Jump she cried. It was a big splash.
Kate yelled out: "My feet are killing me." The high-pitched words echoed across the valley in a rapid reverberation. The rock walls were effusing warmth in the hot afternoon sun as I struggled through the thick undergrowth close to the rock walls. It scratched and prickled my arms. The rocks were sharp and broken and every step had to be taken with care so as to find a foothold. My ankles twisted with every step as I picked my way across the huge boulders that had been tossed and turned in every possible direction along the river bed. I yelled back to Kate: "It's not far." "You must be joking", she yelled back.
As I came around the edge of a large rock protuberance I suddenly saw what we had been searching for all day. It was a stunningly beautiful pool with steep rock walls around almost all of it. The rock walls were straight up, hundreds of metres. I waited for Kate and as she also came clamouring around the projecting rock I could feel the rock starting to give way. Kate leapt to grab hold of me in an embrace but the rock wobbled as though balanced on a knife-edge. She grabbed my hand but my balance was lost. "Jump she cried." It was a moment of panic as I had no idea how deep was the water or how far out the rocks went. There was nothing for it but to leap with what leverage remained on the falling rock. It was like pushing yourself on the down pedal of a bicycle when there was no upswing to follow. I had just enough projection out from the rock to miss the rock wall and hit the water with a large belly flop splash. I sank slowly into the water taking in a big gulp. Kate yelled again: "Are you OK". I could just hear the OK as I came to the waters surface. In that moment Kate also leapt away from the tiny rock ledge as she lost her balance--splash again.
I looked around and there seemed no way out as the water ran under the rocks. We both swam to hold onto some small cracks in the rock wall and thought about how might we be rescued.
Gordon MacAulay
15 March 2011
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Sunday 13 March 2011
Caught in a Lie by Peta
"Officer just ask my wife, she can confirm everything I have told you." He said squeezing my hand till it hurt.
She tried not to react to the pain. The policeman’s icy blue eyes held hers.
‘Yes Sergeant, I can verify what Mike has told you. He was at home with me last night, all night.”
“So Mrs Johnson, who do you think might have taken the car, given there are no signs of breaking and entering?”
“I have no idea. I was not aware the car was missing until you knocked on the door.”
There was a stony silence. Sergeant Manning, at least I think that was his name, looked from Mike to me and back. It was impossible to read him. I could feel a hot flush rising, the last thing I needed. The policeman would surely take a reddening of the face as a sign of some sort of guilt. Finally he spoke.
“Very well. I will complete my report. It is highly likely that we will need to speak to you again during the course of the investigation. Please do not touch or use the vehicle until our forensic people give the all clear.”
He turned abruptly and head off down the path to the street frontage.
Mike released the pressure on my hand and retreated to the darkness of the interior. The cool of the house was a welcome relief. It had been sweltering for days and I was over it. This incident was the last thing my frayed nerves needed.
“So Mike, tell me what this is all about.”
“Not now Lydia. I have things to do.” He was heading to his study.
“I think they can wait. I want an explanation and I want it now.”
Mike spun on his heels, turning back to me suddenly.
“It’s pretty obvious what happened isn’t it? I ran over that bastard and left him for dead. Problem is he didn’t die, did he, and now I am for it. This is all your fault you bitch.
The hatred in his eyes was spilling out like a lava flow. I stepped back putting more distance between us.
“Mike, what are you talking about? Who was this guy?”
“Oh come on Lydia. Cut the crap. The game’s up. You’ve been caught out. Why don’t you tell me how long this has been going on?”
Mike grabbed me, holding both my arms firmly with a monster grip. Staring into my eyes, searching for answers.
“For god’s sake let go of me, you’re hurting me. And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me woman.” His breath was hot on my cheeks, a mixture of late morning coffee and stale cigarettes. He pushed me back onto the sofa, I landed heavily.
“I swear to you Mike, I don’t know and I’ve never heard of Jason Moore before this morning.”
“How do you explain this then?” Mike reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a piece of paper. He threw it down on the coffee table. It was a photo of me with a man. I picked it up and looked at Mike.
“So what’s your story now?” he said softly.
“Mike, I have no idea where you got this or what you thought was going on but this is Malcolm Barrow. I told you I was seeing when you were in the US.”
