You and a friend break into your neighbourhood swim club late one night for an after hours dip. While splashing around you go into shock when a dead body floats to the top. Worse yet it’s someone you know.
It’s an inky sticky black wall of water. Hugh can feel the gentle jolt of the vibrations through the water as David kicks along behind but the only sound is Hugh’s own breathe as it dribbles through his nose slowly but surely. The water feels cool yet exciting as it forces its way between his legs. Starkers is the only way to swim, late at night, in the dark.
“Phew, give me some air” yells Hugh to no-one as he surfaces. The stars twitter in the jet black sky. There’s no ground light in this outback roadhouse and no moon to disguise the frosted milky way and the intentional Southern Cross. Hugh and David have ridden their bikes 500 kms from Darwin. They had a few drinks as they chucked back an enormous slab of steak and now it was time to cool off. The whole adventure was David’s girl friends idea when she’d dared the boys to drive into the desert to photograph the passing of Jupiter.
“what the .....”. A peculiar mass of body and clothes floats about within just an arm’s length. David surfaces. The body moves. Hugh screams.
“Whaaaaaaaaaaaat’s that?” he whispers.
“What’s what?”
“Look you idiot”. Hugh gently paddles the few feet to investigate.
He’s not sure how, but the movement of the water has shifted the body around and Hugh can see the white mask, sunken eyes of a face. He’s drawn forwards. He retreats. He advances. The long pale neck, like an egret escapes the water for a second. The gold gothic cross floats by.
“Shit. It’s Caroline”. Suddenly the night takes on a whole new feel. Red lights flash through his eyes, his heart beat leaps out of the pool with a life of its own, he’s hot like a clammy wet sponge and he can taste the sour stringent bile as his tummy turns somersaults somewhere under the water. Water overtakes his head as he sinks down. His legs have turned to a feeble unset jelly. He floats about for a bit, happier away from the reality of Caroline. He gulps, his nose has run out of air, he chokes on the sudden influx of chloriny water. Survival takes over and he’s back at the surface.
The stars twitter, David sits on the side of the pool hugging his knees clutching the bottle of rum. He takes a swig. The water is black and smooth.
Hugh shakes his head and the long strands of wet soggy hair whip across his face. The water remains still. David is laughing.
“Got a headache mate? Got a hangover?” and he slurps again.
“God David, did that bozo lace my drinks?” Hugh’s mind whizzes back to the image of his girl friend and then wobbles back to the present. His mind refuses to leave it behind.
“It was Caroline. I was bloody sure of it. Right here in the pool. Dead”
“Hey man, that’s sick. Let’s get outa here. Let’s go and find Jupiter”
Tuesday 25 August 2009
poor pete by peta
Jack and Kate floated silently. It was perfect. The sky was ink black, the milky way sparkled like an expensive diamond necklace. Kate was mesmerized. Occasionally Jack would kick to keep himself afloat. Kate had never needed to do that. Deep breathing was enough. She loved it. The feeling of the cool water tickling her ears and temples, outlining her body, slowly lapping against her skin. There was nothing quite like the freedom and serenity of floating. It was effortless.
Muffled sounds vibrated underwater disturbing the peace.
“Shut up Jack” Kate said without shifting her position. Kate concentrated on holding her starfish pose, legs and arms stretched out in all directions. A shooting star breached across the night sky. Magic. The annoying underwater sounds continued.
“Jack will you shut up. I can hear you and I don’t want to hear you.”
But the magic has gone. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jack splashing around. Kate bolted upright in the water and thumped Jack on the back. He’s upright too but still now. She noticed his eyes fixed straight ahead, his mouth slightly agape. Kate’s eyes followed his stare. In the darkness she made out a shadow in the pool.
“What the fuck is that?”
No reply.
“Jack?” She thumped him on the back again.
When he finally spoke his voice was low and husky. “I think it’s a body”
Kate laughed but one look at Jack wiped the smile from her face. Turning her head her eyes focused on the body “Shit!”
Kate dived forward and swam frantically to the pools edge. She grabbed at the side trying to get a grip to hoist herself out. At last she was lying on the poolside, gasping for air, hyperventilating. Jack had followed and stood over her as he stared at the corpse. Dragging herself up Kate stood next to Jack and followed his gaze.
“Oh my god. Its Pete.”
They stared at the face they knew so well, now bloated and contorted.
“What the hell are we going to do.”
“call the cops”
Kate was shivered uncontrollably despite the midsummers heat. Shock she thought.
She dropped to her knees gripping the pools edge “Pete, Pete what happened to you?”
Jack stood stiff as a board, silent. Then,
“We have to go. NOW.”
“What?” Kate said “we can’t leave him here like this, alone.”
“Come on Kate we have to go now. We broke in here and now Pete, our friend is dead in the pool. Forget trespassing, we could be in some serious shit.”
“Not as serious as Pete.” Kate said softly.
“Stay if you want, I’m off”.
Jack was already running towards the fence clutching his clothes. He scrambled to get his gear on before disappearing into the darkness. The thud of his sneakers faded on the concrete path as he raced away.
He’s right Kate thought. There’s nothing I can do for Pete now. Her clothes were heaped on an old deckchair. She grabbed them as she turned and ran. Suddenly disoriented by the night light she fell o the ground with a heavy thud. She run straight into the brick wall of the changing rooms. Dizzy and bruised she supported herself with her hands as she prepared to lift up.
Shiny black boots appeared in her line of vision. “So miss, what’s going on here?” I think you have some explaining to do.”
Muffled sounds vibrated underwater disturbing the peace.
“Shut up Jack” Kate said without shifting her position. Kate concentrated on holding her starfish pose, legs and arms stretched out in all directions. A shooting star breached across the night sky. Magic. The annoying underwater sounds continued.
“Jack will you shut up. I can hear you and I don’t want to hear you.”
But the magic has gone. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jack splashing around. Kate bolted upright in the water and thumped Jack on the back. He’s upright too but still now. She noticed his eyes fixed straight ahead, his mouth slightly agape. Kate’s eyes followed his stare. In the darkness she made out a shadow in the pool.
“What the fuck is that?”
No reply.
“Jack?” She thumped him on the back again.
When he finally spoke his voice was low and husky. “I think it’s a body”
Kate laughed but one look at Jack wiped the smile from her face. Turning her head her eyes focused on the body “Shit!”
Kate dived forward and swam frantically to the pools edge. She grabbed at the side trying to get a grip to hoist herself out. At last she was lying on the poolside, gasping for air, hyperventilating. Jack had followed and stood over her as he stared at the corpse. Dragging herself up Kate stood next to Jack and followed his gaze.
“Oh my god. Its Pete.”
They stared at the face they knew so well, now bloated and contorted.
“What the hell are we going to do.”
“call the cops”
Kate was shivered uncontrollably despite the midsummers heat. Shock she thought.
She dropped to her knees gripping the pools edge “Pete, Pete what happened to you?”
Jack stood stiff as a board, silent. Then,
“We have to go. NOW.”
“What?” Kate said “we can’t leave him here like this, alone.”
“Come on Kate we have to go now. We broke in here and now Pete, our friend is dead in the pool. Forget trespassing, we could be in some serious shit.”
“Not as serious as Pete.” Kate said softly.
“Stay if you want, I’m off”.
Jack was already running towards the fence clutching his clothes. He scrambled to get his gear on before disappearing into the darkness. The thud of his sneakers faded on the concrete path as he raced away.
He’s right Kate thought. There’s nothing I can do for Pete now. Her clothes were heaped on an old deckchair. She grabbed them as she turned and ran. Suddenly disoriented by the night light she fell o the ground with a heavy thud. She run straight into the brick wall of the changing rooms. Dizzy and bruised she supported herself with her hands as she prepared to lift up.
Shiny black boots appeared in her line of vision. “So miss, what’s going on here?” I think you have some explaining to do.”
Monday 24 August 2009
Flying - Peta
The hum of excited chatter hung above the queues snaking down the main road towards the stadium. When the gates open the masses burst forward in unison dragging each other inwards.
It was easily the most impressive stadium in the Kingdom. Like a multi tiered wedding cake it was all pastels and cream. Instead of candles each tier was decorated with coloured flags flapping. The stadium filled quickly and was soon packed to capacity, not an empty seat to be found.
Testament to the importance of the occasion the guilded Royal box contained the whole of the royal family. Unusually King Bernard and Queen Lolita were both in attendance and today accompanied by the three Cherished Cherubs. The triplets born of a miracle birth despite the weight of medical opinion as to Queen Lolita’s barren state. Today the Queen was resplendent in lime green organza shot with orange. It pulled tightly across her chest, her more than ample bosom spilling over multi coloured braiding. A dazzling array of jewels sparkled like stars at the base of her slender throat while a floaty veil masked her beauty. Her dark hair was severely drawn back into a tight topknot revealing her royal double lobbed ears pinched with tiny diamonds and pearls. In contrast King Bernard was a jolly tub of a man. His red cheeks glowed, his full lips spread widely over his higgledy piggledy slightly yellow teeth. He roared and applauded in delighted anticipation.
All eyes stared in the direction of the podium fixed in the middle of the vast arena. A sentinel trumpeted demanding exclusive attention and heralding the commencement of the show. A hush descended over the crowd.
High above the ground the Magnificent Lydia flew in ever decreasing circles spiralling down to the podium. Effortlessly she hovered above it, bowing first to the Royal box and then to each corner of the stadium. The applause was instantaneous and deafening.
At 3’6” Lydia was large for her kind. Her lithe body bathed in crimson sequinned silk, skin tight accentuating her muscular form. Her features were stunningly angular, dark cavernous eyes drew you in below her bald shiny and oversized dome. An endearingly common characteristic of the gifted ones. Lydia’s radiance shone from the huge screens erected at all corners of the stadium. Tiny wings fluttered maintaining her hover. They shone like highly polished silver and carried her effortlessly higher and higher up into the darkness of the tent like ceiling. One spotlight followed her every movement. She floated momentarily in suspension, her sequins sparkling as the spotlights dodged from this side to that. All the while Lydia’s hands moved gracefully in arches creating circles of laser light beguiling the stunned crowd below.
Gasps broke the silence as Lydia folded into a ball and then flipped and spun. Momentum saw her spinning at warp speed towards the stadium floor, no safety net in sight. Moments before she would have been little more than a memory her magical wings fluttered again pulling her up just inches short of certain death. Applause erupted, hooting and snorting. Red roses showered the stadium floor.
The King struck the royal gong an unprecedented three times. An accolade like no other. Lydia somersaulted through the air, twirling like a bandleader’s baton. Stopping suddenly her tiny legs and arms spread to a star shape, a broad grin enlivened her face, testament to her pleasure. Once again she was the greatest show in Myriadia.
It was easily the most impressive stadium in the Kingdom. Like a multi tiered wedding cake it was all pastels and cream. Instead of candles each tier was decorated with coloured flags flapping. The stadium filled quickly and was soon packed to capacity, not an empty seat to be found.
Testament to the importance of the occasion the guilded Royal box contained the whole of the royal family. Unusually King Bernard and Queen Lolita were both in attendance and today accompanied by the three Cherished Cherubs. The triplets born of a miracle birth despite the weight of medical opinion as to Queen Lolita’s barren state. Today the Queen was resplendent in lime green organza shot with orange. It pulled tightly across her chest, her more than ample bosom spilling over multi coloured braiding. A dazzling array of jewels sparkled like stars at the base of her slender throat while a floaty veil masked her beauty. Her dark hair was severely drawn back into a tight topknot revealing her royal double lobbed ears pinched with tiny diamonds and pearls. In contrast King Bernard was a jolly tub of a man. His red cheeks glowed, his full lips spread widely over his higgledy piggledy slightly yellow teeth. He roared and applauded in delighted anticipation.
