad’s finest with a huge buckle on it. And of course I needed something on my head so mum rigged up one of her gaudiest scarves. Then a black patch over one of my eyes and lots of black all over my face from a cork that was held over a candle for a few minutes. Messy, but effective. I tucked one of my toy pistols into my belt for a bit of extra protection and I was ready to hit the streets.
“Halloween Apples!” The cry for loot came from our back door. In Edmonton we didn’t shout out “Trick or Treat”, we all yelled “Halloween Apples!” Don’t ask me why. That’s just what we yelled. Mum went to the door and there was Gordie Lepine, my best friend. He was a ghost and had on an old bed sheet with 2 big holes where his eyes were and slits in the sides so he could get his arms out for the loot. He gave it away by yelling out excitedly, “It’s me, Gordie. How do I look?”
“You look scary Gordon”, said mum, putting a candy kiss into his bag.
And off we went into the dark for our night of treasure.
The rules were simple. You went house to house, walked up to the main door (the one with the light on) and yelled out “Halloween Apples”. The owner had to open the door and put a treat into your bag which was usually a pillow case. They usually were scared out of their wits by the horrible goblin, ghost, witch, pirate or worse that greeted them and wouldn’t dream of paying us off.
The loot consisted of tasty treats, usually chiclets, candy kisses, suckers, peanuts or apples. The little kids went with their mums and dads who waited out by the road as the kids went up to the door. The bigger kids like Gordie and me went alone and ran from house to house so we could do more doors. Sometimes we would bump into other friends and we would exchange the red hot items of the night. “The Kostashes are giving out popcorn balls.” Or “Candied apples over at the Pickerings” which would result in a departure from the regular door to door routine and we’ld run off to get the extra big treats before they all ran out.
Probably half the houses we would go to had jack-o-lanterns in the window, huge carved out pumpkins with a scary face and a candle inside. And every now and then we would come across a house with no lights on and no one answered to our cry for loot. That ignoring of the night raiders usually came with a price. The older looters, the dreaded teenagers who sometimes helped themselves to a handful of goodies out of other kids bags, went out with a bar of soap and a jar of water in their bags. Soaped windows was the price you paid for not paying tribute to the hoard. Now this isn’t too bad a trick to play on someone in summer but try getting it off your windows in winter when it’s frozen solid.
No one set up times for the evening but usually the night ended around 7:30 or 8. After all, the next day was usually school. So before too long all the goblins and witches and pirates went home.
Finishing off the night at home was almost as good as the collecting. That’s when my sisters and I would dump our loot out on the floor and see what we got. I might have done 40 or 50 houses that night and I had enough treats to last me through until Christmas.
Long John Silver never had it so good.
The fun began in the preparation. You couldn’t just go out as yourself. You had to go in disguise. Now our family wasn’t well off and we lived in a community that wasn’t well off so we tended to put on pretty much homemade costumes. I remember best the time I went out as a pirate. In Edmonton on the 31st of October we could count on it being cold and snowy so first I had to get on my winter clothes. Then over that came the disguise. No self-respecting pirate would be without his sword so dad made me a nifty wooden one that I stuck into my pirate belt – one of dad’s finest with a huge buckle on it. And of course I needed something on my head so mum rigged up one of her gaudiest scarves. Then a black patch over one of my eyes and lots of black all over my face from a cork that was held over a candle for a few minutes. Messy, but effective. I tucked one of my toy pistols into my belt for a bit of extra protection and I was ready to hit the streets.
“Halloween Apples!” The cry for loot came from our back door. In Edmonton we didn’t shout out “Trick or Treat”, we all yelled “Halloween Apples!” Don’t ask me why. That’s just what we yelled. Mum went to the door and there was Gordie Lepine, my best friend. He was a ghost and had on an old bed sheet with 2 big holes where his eyes were and slits in the sides so he could get his arms out for the loot. He gave it away by yelling out excitedly, “It’s me, Gordie. How do I look?”
“You look scary Gordon”, said mum, putting a candy kiss into his bag.
And off we went into the dark for our night of treasure.
The rules were simple. You went house to house, walked up to the main door (the one with the light on) and yelled out “Halloween Apples”. The owner had to open the door and put a treat into your bag which was usually a pillow case. They usually were scared out of their wits by the horrible goblin, ghost, witch, pirate or worse that greeted them and wouldn’t dream of paying us off.