“Malcolm Barrow? Your half brother?” The colour drained completely from Mike’s face. “Malcolm Barrow. So who the hell is Jason Moore?”
She tried not to react to the pain. The policeman’s icy blue eyes held hers.
‘Yes Sergeant, I can verify what Mike has told you. He was at home with me last night, all night.”
“So Mrs Johnson, who do you think might have taken the car, given there are no signs of breaking and entering?”
“I have no idea. I was not aware the car was missing until you knocked on the door.”
There was a stony silence. Sergeant Manning, at least I think that was his name, looked from Mike to me and back. It was impossible to read him. I could feel a hot flush rising, the last thing I needed. The policeman would surely take a reddening of the face as a sign of some sort of guilt. Finally he spoke.
“Very well. I will complete my report. It is highly likely that we will need to speak to you again during the course of the investigation. Please do not touch or use the vehicle until our forensic people give the all clear.”
He turned abruptly and head off down the path to the street frontage.
Mike released the pressure on my hand and retreated to the darkness of the interior. The cool of the house was a welcome relief. It had been sweltering for days and I was over it. This incident was the last thing my frayed nerves needed.
“So Mike, tell me what this is all about.”
“Not now Lydia. I have things to do.” He was heading to his study.
“I think they can wait. I want an explanation and I want it now.”
Mike spun on his heels, turning back to me suddenly.
“It’s pretty obvious what happened isn’t it? I ran over that bastard and left him for dead. Problem is he didn’t die, did he, and now I am for it. This is all your fault you bitch.
The hatred in his eyes was spilling out like a lava flow. I stepped back putting more distance between us.
“Mike, what are you talking about? Who was this guy?”
“Oh come on Lydia. Cut the crap. The game’s up. You’ve been caught out. Why don’t you tell me how long this has been going on?”
Mike grabbed me, holding both my arms firmly with a monster grip. Staring into my eyes, searching for answers.
“For god’s sake let go of me, you’re hurting me. And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me woman.” His breath was hot on my cheeks, a mixture of late morning coffee and stale cigarettes. He pushed me back onto the sofa, I landed heavily.
“I swear to you Mike, I don’t know and I’ve never heard of Jason Moore before this morning.”
“How do you explain this then?” Mike reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a piece of paper. He threw it down on the coffee table. It was a photo of me with a man. I picked it up and looked at Mike.
“So what’s your story now?” he said softly.
“Mike, I have no idea where you got this or what you thought was going on but this is Malcolm Barrow. I told you I was seeing when you were in the US.”
“Malcolm Barrow? Your half brother?” The colour drained completely from Mike’s face. “Malcolm Barrow. So who the hell is Jason Moore?”
Wednesday 2 March 2011
Jason and the donkey-brown coat (by Heather)
Start with: “I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque.”
I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque. I was twenty and my summer of slaving at the public library was reduced to a little piece of paper burning a hole in my jacket pocket.
I was window-shopping downtown with the love of my life, Jason, a fellow university student, when we spotted the coat in the window of an elegant little boutique. I drew him inside and found the rack where the coats were displayed. He leaned against the mirrors as I found the match for the coat in the window, caressed it, studied its heavy topstitching, checked the lining and finally tried it on, cinching its belt around my 20” waist and dropping my hands into its deep pockets. All he said was, “It matches your eyes exactly.”
“Donkey-brown?” I laughed, alluding to a conversation we’d had earlier about the perfect colour of donkey’s eyes. He only shrugged and continued to watch me.
It might have been his comment, or the angle of his body in that lean, that swayed my purchase, as much as the coat itself.
I loved them both in that moment. The wool and cashmere cloth of the coat draped in graceful folds; the lines of the lapels and shoulders were elegant; the whole coat was a portal to culture and refinement. And that brown! – rich and dry at the same time, a haunting colour with limitless depth. Jason also draped gracefully not only against mirrors but over me, and over my growing sense of self. He was the portal to a world of culture, intimate conversation and sexuality.
Jason lasted in my life another eight months. In March of 1967 he decided to join the Peace Corps and we took tearful goodbyes. It probably never crossed either of our minds to try to make a long-term relationship of what we called “our good thing”.
The coat lasted me all through university and beyond that for a year or two of my subsequent career. My image of myself in it, with boots, scarf and long lustrous hair, has lasted my life.