All eyes stared in the direction of the podium fixed in the middle of the vast arena. A sentinel trumpeted demanding exclusive attention and heralding the commencement of the show. A hush descended over the crowd.
High above the ground the Magnificent Lydia flew in ever decreasing circles spiralling down to the podium. Effortlessly she hovered above it, bowing first to the Royal box and then to each corner of the stadium. The applause was instantaneous and deafening.
At 3’6” Lydia was large for her kind. Her lithe body bathed in crimson sequinned silk, skin tight accentuating her muscular form. Her features were stunningly angular, dark cavernous eyes drew you in below her bald shiny and oversized dome. An endearingly common characteristic of the gifted ones. Lydia’s radiance shone from the huge screens erected at all corners of the stadium. Tiny wings fluttered maintaining her hover. They shone like highly polished silver and carried her effortlessly higher and higher up into the darkness of the tent like ceiling. One spotlight followed her every movement. She floated momentarily in suspension, her sequins sparkling as the spotlights dodged from this side to that. All the while Lydia’s hands moved gracefully in arches creating circles of laser light beguiling the stunned crowd below.
Gasps broke the silence as Lydia folded into a ball and then flipped and spun. Momentum saw her spinning at warp speed towards the stadium floor, no safety net in sight. Moments before she would have been little more than a memory her magical wings fluttered again pulling her up just inches short of certain death. Applause erupted, hooting and snorting. Red roses showered the stadium floor.
The King struck the royal gong an unprecedented three times. An accolade like no other. Lydia somersaulted through the air, twirling like a bandleader’s baton. Stopping suddenly her tiny legs and arms spread to a star shape, a broad grin enlivened her face, testament to her pleasure. Once again she was the greatest show in Myriadia.
Float (Kerry)
The breathy smell of chlorine evaporating from the water was overpowered by the malodorous stench. Jack and I scrambled from the pool. I felt the bile rising in my throat. I vomited violently into the bushes beside the pool. I was cold and shivering uncontrollably. I noticed the colour had drained from Jack’s face. He was sitting on the damp grass, breathing heavily. Water was dripping down his back. I sat down carefully beside him.
We both stared at the body, mesmerised. It was a girl, pale and bloated. The gentle movement of the water was causing her to bump softly against the side of the pool. Loose folds of her school uniform were floating lazily on the surface, wafting to and fro. I saw that the zipper at the back was undone and the dress was slipping off her shoulders. Her long blond hair spreading across the surface gave a halo effect, the look of an aboriginal Wandjina spirit without the eyes. The underwater lights illuminated her ghostly arms and legs dangling below the surface. Her arms were stretched out as though she were reaching for something on the bottom of the pool. Her legs, bent a little at the knees, floated just below the surface. There were no shoes, no other clothes.
Jack mumbled something incoherent.
I reached over for our towels and handed Jack’s to him. We wrapped the towels around our shoulders. The warmth of the towel kick-started my brain.
“We’re in trouble,” I whispered. “We have to let someone know. We’ll be busted. How do we explain how we come to be here at this time of night?”
Jack nodded his agreement but I could see that he had something else on his mind.
At last he spluttered, “D-Debs. I think it’s Debs.”
Debs was in our class at school. She was a special friend of Jack’s. We had understood that her absence from school this week was because she was sick. There had been no suggestion that she was missing. But she must have been in the pool for a few days judging by the condition of her body. I couldn’t understand how she had been in the pool and not been found.
I was taken completely by surprise, shocked by Jack’s assertion. Again I could taste the bile. My heart was pounding as I stood and flung off my towel. I knew what I had to do before I lost my nerve.
“Jack, we’ve got to get the police.” I could hear my voice shaking. “You coming or do you want to stay here?”
Jack ran after me. He caught up to me at the fence.
“It’s lucky we came in here tonight. I’m glad we found her. She wouldn’t have wanted to be seen like this by anyone else.”
We both stared at the body, mesmerised. It was a girl, pale and bloated. The gentle movement of the water was causing her to bump softly against the side of the pool. Loose folds of her school uniform were floating lazily on the surface, wafting to and fro. I saw that the zipper at the back was undone and the dress was slipping off her shoulders. Her long blond hair spreading across the surface gave a halo effect, the look of an aboriginal Wandjina spirit without the eyes. The underwater lights illuminated her ghostly arms and legs dangling below the surface. Her arms were stretched out as though she were reaching for something on the bottom of the pool. Her legs, bent a little at the knees, floated just below the surface. There were no shoes, no other clothes.
Jack mumbled something incoherent.
I reached over for our towels and handed Jack’s to him. We wrapped the towels around our shoulders. The warmth of the towel kick-started my brain.
“We’re in trouble,” I whispered. “We have to let someone know. We’ll be busted. How do we explain how we come to be here at this time of night?”
Jack nodded his agreement but I could see that he had something else on his mind.
At last he spluttered, “D-Debs. I think it’s Debs.”
Debs was in our class at school. She was a special friend of Jack’s. We had understood that her absence from school this week was because she was sick. There had been no suggestion that she was missing. But she must have been in the pool for a few days judging by the condition of her body. I couldn’t understand how she had been in the pool and not been found.
I was taken completely by surprise, shocked by Jack’s assertion. Again I could taste the bile. My heart was pounding as I stood and flung off my towel. I knew what I had to do before I lost my nerve.
“Jack, we’ve got to get the police.” I could hear my voice shaking. “You coming or do you want to stay here?”
Jack ran after me. He caught up to me at the fence.
“It’s lucky we came in here tonight. I’m glad we found her. She wouldn’t have wanted to be seen like this by anyone else.”
Saturday 22 August 2009
Let the chips fall (by Heather)
You and a friend break into your neighbourhood swim club late one night to go for an after-hours dip. While splashing around in the pool, you go into shock when a dead body floats to the top. Worse yet—it's someone you know.
Bryan reached for Chet’s shoulder and leaned against it, panting. The swimming pool glimmered in the darkness ahead, gently roiling and reflecting light from the street lights outside.
“Well, that was a blast,” he puffed. He looked back at the chain mail fence they’d just climbed, with the dark shadow at the top where Chet had heaved a car mat to ease their crossing. The old friends grinned at each other. In the distance they could hear the loud laughter and music of their 25th high school reunion.
Bryan chortled. It had been a while since he had done anything as physical as that scramble up the fence, the swing across the top and the erratic slide and drop getting down again. As a matter of fact, it had been an even 25 years since he’d tried that particular trick. He and Chet had done this climb fairly regularly on hot summer nights during their high school years (often in those days with Marlese, who was a crackerjack swimmer and on her way into a short-lived marriage with Bryan). Back in the big gym, hot and sweaty and feeling claustrophobic with Marlese and her despised current husband Marcus around the place -- well, it had seemed like a good idea to renew the old practice.
It hadn’t taken much to get Chet out of the gym and to the pool. “Over the wall,” they’d shouted, sounding the old battle-cry, “and let the chips fall where they may!”
He could hear Chet’s chuckle in the darkness. “Well, I can tell you we’re going OUT the front door when we leave! But first, the reward for our effort!” With a whoop and a holler, both men peeled off their clothing, found their way to the pool’s edge and dived in with robust splashes.
The water felt wonderful. Bryan exploded to the surface with a gasp. “Race you to the end,” he shouted, and the battle was on. Compared with Chet he was badly out of shape; nonethless, he put his heart into it and went hell bent for leather.
…So it was a shock when, about half way down the length of the pool, he collided hard into something. He stopped and felt about him, expecting to find a large flotation device of some kind, but instead fingering what seemed to be a head and shoulder. He sputtered upright. “Chet?” he queried. But he could hear Chet shouting triumphantly from the end of the pool. With an increasing sense of panic, he pushed at the object, becoming more and more convinced it was a floating body. “Chet, come here,” he shouted.
Chet side-stroked his way back to where Bryan tread water.
“Holy shit. Maybe he’s still alive, let’s get him to the edge.”
Together, they hauled the body to the edge of the pool and shoved it up onto the side. “I’ll get the light,” Bryan said, dashing to the entrance where he felt around for the switch and flooded the place with light.
Blinking, he returned to the side of the pool where the crumpled, dripping, fully-clothed body lay. Wordless, he and Chet grabbed the body and flipped it over.
“HOLY SHIT!” they both exclaimed in unison.
“Marcus,” Bryan breathed.
“Marcus Lavinski,” Chet whispered beside him.
The two men looked at each other in the glare of the florescent lighting.
Marcus Lavinski, the husband of Bryan’s ex-wife, possibly the most hated man in Bryan’s life.
Marcus Lavinski, the developer who was in the process of screwing Chet out of almost a million dollars in an unhappy real estate deal.
“Christ almighty,” Chet coughed, “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh because of the fucking irony of our discovering him HERE in the exact condition we’d have both loved to find him in….”
“…Or cry because we’re quite possibly looking at Murder One,” supplied Chet.
They glanced at each other and edged back from the body.
“Maybe we should just get the hell out of here,” Chet said.
“This is going to become a crime scene. Our fingerprints are all over the place; my car mat is still hanging over the fence, for chrissake.”
Wordlessly, they pulled their clothing back on.
“Jeez, Chet, what are we going to do?”
“How’d he GET here? What the fuck is he DOING here?” Chet exploded. “We saw him at the reunion; we saw him leave with Marlese, what, an hour or so ago? He looked all too alive then.”
At that moment, Bryan noticed a glitter of something at the edge of the pool. While Chet struggled with his belt, Bryan studied the object. An earring.
Flashback: Marlese had come over; they had had a few words of cordial conversation; he had noticed the exact partner of this earring glinting in her ear. He'd also noticed a peculiar glint in her eye when Marcus had cruised up and summoned her.
He scooped up the earring and stuck it into his pocket. “We’re going to stay here and call the police,” he said. “And then we let the chips fall where they may.”
Bryan reached for Chet’s shoulder and leaned against it, panting. The swimming pool glimmered in the darkness ahead, gently roiling and reflecting light from the street lights outside.
“Well, that was a blast,” he puffed. He looked back at the chain mail fence they’d just climbed, with the dark shadow at the top where Chet had heaved a car mat to ease their crossing. The old friends grinned at each other. In the distance they could hear the loud laughter and music of their 25th high school reunion.
Bryan chortled. It had been a while since he had done anything as physical as that scramble up the fence, the swing across the top and the erratic slide and drop getting down again. As a matter of fact, it had been an even 25 years since he’d tried that particular trick. He and Chet had done this climb fairly regularly on hot summer nights during their high school years (often in those days with Marlese, who was a crackerjack swimmer and on her way into a short-lived marriage with Bryan). Back in the big gym, hot and sweaty and feeling claustrophobic with Marlese and her despised current husband Marcus around the place -- well, it had seemed like a good idea to renew the old practice.
It hadn’t taken much to get Chet out of the gym and to the pool. “Over the wall,” they’d shouted, sounding the old battle-cry, “and let the chips fall where they may!”
He could hear Chet’s chuckle in the darkness. “Well, I can tell you we’re going OUT the front door when we leave! But first, the reward for our effort!” With a whoop and a holler, both men peeled off their clothing, found their way to the pool’s edge and dived in with robust splashes.
The water felt wonderful. Bryan exploded to the surface with a gasp. “Race you to the end,” he shouted, and the battle was on. Compared with Chet he was badly out of shape; nonethless, he put his heart into it and went hell bent for leather.