The loot consisted of tasty treats, usually chiclets, candy kisses, suckers, peanuts or apples. The little kids went with their mums and dads who waited out by the road as the kids went up to the door. The bigger kids like Gordie and me went alone and ran from house to house so we could do more doors. Sometimes we would bump into other friends and we would exchange the red hot items of the night. “The Kostashes are giving out popcorn balls.” Or “Candied apples over at the Pickerings” which would result in a departure from the regular door to door routine and we’ld run off to get the extra big treats before they all ran out.
Probably half the houses we would go to had jack-o-lanterns in the window, huge carved out pumpkins with a scary face and a candle inside. And every now and then we would come across a house with no lights on and no one answered to our cry for loot. That ignoring of the night raiders usually came with a price. The older looters, the dreaded teenagers who sometimes helped themselves to a handful of goodies out of other kids bags, went out with a bar of soap and a jar of water in their bags. Soaped windows was the price you paid for not paying tribute to the hoard. Now this isn’t too bad a trick to play on someone in summer but try getting it off your windows in winter when it’s frozen solid.
No one set up times for the evening but usually the night ended around 7:30 or 8. After all, the next day was usually school. So before too long all the goblins and witches and pirates went home.
Finishing off the night at home was almost as good as the collecting. That’s when my sisters and I would dump our loot out on the floor and see what we got. I might have done 40 or 50 houses that night and I had enough treats to last me through until Christmas.
Long John Silver never had it so good.
Friday 5 June 2009
Behind the cow shed
Penny eyes up the other little girls. Her best friend, Samantha sits next to her. They are holding hands under the table. Mary Jane stands at the top puffing and blowing at the candles on the chocolate cake. She giggles, Janie has hundreds and thousands dotted along the top of her mouth and Freda has ice cream on her nose.
“Can we play games now. Can we?” says Penny
Mummy replies “shortly darling. When Mary Jane has blown out all her candles and made her wish.”
“I love games” says Penny
“Me too” says Samantha and “me toos” echo round the table.
With one last puff the seven candles are gone and Mary Jane sits down with a big smile across her face
“Me too” she says.
All around the table there are calls for games.
“The egg and spoon race”, “the sack race”, “Oh I love the apple bobbing”, “hide and seek, let’s play hide and seek”
Mary Jane pipes up “oh yes, let’s do hide and seek”
“I’ll hide, please let me hide” Penny gets in quickly. Already her little heart is thumping in her head and her hand slides excitedly out of Samantha’s grip.
“Can I come too?” squeaks Sammy
“Yes, yes, let’s hide together”
They head for the sheds. They scramble on all fours into the chook house. Samantha giggles as Penny starts pecking the ground then tries to lay an egg.
“Come on Penny”
They dive back out and follow the cow smells until they find a door slightly ajar. They nudge, it squeaks, they yelp. It goes quiet. They push a bit harder, and then squeeze into the stall. It’s empty. Just smelly. There’s a stack on hay in the corner which the girls climb onto to jump down behind. It’s a three sided little house. One side is rough and full of sticks of hay that scratch. The other two sides are wooden and smooth. It’s dark. Above them is a black wooden sky. The squat in the corner.
“They’ll never find us here. We’ll win” says Penny
“Oh, they will, won’t they? I don’t like the dark.”
“Oh, don’t be silly”
“Penny, I wanna go”
“Sammy, you wanted to come”
Hours or minutes go by.
“It’s smelly. I wanna pee” whimpers Sammy. “Penny?”
“Sssh, I think I hear voices”
The girls snuggle closely, hugging each other. They try not to breathe. The voices pass by and in no time at all it’s quiet again. And it seems darker.
“P e n n ….y?”
“Sssh, I’m listening”
A long way away, Penny can hear her Mummy calling.
“Penny, Penny. Where are you. Sammy?”
“Sammy, we’ve won. They’ve given up. Let’s go”
Out in the open, the sun has almost gone and the yard is full of dancing shadows from the trees. Sammy rubs her arms and shivers. She whimpers and hiccups and clings tightly to Penny’s hand.
“Come on Sammy. Let’s go and get our prize”
Penny marches on. Sammy shuffles.
“Mummy, we won”
Mummy turns around. Her face looks weird and a little tear slowly wanders down her cheek. Then she smiles, the biggest, widest grin, from ear to ear.