Sadly, I can no longer picture Jason.
I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque. I was twenty and my summer of slaving at the public library was reduced to a little piece of paper burning a hole in my jacket pocket.
I was window-shopping downtown with the love of my life, Jason, a fellow university student, when we spotted the coat in the window of an elegant little boutique. I drew him inside and found the rack where the coats were displayed. He leaned against the mirrors as I found the match for the coat in the window, caressed it, studied its heavy topstitching, checked the lining and finally tried it on, cinching its belt around my 20” waist and dropping my hands into its deep pockets. All he said was, “It matches your eyes exactly.”
“Donkey-brown?” I laughed, alluding to a conversation we’d had earlier about the perfect colour of donkey’s eyes. He only shrugged and continued to watch me.
It might have been his comment, or the angle of his body in that lean, that swayed my purchase, as much as the coat itself.
I loved them both in that moment. The wool and cashmere cloth of the coat draped in graceful folds; the lines of the lapels and shoulders were elegant; the whole coat was a portal to culture and refinement. And that brown! – rich and dry at the same time, a haunting colour with limitless depth. Jason also draped gracefully not only against mirrors but over me, and over my growing sense of self. He was the portal to a world of culture, intimate conversation and sexuality.
Jason lasted in my life another eight months. In March of 1967 he decided to join the Peace Corps and we took tearful goodbyes. It probably never crossed either of our minds to try to make a long-term relationship of what we called “our good thing”.
The coat lasted me all through university and beyond that for a year or two of my subsequent career. My image of myself in it, with boots, scarf and long lustrous hair, has lasted my life.
Sadly, I can no longer picture Jason.
Sunday 20 February 2011
The Donkey-Brown Coat - by Rick
I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque. I still have it. I still wear it. I’m wearing it now. I was 21 at the time, not certain yet about where I was going in my life nor how far, but even then I knew that going for what I want was important. It set a trend, a path upon which I’ve trodden all my life and it’s gotten me to where I am today.
I stand before you as one of you, brought in by invitation from my friend John here, who’s been a member of this organisation for years and who kept trying to get me to come out and see what it’s all about. I knew I should, but I kept putting it off. I always had some good excuse. I’m not a joiner. I’m not ready yet. I don’t need this. It’s too much effort. And I procrastinated and procrastinated.
Well the final straw that broke my proverbial camel’s back was the magnificent Mercedes Benz convertible that’s sitting out in front of the building. I bought it yesterday and today my wife left me.
So I’m ready to take the pledge. My name is Bart and I’m a compulsive buyer.
Hi Bart!
Phew. It’s taken me 15 years to say that. Everyone else said it. Why was it so hard? This stupid coat for example. What was I thinking? It cost more out of that first paycheque than my rent did. Donkey-brown? Jackass-brown is more like it. I know I’m talking to the choir here, but you should see my house. Well my rented flat actually. We could never afford the down payment, even during the easy credit when no down payment was all you needed. I think my wife married me because of the size of the engagement ring. You guessed it – three months’ worth of paycheques went into that one.
Well I’ve had it. The Mercedes goes back tomorrow. I have a 7 day cooling off period and I’m taking it up. And you can count on me to be here every week, with no new acquisitions either and maybe one day, I’ll get my wife back.
I stand before you as one of you, brought in by invitation from my friend John here, who’s been a member of this organisation for years and who kept trying to get me to come out and see what it’s all about. I knew I should, but I kept putting it off. I always had some good excuse. I’m not a joiner. I’m not ready yet. I don’t need this. It’s too much effort. And I procrastinated and procrastinated.
Well the final straw that broke my proverbial camel’s back was the magnificent Mercedes Benz convertible that’s sitting out in front of the building. I bought it yesterday and today my wife left me.
So I’m ready to take the pledge. My name is Bart and I’m a compulsive buyer.
Hi Bart!
Phew. It’s taken me 15 years to say that. Everyone else said it. Why was it so hard? This stupid coat for example. What was I thinking? It cost more out of that first paycheque than my rent did. Donkey-brown? Jackass-brown is more like it. I know I’m talking to the choir here, but you should see my house. Well my rented flat actually. We could never afford the down payment, even during the easy credit when no down payment was all you needed. I think my wife married me because of the size of the engagement ring. You guessed it – three months’ worth of paycheques went into that one.