…So it was a shock when, about half way down the length of the pool, he collided hard into something. He stopped and felt about him, expecting to find a large flotation device of some kind, but instead fingering what seemed to be a head and shoulder. He sputtered upright. “Chet?” he queried. But he could hear Chet shouting triumphantly from the end of the pool. With an increasing sense of panic, he pushed at the object, becoming more and more convinced it was a floating body. “Chet, come here,” he shouted.
Chet side-stroked his way back to where Bryan tread water.
“Holy shit. Maybe he’s still alive, let’s get him to the edge.”
Together, they hauled the body to the edge of the pool and shoved it up onto the side. “I’ll get the light,” Bryan said, dashing to the entrance where he felt around for the switch and flooded the place with light.
Blinking, he returned to the side of the pool where the crumpled, dripping, fully-clothed body lay. Wordless, he and Chet grabbed the body and flipped it over.
“HOLY SHIT!” they both exclaimed in unison.
“Marcus,” Bryan breathed.
“Marcus Lavinski,” Chet whispered beside him.
The two men looked at each other in the glare of the florescent lighting.
Marcus Lavinski, the husband of Bryan’s ex-wife, possibly the most hated man in Bryan’s life.
Marcus Lavinski, the developer who was in the process of screwing Chet out of almost a million dollars in an unhappy real estate deal.
“Christ almighty,” Chet coughed, “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh because of the fucking irony of our discovering him HERE in the exact condition we’d have both loved to find him in….”
“…Or cry because we’re quite possibly looking at Murder One,” supplied Chet.
They glanced at each other and edged back from the body.
“Maybe we should just get the hell out of here,” Chet said.
“This is going to become a crime scene. Our fingerprints are all over the place; my car mat is still hanging over the fence, for chrissake.”
Wordlessly, they pulled their clothing back on.
“Jeez, Chet, what are we going to do?”
“How’d he GET here? What the fuck is he DOING here?” Chet exploded. “We saw him at the reunion; we saw him leave with Marlese, what, an hour or so ago? He looked all too alive then.”
At that moment, Bryan noticed a glitter of something at the edge of the pool. While Chet struggled with his belt, Bryan studied the object. An earring.
Flashback: Marlese had come over; they had had a few words of cordial conversation; he had noticed the exact partner of this earring glinting in her ear. He'd also noticed a peculiar glint in her eye when Marcus had cruised up and summoned her.
He scooped up the earring and stuck it into his pocket. “We’re going to stay here and call the police,” he said. “And then we let the chips fall where they may.”
The Party - by Rick
“Janet, are you sure the posters had the correct date on them?”, Doctor Watts asked for the 3rd time, anxiously pacing back and forth.
“Yes Doctor Watts. 21st August, 2009 at 8 p.m.” Janet replied with a touch of exasperation.
“Well where is everyone? This is quite possibly the most significant event of the millennia and only that gangly teenager is here. We must have done something wrong.”
Indeed that gangly teenager was our only guest so far. I was talking to him and he was so excited that he didn’t seem to hear the Doctor’s slur. But I felt the same as the Doctor. Where was everyone? No doubt we would receive world wide coverage at our ABC press conference on Saturday, but we had so wanted the town of Narrabri to share in our glory before the world joined in.
“Likely people are going to arrive later Doctor. It’s very un-cool to be early for a party”, Janet said unconvincingly as she tried to cajole the fretting Doctor. “Oh look, 3 more people just arrived.”
“Are you sure?” asked the Doctor. “And is their hair green? Rick, go over and welcome them.”
“Come on, Jamey (the gangly teenager),” I said. “Let’s greet our guests.”
“Hi, welcome to the SETI party” I said as cheerily as I could. “Come and grab some punch.”
“Hey dudes, is this the place where the Aliens are gonna be?” asked one of the green-haired trio. She seemed to have enough metal hanging from various parts of her head to set of even the most insensitive or airport security alarms.
“Oh no,” Jamey leapt in helpingly. “This is all about radio signals from intelligent life over 1,000,000 light years ago.”
“Oh wow,” said greenie number two. “Is that older than the Earth? These are going to be really old Aliens.”
“Don’t be so lame,” replied greenie number three, with eyes rolling up. “The Aliens don’t age when they go in their space ships.”
“Oh yeah, like you’d know”, greenie number two fired back.
“Everybody knows that. It was in Battlestar Galactica, season 3, episode 4. Can’t you remember anything?” number three volleyed back.
“You know not everyone’s a year 10 graduate like you.”
“Whatever”, greenie three came back with, as Jamey and I slowly moved back with the Doctor and Janet.
“Well what was that all about?”, Doctor Watts asked. “I assume they’re not from Channel 9. I can’t understand this. Surely this town has people who think, who have normal hair shades. Where are they? And where is Arthur? I at least expected all of our colleagues to be here.”
“He’s at home watching the footy. It is State of Origin after all and the third game with both states having a win.”, I said defensively.
“I think I’ll go back to the lab”, Doctor Watts replied wearily. “I might set up our receivers to point at Earth to see if there is any intelligent life here. I’ll probably have to wait a million years to get any result though.”
“Anyone for lamingtons?”, Janet asked.
“Yes Doctor Watts. 21st August, 2009 at 8 p.m.” Janet replied with a touch of exasperation.
“Well where is everyone? This is quite possibly the most significant event of the millennia and only that gangly teenager is here. We must have done something wrong.”
Indeed that gangly teenager was our only guest so far. I was talking to him and he was so excited that he didn’t seem to hear the Doctor’s slur. But I felt the same as the Doctor. Where was everyone? No doubt we would receive world wide coverage at our ABC press conference on Saturday, but we had so wanted the town of Narrabri to share in our glory before the world joined in.
“Likely people are going to arrive later Doctor. It’s very un-cool to be early for a party”, Janet said unconvincingly as she tried to cajole the fretting Doctor. “Oh look, 3 more people just arrived.”
“Are you sure?” asked the Doctor. “And is their hair green? Rick, go over and welcome them.”
“Come on, Jamey (the gangly teenager),” I said. “Let’s greet our guests.”
“Hi, welcome to the SETI party” I said as cheerily as I could. “Come and grab some punch.”
“Hey dudes, is this the place where the Aliens are gonna be?” asked one of the green-haired trio. She seemed to have enough metal hanging from various parts of her head to set of even the most insensitive or airport security alarms.
“Oh no,” Jamey leapt in helpingly. “This is all about radio signals from intelligent life over 1,000,000 light years ago.”
“Oh wow,” said greenie number two. “Is that older than the Earth? These are going to be really old Aliens.”
“Don’t be so lame,” replied greenie number three, with eyes rolling up. “The Aliens don’t age when they go in their space ships.”
“Oh yeah, like you’d know”, greenie number two fired back.
“Everybody knows that. It was in Battlestar Galactica, season 3, episode 4. Can’t you remember anything?” number three volleyed back.
“You know not everyone’s a year 10 graduate like you.”
“Whatever”, greenie three came back with, as Jamey and I slowly moved back with the Doctor and Janet.
“Well what was that all about?”, Doctor Watts asked. “I assume they’re not from Channel 9. I can’t understand this. Surely this town has people who think, who have normal hair shades. Where are they? And where is Arthur? I at least expected all of our colleagues to be here.”
“He’s at home watching the footy. It is State of Origin after all and the third game with both states having a win.”, I said defensively.
“I think I’ll go back to the lab”, Doctor Watts replied wearily. “I might set up our receivers to point at Earth to see if there is any intelligent life here. I’ll probably have to wait a million years to get any result though.”
“Anyone for lamingtons?”, Janet asked.
Wednesday 19 August 2009
Giving up pizza (by Heather)
In the year 2020 you and your astronomer colleagues have just observed radio telescope signals representing human-like responses in a world a million light years away. What was the party like?
Randy shifted his considerable bulk, never taking his eyes off Jill.
She peered at her screen, jotted a note, pulled her long fingers through her hair again and finally turned to him. “I’m sure,” she said quietly. “I’m dead sure.” She slid her notebook toward him. “It’s absolutely an intelligent transmission, and what I told you is the gist of it.”
Randy’s stomach lurched. As an astronomer, he’d spend twenty-five years thinking about the possibility of life in other parts of the galaxy, but none of that speculation had prepared him for this moment.
He took a deep breath and tried to take it in. His new Astronomical Communications Officer had just confirmed that intelligent life existed in a signal that had been tight-beamed to Earth. He stared at her, for once not thinking about the way she tilted her chin or the shape of her smile.
He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s it then. Let’s get the boys and girls together.” He turned to the other three people in the observatory, working at their desks and trying to appear not to be watching what Jill and Randy were doing. He raised his voice. “Hey, everybody, come on over.”
Josh, Lissa and Matthew leapt out of their chairs and bounded toward Randy’s workstation.
Randy hauled himself out of his chair and leaned against the worn edge of his desk. “Well,” he said, “Jill has confirmed what we’ve thought all along -- this is a transmission. An honest-to-God transmission from a civilisation in a star system almost a million light years away.”
“Good old N10357,” Matthew breathed. “Sending us a message!”
“There’s more,” Randy said. “There’s much more. Jill, tell ’em.”
“Hold on just one moment,” interrupted Lissa with a shake of her spiky red hair. “This calls for a party. I’m going to instanuke some pizza and bring out the champagne. Gimme a hand, Matthew.” She tore Matthew from his position next to Jill, though he looked as if wild horses couldn’t drag him away from the next piece of information.
Randy surreptitiously studied Jill. She was too professional to show jubilation, but he’d watched her enough over the last three months to recognise the signs of her excitement: she could hardly wait to share her news.
Moments later Lissa and Matthew emerged from the kitchen area with a big platter of cheesy pizza, five glasses and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that Lissa had picked up when they first began getting excited about the signals.
Everyone grabbed a piece of pizza while Josh splashed out the champagne.
“Okay,” Jill said. “I explained to you when I first came over that communicating with extraterrestrial intelligence is much trickier than searching for it. We knew that we would be able to recognise a transmission, should it ever come, but that we might maybe never be able to crack it.”
“‘Like dealing with a deck full of wild cards’,” Randy said, quoting what she’d said to them all when he’d first brought her in to work on the signal.
“Yes,” she said, “Well, I’ve cracked it. We know what the message says, at least, the first part of it.”
The air in the room suddenly stood still. Josh’s hand, on the way to his mouth with pizza, stopped in its tracks.
“As we guessed,” Jill continued, “it’s a looping message, repeating itself over and over. And it’s directed straight at us on a tight bandwidth, not broadcast throughout the universe."
“How could they do that?” Matthew breathed. “How could they know we were here?”
“Wait til I tell you more about the message.” She grabbed her notebook off the desk. “I’ve translated the first of what seems to be four sections of it. The gist of the message so far is something like this: They tell us they were here a million years ago and they ‘influenced’ life on the planet to become more like them; more advanced, more humanoid.”
Randy glanced at his crew. It was the first time he’d seen Lissa without words. Matthew’s face was twisted with the effort of integrating what he was hearing.
Jill glanced at Randy, who nodded. “They tell us that they’re just about to leave to visit us again. They’re sending us this message to prepare us, assuming that their experiment has succeeded and we’ve become technologically competent.” She paused. “They tell us that they will travel at 99.997% of the speed of light.”
Randy grabbed his calculator out of the his desk and pounded the keys. “If this signal left a million years ago, that means they’ll be here in…"
“…less than 30 years,” supplied Matthew automatically, looking dazed.
“Yes,” Randy confirmed, finishing his manual calculation. “Less than 30 years. Give or take.”
Matthew stared at Jill. “How did you ever translate it? You said it would be impossible.”