“M u m m ……..y” and Penny bursts into tears.
The birthday tea
Childd's games
“Can we play games now. Can we?” says Penny
Mummy replies “shortly darling. When Mary Jane has blown out all her candles and made her wish.”
“I love games” says Penny
“Me too” says Samantha and “me toos” echo round the table.
With one last puff the seven candles are gone and Mary Jane sits down with a big smile across her face
“Me too” she says.
All around the table there are calls for games.
“The egg and spoon race”, “the sack race”, “Oh I love the apple bobbing”, “hide and seek, let’s play hide and seek”
Mary Jane pipes up “oh yes, let’s do hide and seek”
“I’ll hide, please let me hide” Penny gets in quickly. Already her little heart is thumping in her head and her hand slides excitedly out of Samantha’s grip.
“Can I come too?” squeaks Sammy
“Yes, yes, let’s hide together”
They head for the sheds. They scramble on all fours into the chook house. Samantha giggles as Penny starts pecking the ground then tries to lay an egg.
“Come on Penny”
They dive back out and follow the cow smells until they find a door slightly ajar. They nudge, it squeaks, they yelp. It goes quiet. They push a bit harder, and then squeeze into the stall. It’s empty. Just smelly. There’s a stack on hay in the corner which the girls climb onto to jump down behind. It’s a three sided little house. One side is rough and full of sticks of hay that scratch. The other two sides are wooden and smooth. It’s dark. Above them is a black wooden sky. The squat in the corner.
“They’ll never find us here. We’ll win” says Penny
“Oh, they will, won’t they? I don’t like the dark.”
“Oh, don’t be silly”
“Penny, I wanna go”
“Sammy, you wanted to come”
Hours or minutes go by.
“It’s smelly. I wanna pee” whimpers Sammy. “Penny?”
“Sssh, I think I hear voices”
The girls snuggle closely, hugging each other. They try not to breathe. The voices pass by and in no time at all it’s quiet again. And it seems darker.
“P e n n ….y?”
“Sssh, I’m listening”
A long way away, Penny can hear her Mummy calling.
“Penny, Penny. Where are you. Sammy?”
“Sammy, we’ve won. They’ve given up. Let’s go”
Out in the open, the sun has almost gone and the yard is full of dancing shadows from the trees. Sammy rubs her arms and shivers. She whimpers and hiccups and clings tightly to Penny’s hand.
“Come on Sammy. Let’s go and get our prize”
Penny marches on. Sammy shuffles.
“Mummy, we won”
Mummy turns around. Her face looks weird and a little tear slowly wanders down her cheek. Then she smiles, the biggest, widest grin, from ear to ear.
“M u m m ……..y” and Penny bursts into tears.
The birthday tea
Childd's games
Thursday 4 June 2009
Ain’t it the truth?! (by Heather)
I watched between my fingers as Alex came in quietly, 15 minutes late. He slipped into his desk and wiggled his mouse to bring the screen to life. Alex rarely turned his PC off when he left and I was sure it was because that way he could arrive late less obtrusively.
“Yo, Alex,” I called. “You’re late.”
He ducked into my office. “Oh, man, there was an accident on the bridge. You should have seen the traffic, buses backed up to Neutral Bay.”
“Well, what can you do?” I said, deciding to let it drop. When his lateness hit four days a week instead of three, I’d swing into action.
A 15-minute reminder whipped up on my screen, informing me about a 9:30 meeting with the bid team.
“Marina!” I shouted. Have you got the draft figures for the Dupont proposal? I need them for my 9:30.”
Marina flinched. “Oh, rats,” she said. “I was going to do them at home last night but my grandmother came over. You know how it is with Italian families,” she added.
I groaned and started planning my excuse to the bid team. Something about how I wanted to get the month end results in first, and then work out the best margins from there… yes, that would work.
I noticed Alex coming out of one of the empty offices. I knew with absolute certainty that he had been behind closed doors setting up a job interview - I’d seen him on jobs.com yesterday afternoon.
“Whatcha doing, Alex?”
“Oh, just had to call my doctor. Everything’s cool, though,” he added hastily.
At 11:00 the team (Alex, Marina, Janice and me) met for our weekly review/preview. Everybody slid into place, coffees in hand, and rustled their weekly reports around. They looked at me expectantly.