Well I’ve had it. The Mercedes goes back tomorrow. I have a 7 day cooling off period and I’m taking it up. And you can count on me to be here every week, with no new acquisitions either and maybe one day, I’ll get my wife back.
Friday 18 February 2011
A winter in the cold (Kerry)
I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque.
My very first pay-cheque? Now I don’t remember that. I don’t think I ever got a pay-cheque in my life. Always the little paper packet of notes and coins. Maybe that’s why I don’t recall how much I earned. It required counting every time.
But the coat is very familiar. Donkey-brown is the description I gave for the colour only after it was no longer possible to wear the coat. It has hung forlornly in my wardrobe now for years. Since I’ve grown too large, shall we say, for it to fit me. Donkey-brown is actually a rather delicate tawny grey which I really loved in the beginning. When I still had fresh young skin and bright eyes. It rather complemented my dark hair I thought.
It was a daring purchase in some ways. But at the same time a necessary one. I was living in New York and it was coming on winter so I needed something to keep the chills out. I had had a beautiful coat that I’d worn for years through my schooling but it was so dated and so not-New-York that I refused to wear it when I moved from up-state.
I remember now the shopping trip with my new work-mate, Christy. She was the daring one actually. Took me to a part of town I’d never have ventured into. This was the first coat I tried on and fell in love with straight away. Such gorgeous slim lines. Beautiful tailoring around the collar. And that little fur trim on the collar and sleeves. Very elegant. And fitting for a new up-and-coming executive assistant.
The first day I wore it to work my colleagues whistled as I walked into the office. These days that may have been referred to as sexual harassment but actually I was quite chuffed to be noticed. Better than being ignored I reckoned. I wore it every day after that throughout the winter. Through snow storms, ice storms, rain storms. On the metro, in taxis, walking in the park. You couldn’t separate me from that coat.
I even bought a pair of boots later that winter to match the soft grey of the coat. These were specially for Sundays only. Otherwise I stuck to my black serviceable boots for work and about town.
The coat remains my favourite piece of clothing.
My very first pay-cheque? Now I don’t remember that. I don’t think I ever got a pay-cheque in my life. Always the little paper packet of notes and coins. Maybe that’s why I don’t recall how much I earned. It required counting every time.
But the coat is very familiar. Donkey-brown is the description I gave for the colour only after it was no longer possible to wear the coat. It has hung forlornly in my wardrobe now for years. Since I’ve grown too large, shall we say, for it to fit me. Donkey-brown is actually a rather delicate tawny grey which I really loved in the beginning. When I still had fresh young skin and bright eyes. It rather complemented my dark hair I thought.
It was a daring purchase in some ways. But at the same time a necessary one. I was living in New York and it was coming on winter so I needed something to keep the chills out. I had had a beautiful coat that I’d worn for years through my schooling but it was so dated and so not-New-York that I refused to wear it when I moved from up-state.
I remember now the shopping trip with my new work-mate, Christy. She was the daring one actually. Took me to a part of town I’d never have ventured into. This was the first coat I tried on and fell in love with straight away. Such gorgeous slim lines. Beautiful tailoring around the collar. And that little fur trim on the collar and sleeves. Very elegant. And fitting for a new up-and-coming executive assistant.
The first day I wore it to work my colleagues whistled as I walked into the office. These days that may have been referred to as sexual harassment but actually I was quite chuffed to be noticed. Better than being ignored I reckoned. I wore it every day after that throughout the winter. Through snow storms, ice storms, rain storms. On the metro, in taxis, walking in the park. You couldn’t separate me from that coat.
I even bought a pair of boots later that winter to match the soft grey of the coat. These were specially for Sundays only. Otherwise I stuck to my black serviceable boots for work and about town.
The coat remains my favourite piece of clothing.
Wednesday 16 February 2011
The Coat by Peta
I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque. It was a beauty. Long and lush. I wore it everywhere. I remember how one girl in the office was so envious, green she was. She’d walk pass my desk more than was necessary and stroke the coat. I had to tell her off. Didn’t want her sticky mits on my gorgeous garment. And warm .It was so warm. I could have lived in the coat. It made me feel so safe. Wrapped up in it was like being surrounded by the bigs arms of a lovely man. Protecting me from all the evil in the world. Of course I was young and impressionable back then.