“Because it’s humanoid,” Jill replied. “It’s written in a human compatible style. I tried mathematical languages and pictorial systems but found in the end they were using plain old human-style algorithmic communication systems. Once I started looking closely, I saw there weren’t many wild cards at all in the deck.”
“But how can that BE?" Matthew sputtered. “How can it be humanoid”?
Lissa darted in. “Listen, idiot, what they’re saying is that they’re human, they were here two million years ago, they seeded humanity here. Of COURSE they think like us.”
Matthew clutched his forehead. “But a million years? A MILLION years? That’s inconceivable!”
“Well, not really,” Randy intervened. “A million years is a drop in the bucket of universe time. Africa’s Lucy would have been a million years old already when they were here.”
A gabble of excitement erupted, interrupted when Randy reached for the phone.
Matthew signalled the others. “Quiet, everyone. Randy's phoning the State Department.”
Randy grinned. “Actually, I’m not. I’m phoning a personal trainer. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve suddenly got interested in living a long long time.” He glanced at Jill and caught her smile.
“After the important stuff, we can call the State Department and get started on the paperwork. Otherwise I won’t have it done by the time the ancestors get here.”
They laughed euphorically and the gabble resumed. As Randy dialled the trainer Jill had recommended for him, he reflected that it was the only party he’d ever been to where nobody was bothering to eat the pizza or drink the champagne.
Randy shifted his considerable bulk, never taking his eyes off Jill.
She peered at her screen, jotted a note, pulled her long fingers through her hair again and finally turned to him. “I’m sure,” she said quietly. “I’m dead sure.” She slid her notebook toward him. “It’s absolutely an intelligent transmission, and what I told you is the gist of it.”
Randy’s stomach lurched. As an astronomer, he’d spend twenty-five years thinking about the possibility of life in other parts of the galaxy, but none of that speculation had prepared him for this moment.
He took a deep breath and tried to take it in. His new Astronomical Communications Officer had just confirmed that intelligent life existed in a signal that had been tight-beamed to Earth. He stared at her, for once not thinking about the way she tilted her chin or the shape of her smile.
He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s it then. Let’s get the boys and girls together.” He turned to the other three people in the observatory, working at their desks and trying to appear not to be watching what Jill and Randy were doing. He raised his voice. “Hey, everybody, come on over.”
Josh, Lissa and Matthew leapt out of their chairs and bounded toward Randy’s workstation.
Randy hauled himself out of his chair and leaned against the worn edge of his desk. “Well,” he said, “Jill has confirmed what we’ve thought all along -- this is a transmission. An honest-to-God transmission from a civilisation in a star system almost a million light years away.”
“Good old N10357,” Matthew breathed. “Sending us a message!”
“There’s more,” Randy said. “There’s much more. Jill, tell ’em.”
“Hold on just one moment,” interrupted Lissa with a shake of her spiky red hair. “This calls for a party. I’m going to instanuke some pizza and bring out the champagne. Gimme a hand, Matthew.” She tore Matthew from his position next to Jill, though he looked as if wild horses couldn’t drag him away from the next piece of information.
Randy surreptitiously studied Jill. She was too professional to show jubilation, but he’d watched her enough over the last three months to recognise the signs of her excitement: she could hardly wait to share her news.
Moments later Lissa and Matthew emerged from the kitchen area with a big platter of cheesy pizza, five glasses and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that Lissa had picked up when they first began getting excited about the signals.
Everyone grabbed a piece of pizza while Josh splashed out the champagne.
“Okay,” Jill said. “I explained to you when I first came over that communicating with extraterrestrial intelligence is much trickier than searching for it. We knew that we would be able to recognise a transmission, should it ever come, but that we might maybe never be able to crack it.”
“‘Like dealing with a deck full of wild cards’,” Randy said, quoting what she’d said to them all when he’d first brought her in to work on the signal.
“Yes,” she said, “Well, I’ve cracked it. We know what the message says, at least, the first part of it.”
The air in the room suddenly stood still. Josh’s hand, on the way to his mouth with pizza, stopped in its tracks.
“As we guessed,” Jill continued, “it’s a looping message, repeating itself over and over. And it’s directed straight at us on a tight bandwidth, not broadcast throughout the universe."
“How could they do that?” Matthew breathed. “How could they know we were here?”
“Wait til I tell you more about the message.” She grabbed her notebook off the desk. “I’ve translated the first of what seems to be four sections of it. The gist of the message so far is something like this: They tell us they were here a million years ago and they ‘influenced’ life on the planet to become more like them; more advanced, more humanoid.”
Randy glanced at his crew. It was the first time he’d seen Lissa without words. Matthew’s face was twisted with the effort of integrating what he was hearing.
Jill glanced at Randy, who nodded. “They tell us that they’re just about to leave to visit us again. They’re sending us this message to prepare us, assuming that their experiment has succeeded and we’ve become technologically competent.” She paused. “They tell us that they will travel at 99.997% of the speed of light.”
Randy grabbed his calculator out of the his desk and pounded the keys. “If this signal left a million years ago, that means they’ll be here in…"
“…less than 30 years,” supplied Matthew automatically, looking dazed.
“Yes,” Randy confirmed, finishing his manual calculation. “Less than 30 years. Give or take.”
Matthew stared at Jill. “How did you ever translate it? You said it would be impossible.”
“Because it’s humanoid,” Jill replied. “It’s written in a human compatible style. I tried mathematical languages and pictorial systems but found in the end they were using plain old human-style algorithmic communication systems. Once I started looking closely, I saw there weren’t many wild cards at all in the deck.”
“But how can that BE?" Matthew sputtered. “How can it be humanoid”?
Lissa darted in. “Listen, idiot, what they’re saying is that they’re human, they were here two million years ago, they seeded humanity here. Of COURSE they think like us.”
Matthew clutched his forehead. “But a million years? A MILLION years? That’s inconceivable!”
“Well, not really,” Randy intervened. “A million years is a drop in the bucket of universe time. Africa’s Lucy would have been a million years old already when they were here.”
A gabble of excitement erupted, interrupted when Randy reached for the phone.
Matthew signalled the others. “Quiet, everyone. Randy's phoning the State Department.”
Randy grinned. “Actually, I’m not. I’m phoning a personal trainer. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve suddenly got interested in living a long long time.” He glanced at Jill and caught her smile.
“After the important stuff, we can call the State Department and get started on the paperwork. Otherwise I won’t have it done by the time the ancestors get here.”
They laughed euphorically and the gabble resumed. As Randy dialled the trainer Jill had recommended for him, he reflected that it was the only party he’d ever been to where nobody was bothering to eat the pizza or drink the champagne.
Monday 17 August 2009
Conditions Apply - by Rick
What would happen if you could fly whenever you wanted?
Ok, so I know I should never look a gift horse in the mouth, but this sounds a bit too good to be true. There must be some strings attached. (Hey is that what keeps me up in the air?)
For instance, there is no mention of how fast I could fly. Am I limited to say walking speeds? Or do I get to be more like Superman and fly at supersonic speeds? I mean if I can only fly at 6 kmph then I sure couldn’t use this ability so save on my overseas flying. I mean 2000 hours to go from Sydney to Vancouver just doesn’t cut it.
And speaking of long distance flying, how strong am I in my flying? What is my lift capacity? Can I put 2 or 3 suitcases on my back? Or am I limited to my body plus a pair of Speedos? See this gets pretty tricky. If I’m limited to pretty much my body weight plus say a kilo or two of extra baggage, then even if I could fly fairly fast, it couldn’t be to take some luggage along for a holiday. Maybe go down to the local Woolies and pick up a litre of milk, but that’s about all.
And how high do I get to fly? 5 metres up? 5 kilometres? I know if I go too high I’ll pass out due to lack of oxygen and it also takes a lot of energy to get up high. Passing out just won’t do as I would wake up smashed to bits or worse not wake up at all when I hit the ground.
And another thing. Am I the only one to have this power? If I am, then it’s kind of a lonely gift. Whatever my other boundaries are, I would have to do all my flying solo which can be pretty lonely and likely even boring.
One more. What’s my motive power? Do I flap my arms or just kind of skim along the way Superman does? Because if I have to keep flapping my arms, that’s going to wear me out pretty quickly. I guess I could get myself in shape. I mean I can go out walking for a couple of hours without much trouble so I can see myself building up my arms and chest and do the same with flying. Could be a real benefit just to get in shape more.
So much as I want to just take this wonderful offer as is, I have to get these questions answered. And another just came up. What does this cost me? Is this free or do I have to sell my soul? If it’s totally free, well I guess I could do something for fun even with the minimum of features.
Let me know asap. I’m going to Vancouver this weekend and you might save me some bucks.
Ok, so I know I should never look a gift horse in the mouth, but this sounds a bit too good to be true. There must be some strings attached. (Hey is that what keeps me up in the air?)
For instance, there is no mention of how fast I could fly. Am I limited to say walking speeds? Or do I get to be more like Superman and fly at supersonic speeds? I mean if I can only fly at 6 kmph then I sure couldn’t use this ability so save on my overseas flying. I mean 2000 hours to go from Sydney to Vancouver just doesn’t cut it.
And speaking of long distance flying, how strong am I in my flying? What is my lift capacity? Can I put 2 or 3 suitcases on my back? Or am I limited to my body plus a pair of Speedos? See this gets pretty tricky. If I’m limited to pretty much my body weight plus say a kilo or two of extra baggage, then even if I could fly fairly fast, it couldn’t be to take some luggage along for a holiday. Maybe go down to the local Woolies and pick up a litre of milk, but that’s about all.
And how high do I get to fly? 5 metres up? 5 kilometres? I know if I go too high I’ll pass out due to lack of oxygen and it also takes a lot of energy to get up high. Passing out just won’t do as I would wake up smashed to bits or worse not wake up at all when I hit the ground.
And another thing. Am I the only one to have this power? If I am, then it’s kind of a lonely gift. Whatever my other boundaries are, I would have to do all my flying solo which can be pretty lonely and likely even boring.
One more. What’s my motive power? Do I flap my arms or just kind of skim along the way Superman does? Because if I have to keep flapping my arms, that’s going to wear me out pretty quickly. I guess I could get myself in shape. I mean I can go out walking for a couple of hours without much trouble so I can see myself building up my arms and chest and do the same with flying. Could be a real benefit just to get in shape more.
So much as I want to just take this wonderful offer as is, I have to get these questions answered. And another just came up. What does this cost me? Is this free or do I have to sell my soul? If it’s totally free, well I guess I could do something for fun even with the minimum of features.
Let me know asap. I’m going to Vancouver this weekend and you might save me some bucks.
Leap of a million light years (Kerry)
To my morning-after eyes the glass-topped coffee table at my elbow has the look of something from outer space. Several glasses are scattered around a central bunch of bottles. Various splashes and spills of indeterminate substances, and occasional cigarette butts and broken crackers recreate the mysteries of space in a mundane, domestic, celebratory way.
Across the room Chris is lying with his legs draped over the body of another colleague. I recognise May’s floral print dress but her head is hidden behind the couch. Klaus is snoring loudly on the couch he commandeered early in the evening. Stan has collapsed on the carpet at my feet. It was late when he joined us but it didn’t take him long to get into the swing of the celebrations. I seem to remember shoving him off the divan at some stage during the evening. There wasn’t room for two.
I ease myself painfully into a sitting position and give Stan a little kick to start the process of regaining consciousness. His only response is a muted grunt; perhaps because his face is buried in the shag pile. I give him a full-on shake. He turns, opens his eyes and acknowledges me.
“Come on, Stan,” I coerce him. “Shake a leg. We’ve got work to do.”
“Ah, Toni,” he mumbles as though his brain is processing in slow motion. “That was some party.”