I always say, “Who wants to go first?”
Today I said, “I’ve noticed something.” They all glanced at one another.
I took a long breath. “What I’ve noticed is that we lie a lot. I don’t know if this is our team or this business or the whole bloody world. But what do you think would happen if we stopped lying?”
“We’re the marketing team, we’re supposed to lie,” Marina offered, tongue in cheek.
Janice jumped in immediately. “This business offers a service we respect. We’re competent people. Why should we ever have to lie?” Janice is one of my favourites, but she’d gotten so heavy after her pregnancy last year that we couldn’t put her in front of clients any more. How many lies had I told around that situation?!?
We kicked it around for a awhile…for quite a while, actually. We talked about fear, and trust, and habits, and white lies vs. black ones. We talked about common politeness and we talked about accountability.
Finally, with a certain trepidation, we agreed to have a two-day trial. No lying for 48 hours, complete with an amnesty.
I stood up to signal the meeting’s end.
“What about our weekly reports?” Marina said.
Alex looked serious. “I think I should redo mine or I’ll break the agreement within minutes.” There was empathetic laughter.
“Reports, real ones, tomorrow at 11:00,” I said, thinking of my own report with its trumped-up figures and inflated activity.
No sooner had the team drifted out, somewhat more subdued than usual, than Janice was back at my door.
“I thought this might be a good time to ask,” she said, “why I didn’t get a pay rise this year.”
I looked at her bleakly, dropped my head into my hands and thumped my forehead. “Come on in,” I said, “and close the door. You might want to do some yelling.”
“Yo, Alex,” I called. “You’re late.”
He ducked into my office. “Oh, man, there was an accident on the bridge. You should have seen the traffic, buses backed up to Neutral Bay.”
“Well, what can you do?” I said, deciding to let it drop. When his lateness hit four days a week instead of three, I’d swing into action.
A 15-minute reminder whipped up on my screen, informing me about a 9:30 meeting with the bid team.
“Marina!” I shouted. Have you got the draft figures for the Dupont proposal? I need them for my 9:30.”
Marina flinched. “Oh, rats,” she said. “I was going to do them at home last night but my grandmother came over. You know how it is with Italian families,” she added.
I groaned and started planning my excuse to the bid team. Something about how I wanted to get the month end results in first, and then work out the best margins from there… yes, that would work.
I noticed Alex coming out of one of the empty offices. I knew with absolute certainty that he had been behind closed doors setting up a job interview - I’d seen him on jobs.com yesterday afternoon.
“Whatcha doing, Alex?”
“Oh, just had to call my doctor. Everything’s cool, though,” he added hastily.
At 11:00 the team (Alex, Marina, Janice and me) met for our weekly review/preview. Everybody slid into place, coffees in hand, and rustled their weekly reports around. They looked at me expectantly.
I always say, “Who wants to go first?”
Today I said, “I’ve noticed something.” They all glanced at one another.
I took a long breath. “What I’ve noticed is that we lie a lot. I don’t know if this is our team or this business or the whole bloody world. But what do you think would happen if we stopped lying?”
“We’re the marketing team, we’re supposed to lie,” Marina offered, tongue in cheek.
Janice jumped in immediately. “This business offers a service we respect. We’re competent people. Why should we ever have to lie?” Janice is one of my favourites, but she’d gotten so heavy after her pregnancy last year that we couldn’t put her in front of clients any more. How many lies had I told around that situation?!?
We kicked it around for a awhile…for quite a while, actually. We talked about fear, and trust, and habits, and white lies vs. black ones. We talked about common politeness and we talked about accountability.
Finally, with a certain trepidation, we agreed to have a two-day trial. No lying for 48 hours, complete with an amnesty.
I stood up to signal the meeting’s end.
“What about our weekly reports?” Marina said.
Alex looked serious. “I think I should redo mine or I’ll break the agreement within minutes.” There was empathetic laughter.
“Reports, real ones, tomorrow at 11:00,” I said, thinking of my own report with its trumped-up figures and inflated activity.
No sooner had the team drifted out, somewhat more subdued than usual, than Janice was back at my door.
“I thought this might be a good time to ask,” she said, “why I didn’t get a pay rise this year.”
I looked at her bleakly, dropped my head into my hands and thumped my forehead. “Come on in,” I said, “and close the door. You might want to do some yelling.”
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