I had that coat for many years. It saw me through the end of my adolescence and into womanhood. It was my confidant. I could tell it anything and it never judged.
When I met Jake, my world changed. He swept me off my feet, in the same way the coat had done all those years before. He wrapped me up in his huge arms and loved me like no other. It was such a blessing. When he asked me to be his wife, I cried and cried so much I could not even respond. But he knew my answer without words. I wore my coat that day.
One day I was walking home from work. I travelled along a side road to escape the hustle and bustle of the traffic. I came across an old woman. She sat on a bench, the snow flakes landing on her grey hair. She was all skin and bones and shivering against the cold. Her clothes were old and clearly not warm enough for the conditions. I stopped and asked her if she was OK. She looked at me strangely and smiled in a way that told me no one had asked her such a question for a long time. I sat down next to her. Side by side we sat in silence, in the falling snow. A street vendor came past and I bought her a cup of coffee. Her face broke open with a warm smile as she greedily sipped the hot dark liquid. The steam rose and her nose turned red. I had to go. Jake would be worried. I said good bye and rose to leave. After a few steps I stopped and turned. Her tiny fingers clenched the warm mug which she held close to her face accepting the radiating heat. I retraced my steps and stopped again in front of her. Her tired eyes look up at me questioningly. I took off my lovely donkey brown coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Stay warm and well” I said to her in a soft low voice. “This coat has always protected me, it’s your turn now.”
I hurried off and didn’t look back. I can still remember the look of gratitude on her face like it was yesterday.
I had that coat for many years. It saw me through the end of my adolescence and into womanhood. It was my confidant. I could tell it anything and it never judged.
When I met Jake, my world changed. He swept me off my feet, in the same way the coat had done all those years before. He wrapped me up in his huge arms and loved me like no other. It was such a blessing. When he asked me to be his wife, I cried and cried so much I could not even respond. But he knew my answer without words. I wore my coat that day.
One day I was walking home from work. I travelled along a side road to escape the hustle and bustle of the traffic. I came across an old woman. She sat on a bench, the snow flakes landing on her grey hair. She was all skin and bones and shivering against the cold. Her clothes were old and clearly not warm enough for the conditions. I stopped and asked her if she was OK. She looked at me strangely and smiled in a way that told me no one had asked her such a question for a long time. I sat down next to her. Side by side we sat in silence, in the falling snow. A street vendor came past and I bought her a cup of coffee. Her face broke open with a warm smile as she greedily sipped the hot dark liquid. The steam rose and her nose turned red. I had to go. Jake would be worried. I said good bye and rose to leave. After a few steps I stopped and turned. Her tiny fingers clenched the warm mug which she held close to her face accepting the radiating heat. I retraced my steps and stopped again in front of her. Her tired eyes look up at me questioningly. I took off my lovely donkey brown coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Stay warm and well” I said to her in a soft low voice. “This coat has always protected me, it’s your turn now.”
I hurried off and didn’t look back. I can still remember the look of gratitude on her face like it was yesterday.
Tuesday 15 February 2011
My First Coat--Gordon
Prompt: "I remember that donkey-brown coat, bought with my first ever paycheque."
Nonchalance is like a prelude.
I walked down the shopping arcade with an air of nonchalance and expectation, surrounded by tall oak trees that held the street in their embrace by covering the bitumen strip like a green archway. Dotted between the shiny trunks were reflective shop windows that gave a sparkle to the elegant streetscape. Couples wandered down the sidewalks peering into shop windows and laughing and giggling as they walked. Others scurried from one office to the other conveying a feeling of rush and hurry. I resisted any form of rush as my intent was a new coat. I had dream't for weeks of walking into a shop and immediately seeing just the right coat. It had to be brown with a fine weave of grey giving it a sheen that portrayed 'well-dressed'. This moment should not, and could not, be rushed as it had to be just right.
I walked though the arched doorway and opened the heavy glass door. "Hello sir," the assistant exclaimed. "Can I help you?"
In the moment I said: "I would just like a look around." "My name is Arthur, and I would be delighted to help you, but do take your time." The preliminaries over I turned and looked at the elegant clothing beautifully displayed on criss-crossing racks and also around the walls of the room. It took only a moment and there was the coat I had to have. "Could, I try this one on", I said. Gently, I took it off the rack and Arthur helped me put it on. As I swung around to look in the mirror, to my horror I saw the price tag. It was as much as my first cheque. The coat was beautiful and the fit perfect. I loved it and how good it felt.