“Judging by the bottles, we had quite a bit to drink. It won’t help us today with our work unfortunately. We are expected to be at the press conference in an hour.”
While Stan gathers himself together, I wake the others.
The five of us form an exceptional team and yesterday we had a breakthrough after years of working together. We detected human-like signals from outer space, maybe a million light years away. That was worth a big celebration.
As the night wore on we had argued about the kind of civilisation that might have existed so long ago and that would have had the technology to send radio signals out into the universe. The whole concept was so confusingly mind-blowing that the discussion degenerated into a one-way haranguing from Klaus on his version of existentialist theory and the absurdity of human existence.
“Klaus,” I murmured as I moved over to where he stood savouring a strong coffee, “how would you like to take the lead at the press conference this morning and let the journalists in on some of your theories of human existence?”
“Sure. I can do that,” Klaus responded with a glint in his eye. “I can take them though my theory of extra-terrestrial beings as well. Maybe even touch on UFOs.”
My mind began to wander as I drained the coffee pot. The mention of UFOs set me thinking about crop circles, alien kidnappings and close encounters of the third kind. Our discovery was another giant leap for mankind.
We would certainly make the headlines this time.
Across the room Chris is lying with his legs draped over the body of another colleague. I recognise May’s floral print dress but her head is hidden behind the couch. Klaus is snoring loudly on the couch he commandeered early in the evening. Stan has collapsed on the carpet at my feet. It was late when he joined us but it didn’t take him long to get into the swing of the celebrations. I seem to remember shoving him off the divan at some stage during the evening. There wasn’t room for two.
I ease myself painfully into a sitting position and give Stan a little kick to start the process of regaining consciousness. His only response is a muted grunt; perhaps because his face is buried in the shag pile. I give him a full-on shake. He turns, opens his eyes and acknowledges me.
“Come on, Stan,” I coerce him. “Shake a leg. We’ve got work to do.”
“Ah, Toni,” he mumbles as though his brain is processing in slow motion. “That was some party.”
“Judging by the bottles, we had quite a bit to drink. It won’t help us today with our work unfortunately. We are expected to be at the press conference in an hour.”
While Stan gathers himself together, I wake the others.
The five of us form an exceptional team and yesterday we had a breakthrough after years of working together. We detected human-like signals from outer space, maybe a million light years away. That was worth a big celebration.
As the night wore on we had argued about the kind of civilisation that might have existed so long ago and that would have had the technology to send radio signals out into the universe. The whole concept was so confusingly mind-blowing that the discussion degenerated into a one-way haranguing from Klaus on his version of existentialist theory and the absurdity of human existence.
“Klaus,” I murmured as I moved over to where he stood savouring a strong coffee, “how would you like to take the lead at the press conference this morning and let the journalists in on some of your theories of human existence?”
“Sure. I can do that,” Klaus responded with a glint in his eye. “I can take them though my theory of extra-terrestrial beings as well. Maybe even touch on UFOs.”
My mind began to wander as I drained the coffee pot. The mention of UFOs set me thinking about crop circles, alien kidnappings and close encounters of the third kind. Our discovery was another giant leap for mankind.
We would certainly make the headlines this time.
Thursday 13 August 2009
sue's flying piece
What would happen if you could fly whenever you wanted? When would you use this ability?
My name is Pluto or that’s my nickname anyway. I can fly which has me be a fairly unusual kind of a guy. My Dad could fly too but he always taught me never to abuse my privileges, to only use my skills to the betterment of mankind. Even though I am tempted to flap those wings when I’m in a traffic jam cause I absolutely hate breathing those exhaust fumes and I’m usually running late for my meeting, I still hear Dad’s voice
“Son, don’t do it. You will regret giving up on yourself. Do it once and it’s like eating chocolate or chips, it will become a nasty habit”. Dad wins the argument and I turn up the music on the car radio, shut the windows and if it’s really bad, put one of those infectious hospital masks on.
My friends don’t know about my skills, but they often comment on “how come so and so got to the hospital in record time, or how come the bush fire stalled at the cross roads even though the emergency guys were in the next suburb etc”
Just to give you an example of when I use my skills here’s a little story.
The cyclone advanced at such a pace, no one in the little village was prepared. I could see on my radar screen people going about their normal business, the kids were being dropped off to go to school, Dad was almost at the office and the shop keepers were opening up and putting their wares out on the pavement. I could also see on my radar screen angry black bilbous clouds rolling and somersaulting, yelling to each other to ramp up, screaming encouragement to gather their forces and attack.
Down in the village, the flags started flapping, just gently then within just a few breaths, the flags were ripped off their masts and bits of material disappeared up into the air. Corrugated iron roofs started rattling in their bolts and windows started to judder and shake. It was time. I couldn’t stop the wind but I could save the school, the kids.
I put on my flying suit, a shiny padded all in one number. I looked like a bit of a tin foil man but it was very effective, light and warm. I climbed up onto my roof, wound up my arms just like the blades of a helicopter and jumped. And I flew.
In just a split second, I swooped down into the market place and collected a few hefty Persian carpets. They were weightless up in the air and they flew behind me just like a banner of hope. I got to the school yard just as the kids were breaking for morning tea. By now the wind was howling around the yard and the kids huddled in the doorways, looking a bit nervous. I landed, the Persian carpets floated down.
“OK, you lot. Let’s go. There’s no time to loose, we are off to the fun fair.”
It was weird, they took it all in their stride. As if people often landed in their yard with carpets in tow to take them to the fair. The howling was not important any more, the fairy floss was. They jumped on board and off we went. It was bumpy to start with but before long we were high above those angry clouds.
The gates of heaven stood wide open. A funny grinning face with a few missing teeth, just like Sydney’s Luna Park, welcomed the kids inside. They were just so excited, they rushed from the fairy floss stand, to the ten pin bowling to the roller coaster ride. When they were so tired they could hardly stand, they dragged their feet back to the entrance way to get back on their carpets. There was no carpet. Only the lopsided grinning face.
My name is Pluto or that’s my nickname anyway. I can fly which has me be a fairly unusual kind of a guy. My Dad could fly too but he always taught me never to abuse my privileges, to only use my skills to the betterment of mankind. Even though I am tempted to flap those wings when I’m in a traffic jam cause I absolutely hate breathing those exhaust fumes and I’m usually running late for my meeting, I still hear Dad’s voice
“Son, don’t do it. You will regret giving up on yourself. Do it once and it’s like eating chocolate or chips, it will become a nasty habit”. Dad wins the argument and I turn up the music on the car radio, shut the windows and if it’s really bad, put one of those infectious hospital masks on.
My friends don’t know about my skills, but they often comment on “how come so and so got to the hospital in record time, or how come the bush fire stalled at the cross roads even though the emergency guys were in the next suburb etc”
Just to give you an example of when I use my skills here’s a little story.
The cyclone advanced at such a pace, no one in the little village was prepared. I could see on my radar screen people going about their normal business, the kids were being dropped off to go to school, Dad was almost at the office and the shop keepers were opening up and putting their wares out on the pavement. I could also see on my radar screen angry black bilbous clouds rolling and somersaulting, yelling to each other to ramp up, screaming encouragement to gather their forces and attack.
Down in the village, the flags started flapping, just gently then within just a few breaths, the flags were ripped off their masts and bits of material disappeared up into the air. Corrugated iron roofs started rattling in their bolts and windows started to judder and shake. It was time. I couldn’t stop the wind but I could save the school, the kids.
I put on my flying suit, a shiny padded all in one number. I looked like a bit of a tin foil man but it was very effective, light and warm. I climbed up onto my roof, wound up my arms just like the blades of a helicopter and jumped. And I flew.
In just a split second, I swooped down into the market place and collected a few hefty Persian carpets. They were weightless up in the air and they flew behind me just like a banner of hope. I got to the school yard just as the kids were breaking for morning tea. By now the wind was howling around the yard and the kids huddled in the doorways, looking a bit nervous. I landed, the Persian carpets floated down.
“OK, you lot. Let’s go. There’s no time to loose, we are off to the fun fair.”
It was weird, they took it all in their stride. As if people often landed in their yard with carpets in tow to take them to the fair. The howling was not important any more, the fairy floss was. They jumped on board and off we went. It was bumpy to start with but before long we were high above those angry clouds.
The gates of heaven stood wide open. A funny grinning face with a few missing teeth, just like Sydney’s Luna Park, welcomed the kids inside. They were just so excited, they rushed from the fairy floss stand, to the ten pin bowling to the roller coaster ride. When they were so tired they could hardly stand, they dragged their feet back to the entrance way to get back on their carpets. There was no carpet. Only the lopsided grinning face.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Burning the Midnight Oil - by Rick
As was their custom at midnight on the 31st of May, the Smith family gathered around the heater for the sacred switching on the oil burner. Bartholomew Smith, the family patriarch, reflected on this tradition, how the family endured the chills of late May so as to conserve their stock of fuel oil until winter officially began. “A penny saved is a penny earned.” could easily have been the family motto if they had one.
As the grandfather clock struck the last of its 12 gongs, Bartholomew flicked the switch, but instead of the familiar swish as the pilot light caught, they heard a soft hiss and then instead of the warm blast of air from the heater - nothing. “What the….”, he muttered under his breath. He noticed his son Lancelot fidgeting. “Don’t worry Lance, it’s probably just a blockage from the tank. Come on. Let’s go and check it out.”
“That won’t be necessary father. I know why the heater didn’t switch on and I’m afraid I have something to confess. We have no heat because we have no oil. It’s as simple as that. I sold the oil last month so that I could buy a new iphone.”
“You did what?”, Bartholomew spluttered. “How could you do something so foolish? You surely knew we would need that oil for the winter months.”
“Well it didn’t seem such a concern back during that hot spell we had in early May,” Lance replied defensively. “And besides, Prime Minister Rudd was practically ordering us to go out and consume so as to help our troubled economy. I only wanted to do my part.”
Papa Smith counted to 10 silently while his blood pressure settled. “Putting aside your noble gesture and the fact that the oil didn’t belong to you, I fail to see how our freezing has anything to do with the economy.”
He sighed and continued. “Well what’s done is done. We’ll discuss how you are going to make this up later. We’ll just have to open our Christmas savings jar early this year and buy some more oil in the morning.”
With that daughter Christine gave a nervous cough. “Father, family. I’m afraid I have something to confess too. The Christmas jar is as empty as our oil tank. Last week I borrowed the money to buy a new dress and shoes that I need for the school dance. I planned to repay it all way before Christmas was here. Sorry. And I wanted to help Prime Minister Rudd too by the way.”
Papa counted to 20 this time. “Mama where did we go wrong? Never mind. Fortunately there’s still our rainy-day bank account. This is close enough to an emergency to merit using it for the purpose of keeping us warm. And be sure you know that there will be a stern conversation tomorrow about what you children have done.”
“Bartholomew, children,” said Prudence Smith, “It seems that this is family confession day. I too wanted to do my part to help the economy. And besides, I’m tired of fiddling with that broken down washing machine that doesn’t empty the water anymore. Yesterday I went to Bing Lee’s and bough a new one using our rainy-day money. Well isn’t a broken down washing machine just the emergency that we were saving for?”
“Bartholomew,” Prudence continued, “perhaps just this once we should break the family rule and take out a loan. After all, we barely need $1,000 and I’m sure we would have a good credit rating with our banker, Mr. Pincher.”
Papa only counted to 3 this time, and the red face wasn’t caused by anger. “Family we can’t take out another loan. This morning I paid a visit to Mr. Pincher and borrowed almost $20,000 to buy a new Holden. It came with an $8,000 rebate so it’s really almost a $28,000 car. And besides, it will help the economy.”