I had carefully considered how, with my very first cheque, I could buy a whole range of desperately needed kitchen items and maybe even a television. I really did have to have a coat as winter was just around the corner and I had been really cold at university this last year. "I will take it", I said, knowing full well that any television would have to wait at least another four weeks.
Nonchalance is like a prelude.
I walked down the shopping arcade with an air of nonchalance and expectation, surrounded by tall oak trees that held the street in their embrace by covering the bitumen strip like a green archway. Dotted between the shiny trunks were reflective shop windows that gave a sparkle to the elegant streetscape. Couples wandered down the sidewalks peering into shop windows and laughing and giggling as they walked. Others scurried from one office to the other conveying a feeling of rush and hurry. I resisted any form of rush as my intent was a new coat. I had dream't for weeks of walking into a shop and immediately seeing just the right coat. It had to be brown with a fine weave of grey giving it a sheen that portrayed 'well-dressed'. This moment should not, and could not, be rushed as it had to be just right.
I walked though the arched doorway and opened the heavy glass door. "Hello sir," the assistant exclaimed. "Can I help you?"
In the moment I said: "I would just like a look around." "My name is Arthur, and I would be delighted to help you, but do take your time." The preliminaries over I turned and looked at the elegant clothing beautifully displayed on criss-crossing racks and also around the walls of the room. It took only a moment and there was the coat I had to have. "Could, I try this one on", I said. Gently, I took it off the rack and Arthur helped me put it on. As I swung around to look in the mirror, to my horror I saw the price tag. It was as much as my first cheque. The coat was beautiful and the fit perfect. I loved it and how good it felt.
I had carefully considered how, with my very first cheque, I could buy a whole range of desperately needed kitchen items and maybe even a television. I really did have to have a coat as winter was just around the corner and I had been really cold at university this last year. "I will take it", I said, knowing full well that any television would have to wait at least another four weeks.
Tuesday 1 February 2011
the wind howled and the rain pelted ... by Peta
Despite its heavy construction, the door slammed against its hinges. Outside the wind howled and the rain pelted. The man’s frame filled the entire space of the doorway. He was enormous in every way. His long, wet hair flew about his face, whipping the air and giving him the aura of a mad man. He stood solid as a rock, equally balanced, his muscles bulging from exertion and glistening with moisture. His clothes, drenched, clung to his body showing the power that lay beneath. Solid abdominals, a narrow waist, lean and mean. His eyes told a different story of gentleness and concern. He stepped into the cabin and heaved the door closed, struggling against the elements. The shutters banged relentlessly against the shelter.
Without a word he moved slowly in and squatted by the small fire, warming his massive hands over the flickering flames. His damp musty smell was all masculinity. I watched him closely not sure how to react. In profile his long lashes rested on his cheeks his eyes lowered in concentration on the warming effects of the fire. He had tiny grazes across his cheeks from battling the heavy undergrowth surrounding the cabin.
The kettle screamed, jerking me out of my thoughts. I placed a warm steaming mug in his hands and accepted his appreciative nod. A grateful smile formed briefly as his mouth curled at the edges and then was gone.
“It’s no good” he said in a low sad voice. “There’s no way beyond the fence line in this weather. It’s too dangerous. There are mudslides all over. We’ll just have to sit tight and hope it passes in time.”
“We’ll be fine Jack.” I replied trying to sound like I meant it. “We’ll see this through together. It won’t be the first time.”
“No. But it will be the first time we have a baby if you go into labour.” He paused and looked at me with concern. “It wasn’t meant to be like this.”
I approached him with a warm blanket and covered his shoulders, circling my arms around his expansive chest. My large bump preventing my closeness.
“Darling, it will be fine. Please don’t worry. Our child will come when it is ready and we’ll be ready for it, whenever, wherever. It’s out of our hands.” I tried to sound reassuring.
He was silent for a long while.
“The horses have broken out. Scared by the wind I reckon. And there was no sign of Jade.”
Our gorgeous old Lab had stumbled out after dinner, before the storm broke and not returned.
“She knows the land well and where to shelter. Let’s just go to bed and keep warm. By morning it will be over.”
“I hope you’re right, love. Right now it looks like God has other plans.”
Without a word he moved slowly in and squatted by the small fire, warming his massive hands over the flickering flames. His damp musty smell was all masculinity. I watched him closely not sure how to react. In profile his long lashes rested on his cheeks his eyes lowered in concentration on the warming effects of the fire. He had tiny grazes across his cheeks from battling the heavy undergrowth surrounding the cabin.
The kettle screamed, jerking me out of my thoughts. I placed a warm steaming mug in his hands and accepted his appreciative nod. A grateful smile formed briefly as his mouth curled at the edges and then was gone.
“It’s no good” he said in a low sad voice. “There’s no way beyond the fence line in this weather. It’s too dangerous. There are mudslides all over. We’ll just have to sit tight and hope it passes in time.”
“We’ll be fine Jack.” I replied trying to sound like I meant it. “We’ll see this through together. It won’t be the first time.”
“No. But it will be the first time we have a baby if you go into labour.” He paused and looked at me with concern. “It wasn’t meant to be like this.”
I approached him with a warm blanket and covered his shoulders, circling my arms around his expansive chest. My large bump preventing my closeness.
“Darling, it will be fine. Please don’t worry. Our child will come when it is ready and we’ll be ready for it, whenever, wherever. It’s out of our hands.” I tried to sound reassuring.
He was silent for a long while.
“The horses have broken out. Scared by the wind I reckon. And there was no sign of Jade.”
Our gorgeous old Lab had stumbled out after dinner, before the storm broke and not returned.
“She knows the land well and where to shelter. Let’s just go to bed and keep warm. By morning it will be over.”
“I hope you’re right, love. Right now it looks like God has other plans.”
Sunday 30 January 2011
The storm (by Heather)
The wind howled and the rain pelted down.
Sandi pressed her nose to the glass of the sliding door, watching the drops in the outdoor floodlight as they soared from the sky at a 45 degree angle, then bounced up again right out of the sphere of light. There was a pathetic meow behind her; she turned and gathered her little cat into her lap and spoke quietly to her, scarcely able to hear her own voice over the thundering of the rain on the tin roof overhead.
She wished suddenly that she hadn’t been left at home, left in charge of everything. She was twelve, of course, and perfectly capable of handling anything that could come up, but nonetheless. The storm was the fiercest she’d ever seen in her life. She held her kitten tight.
As she turned back to the glass, there was a dazzling flash of lightning followed sharply by a clap of thunder that jarred her bones. The kitten, just beginning to be old enough to show signs of cat-ness, sprang from her lap and, body held tight against the floor, sprinted across the room and under the sofa. Seconds later, there was a sharp fizzing sound and the lights went out.
The power was off and it was black. The clock on the microwave had disappeared. The dozens of little glowing lights that guided her through the house at nighttime were gone. It was black, charcoal black. Black like when she was little and used to hide in the closet. Black like when she and her dad went camping last year. Black like there was nothing, nothing, nothing in front of her.
Black like there could be ANYTHING in front of her, and she’d never know it was there.
Sandi pressed her nose to the glass of the sliding door, watching the drops in the outdoor floodlight as they soared from the sky at a 45 degree angle, then bounced up again right out of the sphere of light. There was a pathetic meow behind her; she turned and gathered her little cat into her lap and spoke quietly to her, scarcely able to hear her own voice over the thundering of the rain on the tin roof overhead.
She wished suddenly that she hadn’t been left at home, left in charge of everything. She was twelve, of course, and perfectly capable of handling anything that could come up, but nonetheless. The storm was the fiercest she’d ever seen in her life. She held her kitten tight.
As she turned back to the glass, there was a dazzling flash of lightning followed sharply by a clap of thunder that jarred her bones. The kitten, just beginning to be old enough to show signs of cat-ness, sprang from her lap and, body held tight against the floor, sprinted across the room and under the sofa. Seconds later, there was a sharp fizzing sound and the lights went out.
The power was off and it was black. The clock on the microwave had disappeared. The dozens of little glowing lights that guided her through the house at nighttime were gone. It was black, charcoal black. Black like when she was little and used to hide in the closet. Black like when she and her dad went camping last year. Black like there was nothing, nothing, nothing in front of her.