As the Smith family heads off to their very chilly beds, Bartholomew is ruminating over another possible family motto: “A fool and his money are soon parted.”
As the grandfather clock struck the last of its 12 gongs, Bartholomew flicked the switch, but instead of the familiar swish as the pilot light caught, they heard a soft hiss and then instead of the warm blast of air from the heater - nothing. “What the….”, he muttered under his breath. He noticed his son Lancelot fidgeting. “Don’t worry Lance, it’s probably just a blockage from the tank. Come on. Let’s go and check it out.”
“That won’t be necessary father. I know why the heater didn’t switch on and I’m afraid I have something to confess. We have no heat because we have no oil. It’s as simple as that. I sold the oil last month so that I could buy a new iphone.”
“You did what?”, Bartholomew spluttered. “How could you do something so foolish? You surely knew we would need that oil for the winter months.”
“Well it didn’t seem such a concern back during that hot spell we had in early May,” Lance replied defensively. “And besides, Prime Minister Rudd was practically ordering us to go out and consume so as to help our troubled economy. I only wanted to do my part.”
Papa Smith counted to 10 silently while his blood pressure settled. “Putting aside your noble gesture and the fact that the oil didn’t belong to you, I fail to see how our freezing has anything to do with the economy.”
He sighed and continued. “Well what’s done is done. We’ll discuss how you are going to make this up later. We’ll just have to open our Christmas savings jar early this year and buy some more oil in the morning.”
With that daughter Christine gave a nervous cough. “Father, family. I’m afraid I have something to confess too. The Christmas jar is as empty as our oil tank. Last week I borrowed the money to buy a new dress and shoes that I need for the school dance. I planned to repay it all way before Christmas was here. Sorry. And I wanted to help Prime Minister Rudd too by the way.”
Papa counted to 20 this time. “Mama where did we go wrong? Never mind. Fortunately there’s still our rainy-day bank account. This is close enough to an emergency to merit using it for the purpose of keeping us warm. And be sure you know that there will be a stern conversation tomorrow about what you children have done.”
“Bartholomew, children,” said Prudence Smith, “It seems that this is family confession day. I too wanted to do my part to help the economy. And besides, I’m tired of fiddling with that broken down washing machine that doesn’t empty the water anymore. Yesterday I went to Bing Lee’s and bough a new one using our rainy-day money. Well isn’t a broken down washing machine just the emergency that we were saving for?”
“Bartholomew,” Prudence continued, “perhaps just this once we should break the family rule and take out a loan. After all, we barely need $1,000 and I’m sure we would have a good credit rating with our banker, Mr. Pincher.”
Papa only counted to 3 this time, and the red face wasn’t caused by anger. “Family we can’t take out another loan. This morning I paid a visit to Mr. Pincher and borrowed almost $20,000 to buy a new Holden. It came with an $8,000 rebate so it’s really almost a $28,000 car. And besides, it will help the economy.”
As the Smith family heads off to their very chilly beds, Bartholomew is ruminating over another possible family motto: “A fool and his money are soon parted.”
Tuesday 11 August 2009
The call of the clouds (by Heather)
What would happen if you could fly whenever you wanted? When would you use this ability?
I don’t understand it.
But I love it.
I stand here with the wind ruffling my hair, ready for take-off, and it’s the best feeling in the world. In a moment I will soar, glide, hover, wheel about, drift in the currents. I will be king of the air.
When I fly it’s as if I have unlimited power, as if I must hold myself in check just to stay on the surface of the planet.
When people ask me about my unusual ability I generally say it’s 90% intention and 10% genetics. I know you have to have the gene for what I’ve got -- big, light empty bones like birds have (I weight only about a quarter as much as normal people while looking about the same size) -- but I know lots of people who have the same double recessive gene and still can’t fly. That’s because they don’t have that 90% intention. I’m very strong on intention.
I first got a sense of my ability when I was little and used to dream of flying. In my dreams I would take a little leap off a wall or a park bench then somehow just pull the air with my arms and quietly soar into the sky.
Then one day when I was seven years old, Barney, Mitch and I decided to jump off the roof of the pig house. (That might sound dramatic but a pig house has a pretty low roof.) We all jumped together and that’s when I first flew in real life. My dreams had prepared me for the pull and glide and calculations required. I swept into the air and drew myself just over the treetops -- only turning around when I heard Barney screeching. I dropped into a graceful landing near him. Mitch was up and dusting himself off by then, but Barney was crying and hollering, “My arm! My arm!”
Anyway, it might have been the end of Barney’s flying career but it was MY start. I’ve had many wonderful, unbelievable flights since then.
Granted it’s been trickier lately, since I’ve been hospitalised. THAT happened not long ago when I hesitated just as I was about to jump from the roof of my apartment building. A couple of people who were up on the roof as well grabbed me, not realising I could fly, and threw me to the floor. They took me to a police station; from there I was taken to a hospital and finally ended up here. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, but there’s no need to stress as I’m well looked after here. Most importantly, I get to go out on the lawns a couple times a week. On those days, I quickly get out of sight behind the trees, lean into the breeze and take off. I get up just at tree top level, fly over towards the lake, skim down to the water where the breeze ruffles the water surface, and flick over to a farm nearby where I hover over ploughed furrows.
I always comes back because here I get everything I need. Besides, they’d just go looking for me if I didn’t show up at medication time.
But today is a little special. I’ve found my way to the roof of the hospital. It’s the highest I’ve ever taken off from, and it gives me an extra shiver of excitement. I should get enough momentum from this height to fly over the whole valley with very little effort.
I don’t understand it. But I love it.
Up, up and away!
I don’t understand it.
But I love it.
I stand here with the wind ruffling my hair, ready for take-off, and it’s the best feeling in the world. In a moment I will soar, glide, hover, wheel about, drift in the currents. I will be king of the air.
When I fly it’s as if I have unlimited power, as if I must hold myself in check just to stay on the surface of the planet.
When people ask me about my unusual ability I generally say it’s 90% intention and 10% genetics. I know you have to have the gene for what I’ve got -- big, light empty bones like birds have (I weight only about a quarter as much as normal people while looking about the same size) -- but I know lots of people who have the same double recessive gene and still can’t fly. That’s because they don’t have that 90% intention. I’m very strong on intention.
I first got a sense of my ability when I was little and used to dream of flying. In my dreams I would take a little leap off a wall or a park bench then somehow just pull the air with my arms and quietly soar into the sky.
Then one day when I was seven years old, Barney, Mitch and I decided to jump off the roof of the pig house. (That might sound dramatic but a pig house has a pretty low roof.) We all jumped together and that’s when I first flew in real life. My dreams had prepared me for the pull and glide and calculations required. I swept into the air and drew myself just over the treetops -- only turning around when I heard Barney screeching. I dropped into a graceful landing near him. Mitch was up and dusting himself off by then, but Barney was crying and hollering, “My arm! My arm!”
Anyway, it might have been the end of Barney’s flying career but it was MY start. I’ve had many wonderful, unbelievable flights since then.
Granted it’s been trickier lately, since I’ve been hospitalised. THAT happened not long ago when I hesitated just as I was about to jump from the roof of my apartment building. A couple of people who were up on the roof as well grabbed me, not realising I could fly, and threw me to the floor. They took me to a police station; from there I was taken to a hospital and finally ended up here. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, but there’s no need to stress as I’m well looked after here. Most importantly, I get to go out on the lawns a couple times a week. On those days, I quickly get out of sight behind the trees, lean into the breeze and take off. I get up just at tree top level, fly over towards the lake, skim down to the water where the breeze ruffles the water surface, and flick over to a farm nearby where I hover over ploughed furrows.
I always comes back because here I get everything I need. Besides, they’d just go looking for me if I didn’t show up at medication time.
But today is a little special. I’ve found my way to the roof of the hospital. It’s the highest I’ve ever taken off from, and it gives me an extra shiver of excitement. I should get enough momentum from this height to fly over the whole valley with very little effort.
I don’t understand it. But I love it.
Up, up and away!
Burning the midnight oil (by Heather)
Create a story around the cliché 'burning the midnight oil'. Minimum 500 words.
Did someone say, “cliché”?
Jab, jab, jab! Charlotte stabbed the little bodkin repeatedly into the breast of the statuesque, confident, elegant Emma Cardiff.
Panting, Charlotte stepped back and collected herself. The mannequin wobbled slightly before re-settling itself on its three wicker legs. Charlotte threw her bonnet to the floor and flopped back into the chair, burying her face in her aprons. The awful Emma Cardiff was still no doubt snoring discretely in her fine bedroom in the guest room just down the hall, blissfully unaware of the devastation she had caused in certain quarters of the household, and of the devastation that had just been wreaked on her wedding dress.
For the first time in this horrible week, Charlotte burst into tears.
She gulped back a sob and stared bleakly at the dress on the mannequin. For three full days now she had worked on the creation of ivory silk brocade, with its enormous tissue taffeta puffed sleeves, its mock orange blossoms, its hoop crinoline, its boned bodice (now speckled with a half dozen slashes where the bodkin had left its mark).
Nothing in her sixteen years (including the last three of them in service, as seamstress and upper maid) had prepared her for the situation she was in.
Like a Papist counting the beads on a rosary, Charlotte mentally fingered the moments of desolation in her life this week.
Could there be anything worse that the wretchedness of this moment? Once again, it was almost midnight, by the ticking clock in the upstairs drawing room that had been converted this week to a sewing salon. For the third night in a row, she was working until the small hours of the morning on the wedding dress; she could hardly see; she was so tired she felt frayed to tatters. She could see no way to have the gown ready for the wedding in two days time, even before the damage to the bodice that would now have to be replaced.
But yes, there had indeed been worse times this week. Charlotte thought of the exact moment when she realised that her monthly courses were long overdue, and that her sore and swelling breasts were a sure sign of a momentous predicament. She thought of the tiny being that she was sure was growing inside her. She stifled the wail that threatened to release itself.
Still, this was nothing compared with the horror of the moment when she had stood at the casement with Mrs Turnbull, watching a carriage pull into the estate’s sweeping driveway. “Ah,” Mrs Turnbull said, “if it isn’t young Miss Cardiff, here already for the wedding.”
“The wedding?” Charlotte spun toward her in surprise. “I know of no wedding.”
“Ah, yes, well, it’s all been a bit of a secret thing. But it can’t be a secret much longer, so I might as well tell you. Young Master Thomas is about to wed Miss Emma Cardiff at the coming weekend.”
“Master Thomas?” Charlotte could barely hear her own voice over the sudden roar of blood rushing in her ears. Her world shifted around her.
Horrible though that occurrence had been, the scene later that afternoon was the hardest of all to bear. It had happened when she had seen Tom alone in the garden and had accosted him. His frosty reply to her petition had dealt the final blow to her heart. “Surely you didn’t think our dalliance could affect my future in any way…really, Charlotte, this is most unseemly.”
Tears still streaming down her face, she thought of the numerous fittings this week with the smiling, guileless, ever-so-friendly and light-hearted Emma Cardiff.
And she thought back to the flirtations and the wonderful hours in Tom’s bed, learning the mysteries of her body, and his.
She wondered if someone could just die of anguish, if she might be found in the morning lying here on the floor, pale and lifeless. A fresh flood of tears emerged.
The lamp in the drawing room flickered, nearly empty, threatening to die out.
Charlotte rose unsteadily from her chair, sweeping thimble, cotton and needles from the table beside her in the process. She walked to the stone jug that was used to store the whale oil that fuelled the lamp. She picked it up, staring at it in her hands.
A small desperate cry escaped her lips. She kicked at the mannequin, knocking it to the floor. She poured a generous dollop of oil onto the creamy fabric.
Gaining energy, she strode around the room, liberally sprinkling oil around her. She carefully pushed open the drawing room doors, checking the long hall before stepping out. She tiptoed from one end of the hall to the other, tipping out oil as she went. She poured an extra dose at Miss Cardiff’s door and an even larger portion at Master Thomas’.
She scurried back to the drawing room. Throwing the empty jug into the corner, she grabbed the brass lamp and dashed it to the floor near the oil-soaked mannequin. Flames licked rapidly at the pools of oil, racing over the carpets and into the hall.
She ran down the hall without a backward glance, raced down the marble staircase and darted through the vestibule. She pressed open the massive front doors and disappeared into the darkness.
She had a long trek in front of her and hadn’t prepared for it at all.
The night was not over yet.
Did someone say, “cliché”?
Jab, jab, jab! Charlotte stabbed the little bodkin repeatedly into the breast of the statuesque, confident, elegant Emma Cardiff.
Panting, Charlotte stepped back and collected herself. The mannequin wobbled slightly before re-settling itself on its three wicker legs. Charlotte threw her bonnet to the floor and flopped back into the chair, burying her face in her aprons. The awful Emma Cardiff was still no doubt snoring discretely in her fine bedroom in the guest room just down the hall, blissfully unaware of the devastation she had caused in certain quarters of the household, and of the devastation that had just been wreaked on her wedding dress.
For the first time in this horrible week, Charlotte burst into tears.
She gulped back a sob and stared bleakly at the dress on the mannequin. For three full days now she had worked on the creation of ivory silk brocade, with its enormous tissue taffeta puffed sleeves, its mock orange blossoms, its hoop crinoline, its boned bodice (now speckled with a half dozen slashes where the bodkin had left its mark).
Nothing in her sixteen years (including the last three of them in service, as seamstress and upper maid) had prepared her for the situation she was in.
Like a Papist counting the beads on a rosary, Charlotte mentally fingered the moments of desolation in her life this week.
Could there be anything worse that the wretchedness of this moment? Once again, it was almost midnight, by the ticking clock in the upstairs drawing room that had been converted this week to a sewing salon. For the third night in a row, she was working until the small hours of the morning on the wedding dress; she could hardly see; she was so tired she felt frayed to tatters. She could see no way to have the gown ready for the wedding in two days time, even before the damage to the bodice that would now have to be replaced.
But yes, there had indeed been worse times this week. Charlotte thought of the exact moment when she realised that her monthly courses were long overdue, and that her sore and swelling breasts were a sure sign of a momentous predicament. She thought of the tiny being that she was sure was growing inside her. She stifled the wail that threatened to release itself.
Still, this was nothing compared with the horror of the moment when she had stood at the casement with Mrs Turnbull, watching a carriage pull into the estate’s sweeping driveway. “Ah,” Mrs Turnbull said, “if it isn’t young Miss Cardiff, here already for the wedding.”
“The wedding?” Charlotte spun toward her in surprise. “I know of no wedding.”
“Ah, yes, well, it’s all been a bit of a secret thing. But it can’t be a secret much longer, so I might as well tell you. Young Master Thomas is about to wed Miss Emma Cardiff at the coming weekend.”
“Master Thomas?” Charlotte could barely hear her own voice over the sudden roar of blood rushing in her ears. Her world shifted around her.
Horrible though that occurrence had been, the scene later that afternoon was the hardest of all to bear. It had happened when she had seen Tom alone in the garden and had accosted him. His frosty reply to her petition had dealt the final blow to her heart. “Surely you didn’t think our dalliance could affect my future in any way…really, Charlotte, this is most unseemly.”
Tears still streaming down her face, she thought of the numerous fittings this week with the smiling, guileless, ever-so-friendly and light-hearted Emma Cardiff.
And she thought back to the flirtations and the wonderful hours in Tom’s bed, learning the mysteries of her body, and his.
She wondered if someone could just die of anguish, if she might be found in the morning lying here on the floor, pale and lifeless. A fresh flood of tears emerged.
The lamp in the drawing room flickered, nearly empty, threatening to die out.
Charlotte rose unsteadily from her chair, sweeping thimble, cotton and needles from the table beside her in the process. She walked to the stone jug that was used to store the whale oil that fuelled the lamp. She picked it up, staring at it in her hands.
A small desperate cry escaped her lips. She kicked at the mannequin, knocking it to the floor. She poured a generous dollop of oil onto the creamy fabric.
Gaining energy, she strode around the room, liberally sprinkling oil around her. She carefully pushed open the drawing room doors, checking the long hall before stepping out. She tiptoed from one end of the hall to the other, tipping out oil as she went. She poured an extra dose at Miss Cardiff’s door and an even larger portion at Master Thomas’.
She scurried back to the drawing room. Throwing the empty jug into the corner, she grabbed the brass lamp and dashed it to the floor near the oil-soaked mannequin. Flames licked rapidly at the pools of oil, racing over the carpets and into the hall.
She ran down the hall without a backward glance, raced down the marble staircase and darted through the vestibule. She pressed open the massive front doors and disappeared into the darkness.
She had a long trek in front of her and hadn’t prepared for it at all.
The night was not over yet.
Sunday 9 August 2009
Flight from danger (Kerry)
Rosey had been honing her ability since she was much younger. She had always felt light on her feet. She could remember watching the film clip of the moon landing and loving the bouncing lightweight action the astronauts displayed. That was the way she always felt, lightweight. Not in the sense of being of no consequence but light on the ground, as though gravity didn’t have so much influence over her as she could see it had for others. She had really made her mark at school on the athletics field. High jump was her specialty but she was also a great runner. She seemed to have an extra long stride even though her legs were an every-day sort of length.
At her thirteenth birthday party, it had finally become apparent that she had a special ability. She and her friends had been playing cricket on the front lawn. Someone had hit the ball way over the fence into the paddock next door. Rosey had volunteered to chase after it because she was a good runner. They all knew that it was in the bull paddock but Rosey was confident that she could pick up the ball and get out of there before the bull noticed.
It didn’t work that way. Just as Rosey stooped to retrieve the ball, the bull began lumbering towards her in a very determined way. At first she didn’t notice. She could hear her friends yelling at her but couldn’t understand what they were saying. The bull gathered pace and was approaching like a steam train.
“Run, Rosey. Run,” her friends were shouting. “It’s the bull. Hurry. Get out of there.”
Now she could hear a terrible pounding of hooves. She turned, saw how close the bull was and realised her predicament.
She started to run. She heard his laboured breathing and felt his hot steamy breath. It was as though everything was moving in slow motion. Her strides lengthened. She felt a special lightness, an uncanny spring in her step. The fence was close now. Safety was only metres away but she would not have time to scramble through the fence. Her mind went into overdrive. On another level of consciousness she knew that she had to jump the fence. She was coming straight at it. Instinctively she raised her arms over her head and leapt.
Her knees crumpled as she hit the ground on the other side. She lay on the ground, panting with exhaustion and fear. Slowly she became aware of her friends gathering around her, staring, open-mouthed.
“Rosey, you were flying. You looked like Superman.” They spoke breathlessly, awestruck.
For Rosey, it was as though it had always been so. It had been an intuitive response to the danger for her to leap into the air and fly. It was a power she knew she could call on whenever her life was threatened in the future.
She rolled over on the grass and stared up at the clouds. From now on, anything was possible.
At her thirteenth birthday party, it had finally become apparent that she had a special ability. She and her friends had been playing cricket on the front lawn. Someone had hit the ball way over the fence into the paddock next door. Rosey had volunteered to chase after it because she was a good runner. They all knew that it was in the bull paddock but Rosey was confident that she could pick up the ball and get out of there before the bull noticed.
It didn’t work that way. Just as Rosey stooped to retrieve the ball, the bull began lumbering towards her in a very determined way. At first she didn’t notice. She could hear her friends yelling at her but couldn’t understand what they were saying. The bull gathered pace and was approaching like a steam train.
“Run, Rosey. Run,” her friends were shouting. “It’s the bull. Hurry. Get out of there.”
Now she could hear a terrible pounding of hooves. She turned, saw how close the bull was and realised her predicament.
She started to run. She heard his laboured breathing and felt his hot steamy breath. It was as though everything was moving in slow motion. Her strides lengthened. She felt a special lightness, an uncanny spring in her step. The fence was close now. Safety was only metres away but she would not have time to scramble through the fence. Her mind went into overdrive. On another level of consciousness she knew that she had to jump the fence. She was coming straight at it. Instinctively she raised her arms over her head and leapt.
Her knees crumpled as she hit the ground on the other side. She lay on the ground, panting with exhaustion and fear. Slowly she became aware of her friends gathering around her, staring, open-mouthed.
“Rosey, you were flying. You looked like Superman.” They spoke breathlessly, awestruck.
For Rosey, it was as though it had always been so. It had been an intuitive response to the danger for her to leap into the air and fly. It was a power she knew she could call on whenever her life was threatened in the future.
She rolled over on the grass and stared up at the clouds. From now on, anything was possible.
Saturday 8 August 2009
Flying (Jenny)
It's just getting off the ground, really, that requires concentration and practice. I refuse to take the easy way out, to throw myself off an edge and let gravity and adrenaline slingshot me into that other realm.
No, I want to attain that state of grace by my own efforts.
I want to become entirely, fully present, feeling the blood pumping, feeling my skin responding to the air, cooling and shrinking, or expanding and flushing, every breath flowing cool filaments through the myriad branchings inside my lungs. All colours brighter, all edges sharper, all sounds more intense and more beautiful at once.
When I am fully there, alive to every tiny sensation, deeply connected with myself, through myself to something deeper, larger, more blissful, a Leviathan of warmth and power and beauty, when I thrill in every particle of my being from the bliss that is being alive, only then can I float free of the Earth's firm grasp.
By then, of course, the bliss of the present moment is so intense that I don't want to move, don't want to change a thing, just want to hold myself there in that pregnant everything-nothing space and let everything-nothing course through me in wave after wave of ecstatic sensation.
Sometimes, I just hover there, millimetres off the ground, my flight imperceptible to all but the most observant - usually fliers themselves, traditionalists like me, who can not only see the subtle postural shifts as gravity releases her hold, but can also feel the visceral ecstasy radiating from me, and recognise it instantly from their own experience.
We're a very small club, us traditionalists, but we know know that we are on to one of the great secrets of the Universe. While any fool can fly, only a fraction of a percent will ever know flight as we know it.
Just flying itself is great, of course. The rush of air against my skin, through my hair, the swirling inner sensations of diving, turning, and peaking in that moment of almost-zero gravity - not to mention the sights. Sydney is so beautiful from above.
But those who leap straight into the air from a great height are missing the real joy of flying. The swooping and darting about is fun, and feels good, and the sights are spectacular and interesting, but that's all there is to it at that level.
Anyone can jump off a bridge, and don't get me wrong, it's still a great experience.
But when you are already in that amazing, blissful, completely connected state, and you add the sensations of flight - that is a whole new world.
A world where flying is not a way to get from A to B, or a source of cheap thrills, or a way to pass the time, or a distraction from the problems of life. A world in which flying itself is an approach to the Divine, a communion with the deepest forces of the Universe, a sacred movement in which all separateness is drowned by an inpouring, outpouring, swirling flow of pure embodied Love.
It takes concentration, and practice, to attain that state. But once you have known it, you will never want to go back.
No, I want to attain that state of grace by my own efforts.
I want to become entirely, fully present, feeling the blood pumping, feeling my skin responding to the air, cooling and shrinking, or expanding and flushing, every breath flowing cool filaments through the myriad branchings inside my lungs. All colours brighter, all edges sharper, all sounds more intense and more beautiful at once.
When I am fully there, alive to every tiny sensation, deeply connected with myself, through myself to something deeper, larger, more blissful, a Leviathan of warmth and power and beauty, when I thrill in every particle of my being from the bliss that is being alive, only then can I float free of the Earth's firm grasp.
By then, of course, the bliss of the present moment is so intense that I don't want to move, don't want to change a thing, just want to hold myself there in that pregnant everything-nothing space and let everything-nothing course through me in wave after wave of ecstatic sensation.
Sometimes, I just hover there, millimetres off the ground, my flight imperceptible to all but the most observant - usually fliers themselves, traditionalists like me, who can not only see the subtle postural shifts as gravity releases her hold, but can also feel the visceral ecstasy radiating from me, and recognise it instantly from their own experience.
We're a very small club, us traditionalists, but we know know that we are on to one of the great secrets of the Universe. While any fool can fly, only a fraction of a percent will ever know flight as we know it.
Just flying itself is great, of course. The rush of air against my skin, through my hair, the swirling inner sensations of diving, turning, and peaking in that moment of almost-zero gravity - not to mention the sights. Sydney is so beautiful from above.
But those who leap straight into the air from a great height are missing the real joy of flying. The swooping and darting about is fun, and feels good, and the sights are spectacular and interesting, but that's all there is to it at that level.
Anyone can jump off a bridge, and don't get me wrong, it's still a great experience.
But when you are already in that amazing, blissful, completely connected state, and you add the sensations of flight - that is a whole new world.
A world where flying is not a way to get from A to B, or a source of cheap thrills, or a way to pass the time, or a distraction from the problems of life. A world in which flying itself is an approach to the Divine, a communion with the deepest forces of the Universe, a sacred movement in which all separateness is drowned by an inpouring, outpouring, swirling flow of pure embodied Love.
It takes concentration, and practice, to attain that state. But once you have known it, you will never want to go back.
Sunday 2 August 2009
burning the midnight oil - Peta
Empty the library was a huge open cavernous space, dark and musty. The sparsely placed halogens glowed like small groupings of fireflies clinging to the ceiling. It was eerily quiet, more so than usual. The tick tock of the oversized clock echoed, its roman numerals black against the pasty white face, arms three dimensional, standing ready for the next movement.
Large caricatures of distinguished alumni framed in dark wood uniformly spaced hung on the walls. The comical faces at odds with the seriousness of purpose of these hallowed spaces. They appeared to laugh in unison at a silent yet shared joke, challenging those below to be worthy and make their mark.
A modern mezzanine unlike the traditional federation architecture broke the soaring height. Skyscrapers of book cases crammed with leather bound volumes lined the walls. Where space permitted, individual carrels were spotted along the perimeter for those seeking more privacy or solitude. Heavy oak tables with ornately carved legs, matching chairs and standard lamps at each end filled the room. All but one was empty. A lone figure half sat half lounged, hunched over a pile of open books. Her forehead rested on the pages of knowledge, red curls spilling over. A pen still grasped was poised over a page, sleepy squiggles the only marks.
Bong bong bong. It was 3 am. The body reacted immediately to the audible intrusion, twitching involuntarily. Allison’s eyes struggled to open, then quickly scanned the surroundings. Alone. Of course. Drawing herself up to full seated height she stretched her aching back. She pushed the heavy chair back as it stuttered across the carpeted floor. Standing to an impressive 5’11”, she moved her limbs lithely and shook her head vigourously, loosening the cobwebs and encouraging the blood to flow again.
When would this end she wondered. The constant gruel and boredom of it all was getting to be too much. Maybe she just wasn’t cut out for a life in the law. She had been there for hours, surrounded by piles of old, thick, mouldy law journals. Her efforts to solve the latest obscure client issue had so far gone unrewarded. Her head ached and her eyes felt raw from rubbing and reading endless pages of dull articles and cases. She felt no closer to a conclusion that she had when she arrived hours before.
I need a break, she said to herself. A latte and cinnamon donut, yum. Fat chance! There was nowhere within cooee of the library that would be open at this hour. She couldn’t afford the time it would take to drive to the nearest all nighter. She’d just have to get on with it. The sooner she finished the opinion the sooner she could get out of there and maybe enjoy what was left of the weekend or at least get some much needed sleep. Mr Rhodes, the senior partner and resident dinosaur was relying on her to get this done. He had committed to the client to settle the advice by Monday COB. Allison knew from bitter experience that to let him down had very unpleasant consequences.
Back in the hard upright chair she resumed her reading hoping for a revelation.
Large caricatures of distinguished alumni framed in dark wood uniformly spaced hung on the walls. The comical faces at odds with the seriousness of purpose of these hallowed spaces. They appeared to laugh in unison at a silent yet shared joke, challenging those below to be worthy and make their mark.
A modern mezzanine unlike the traditional federation architecture broke the soaring height. Skyscrapers of book cases crammed with leather bound volumes lined the walls. Where space permitted, individual carrels were spotted along the perimeter for those seeking more privacy or solitude. Heavy oak tables with ornately carved legs, matching chairs and standard lamps at each end filled the room. All but one was empty. A lone figure half sat half lounged, hunched over a pile of open books. Her forehead rested on the pages of knowledge, red curls spilling over. A pen still grasped was poised over a page, sleepy squiggles the only marks.
Bong bong bong. It was 3 am. The body reacted immediately to the audible intrusion, twitching involuntarily. Allison’s eyes struggled to open, then quickly scanned the surroundings. Alone. Of course. Drawing herself up to full seated height she stretched her aching back. She pushed the heavy chair back as it stuttered across the carpeted floor. Standing to an impressive 5’11”, she moved her limbs lithely and shook her head vigourously, loosening the cobwebs and encouraging the blood to flow again.
When would this end she wondered. The constant gruel and boredom of it all was getting to be too much. Maybe she just wasn’t cut out for a life in the law. She had been there for hours, surrounded by piles of old, thick, mouldy law journals. Her efforts to solve the latest obscure client issue had so far gone unrewarded. Her head ached and her eyes felt raw from rubbing and reading endless pages of dull articles and cases. She felt no closer to a conclusion that she had when she arrived hours before.
I need a break, she said to herself. A latte and cinnamon donut, yum. Fat chance! There was nowhere within cooee of the library that would be open at this hour. She couldn’t afford the time it would take to drive to the nearest all nighter. She’d just have to get on with it. The sooner she finished the opinion the sooner she could get out of there and maybe enjoy what was left of the weekend or at least get some much needed sleep. Mr Rhodes, the senior partner and resident dinosaur was relying on her to get this done. He had committed to the client to settle the advice by Monday COB. Allison knew from bitter experience that to let him down had very unpleasant consequences.
Back in the hard upright chair she resumed her reading hoping for a revelation.
Lighting the oil (Kerry)
Pervez Hussain Faruq squats in the wintry darkness of the cave in the remote tribal lands of Pakistan. He cannot see his companions but the stench of their unwashed bodies and clothes is sufficient evidence for him. Someone is snoring heavily behind him. It is approaching midnight and he will soon light the small oil lamp he holds in his hand.
He leans across to the man beside him and speaks in a husky whisper, “Got the matches? It’s time to start.”
His friend is a new arrival to the camp. He pulls a small packet from his pocket and passes it to Faruq.
“Wait till you see where these come from,” he sniggers.
Faruq strikes the match and lights the wick of the oil lamp. He smiles to himself when he sees the New York hotel brand boldly emblazoned on the packet. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
He has been performing this ritual for several nights now. Every night, on the stroke of midnight, he lights his lamp to check the messages that have come in on the old satellite phone. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
Tonight his patience is rewarded. The message has come from bin Laden. It is time for action.
The line of authority is clear. Faruq is bin Laden’s right hand man. He has the power to start the ball rolling, transmitting the decisions and the calls for action. From this cave he controls the al Qaeda network, protecting the whereabouts of his leader. He also knows that the buck stops with him. If the Pakistani authorities discover their location, his job is to be the fall guy. He learned this terminology when he was a student in America in the nineties. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
He gives his off-sider a restrained punch on the arm. “We’ve got the go-ahead,” he whispers triumphantly.
With a rush of adrenalin, he expertly codes a message to the next operative in Islamabad. Within minutes he receives a reply to say the message has been received. So it will go, with exquisite timing, down the chain of authority. Each time the message is transmitted the incoming message is erased and the coding for the outgoing message is changed slightly. With each transmission, the possibility of tracing the message to its origin is more completely obscured. Faruq is also aware that, with more people involved in transmitting the message, the possibility of there being a leak is increased. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
It takes less than an hour for the transmission to reach the saboteur in Baiji, north of Baghdad, where multiple oil pipelines come together to cross the Tigris River. He is crouched already beside the pipeline. It has amused him over the last few days that the Americans have only just repaired the pipeline since his last operation. They have even delivered the security fencing to protect this junction. Unfortunately the Iraqi workmen have not erected the fencing yet. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
He presses the button.
Far below him there is a massive explosion. Billowing clouds of black smoke erupt into the midnight sky. Huge flames shoot into the air. With his binoculars trained on the scene, the saboteur watches as dark streams of crude oil flood down the bank and into the water. The surface of the river is burning.
Excitedly he codes a message and sends it back up the line. “Midnight oil alight.”
Alternative titles:
Iraqi irony
Oil to burn
He leans across to the man beside him and speaks in a husky whisper, “Got the matches? It’s time to start.”
His friend is a new arrival to the camp. He pulls a small packet from his pocket and passes it to Faruq.
“Wait till you see where these come from,” he sniggers.
Faruq strikes the match and lights the wick of the oil lamp. He smiles to himself when he sees the New York hotel brand boldly emblazoned on the packet. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
He has been performing this ritual for several nights now. Every night, on the stroke of midnight, he lights his lamp to check the messages that have come in on the old satellite phone. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
Tonight his patience is rewarded. The message has come from bin Laden. It is time for action.
The line of authority is clear. Faruq is bin Laden’s right hand man. He has the power to start the ball rolling, transmitting the decisions and the calls for action. From this cave he controls the al Qaeda network, protecting the whereabouts of his leader. He also knows that the buck stops with him. If the Pakistani authorities discover their location, his job is to be the fall guy. He learned this terminology when he was a student in America in the nineties. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
He gives his off-sider a restrained punch on the arm. “We’ve got the go-ahead,” he whispers triumphantly.
With a rush of adrenalin, he expertly codes a message to the next operative in Islamabad. Within minutes he receives a reply to say the message has been received. So it will go, with exquisite timing, down the chain of authority. Each time the message is transmitted the incoming message is erased and the coding for the outgoing message is changed slightly. With each transmission, the possibility of tracing the message to its origin is more completely obscured. Faruq is also aware that, with more people involved in transmitting the message, the possibility of there being a leak is increased. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
It takes less than an hour for the transmission to reach the saboteur in Baiji, north of Baghdad, where multiple oil pipelines come together to cross the Tigris River. He is crouched already beside the pipeline. It has amused him over the last few days that the Americans have only just repaired the pipeline since his last operation. They have even delivered the security fencing to protect this junction. Unfortunately the Iraqi workmen have not erected the fencing yet. (He fully understands the irony of the situation.)
He presses the button.
Far below him there is a massive explosion. Billowing clouds of black smoke erupt into the midnight sky. Huge flames shoot into the air. With his binoculars trained on the scene, the saboteur watches as dark streams of crude oil flood down the bank and into the water. The surface of the river is burning.
Excitedly he codes a message and sends it back up the line. “Midnight oil alight.”
Alternative titles:
Iraqi irony
Oil to burn
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