Black like there could be ANYTHING in front of her, and she’d never know it was there.
Monday 24 January 2011
Torn by torrents (Kerry)
With her dress tangled on the branch she couldn’t move. The wind howled and the rain pelted down. She couldn’t see where John had gone. Last she’d known they were holding hands as the roaring tide buffeted them down the main street. Was there no end to this nightmare?
Pat and John enjoyed their morning coffee at Rita’s, sitting quietly with the crossword in the sun. It was an opportunity to sort out the day’s activities, such as they were these days, and to simply connect. As soon as they got home John would be out in the garden if she hadn’t worked out a schedule with him.
Now she was suspended in this roaring flood. She cowered as a huge shed rumbled past. Others who had been caught up in the water were floating by desperately grabbing at anything solid. Pat was grateful for the tree in a way although she also knew that if the water rose higher she could be in trouble.
She pulled at her dress. It was very tough material. There was no way she’d be able to tear it. Momentarily she considered stripping it off but never in the main street of her town. She’d lived here all her life and had her dignity and her reputation to think of.
It was then she remembered Salty. Surely they had brought Salty with them this morning to Rita’s. Where was he? If only she could come up with some satisfactory explanation for this sudden tsunami in her mountain village. How long would it last?
Pat realised that she was free and could move away from the tree. Bracing herself against the rushing torrent she moved one hand at a time along the branch of the tree. She stretched across the gap to the metal railing alongside the road and grasped it with both hands.
As she felt her feet touch the ground below the railing she knew that the water was beginning to go down. But there was something caught on the fence at her feet. She thought she recognised the red shirt.
Pat and John enjoyed their morning coffee at Rita’s, sitting quietly with the crossword in the sun. It was an opportunity to sort out the day’s activities, such as they were these days, and to simply connect. As soon as they got home John would be out in the garden if she hadn’t worked out a schedule with him.
Now she was suspended in this roaring flood. She cowered as a huge shed rumbled past. Others who had been caught up in the water were floating by desperately grabbing at anything solid. Pat was grateful for the tree in a way although she also knew that if the water rose higher she could be in trouble.
She pulled at her dress. It was very tough material. There was no way she’d be able to tear it. Momentarily she considered stripping it off but never in the main street of her town. She’d lived here all her life and had her dignity and her reputation to think of.
It was then she remembered Salty. Surely they had brought Salty with them this morning to Rita’s. Where was he? If only she could come up with some satisfactory explanation for this sudden tsunami in her mountain village. How long would it last?
Pat realised that she was free and could move away from the tree. Bracing herself against the rushing torrent she moved one hand at a time along the branch of the tree. She stretched across the gap to the metal railing alongside the road and grasped it with both hands.
As she felt her feet touch the ground below the railing she knew that the water was beginning to go down. But there was something caught on the fence at her feet. She thought she recognised the red shirt.
“See me …” Gordon MacAulay
“The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone”
“Hey there! Did you drop that piece of paper?” I called. The stranger just kept walking having not heard my cry of assistance and disappeared into the supermarket. It took me about 30 seconds to get up to where the crumpled piece of paper lay on the ground. I do object to people throwing rubbish on the ground. It is an aggressive act against the environment. As I often do, I bent over and picked up the piece of paper to eventually take it to the rubbish bin thinking little of the contents. However, there was something really curious about the crumpling. The paper was folded in from each corner and then crumpled. My curiosity got the better of me. I untangled the piece.
The characters appeared to be all in Chinese. But, as I glanced at the piece of paper it caught the sunlight so I could see a set of words faintly embossed in the paper. They read: “See me ….” The rest was obliterated by the folding and so the sunlight was unable to show up the hidden characters.
I walked into a nearby restaurant and asked for a coffee. As my coffee was being delivered the waiter slid a gun out of his right hand pocket while holding the coffee in his left. “Follow me or you die” he said in a very Chinese accent.
Gordon MacAulay
24 January 2011
“Hey there! Did you drop that piece of paper?” I called. The stranger just kept walking having not heard my cry of assistance and disappeared into the supermarket. It took me about 30 seconds to get up to where the crumpled piece of paper lay on the ground. I do object to people throwing rubbish on the ground. It is an aggressive act against the environment. As I often do, I bent over and picked up the piece of paper to eventually take it to the rubbish bin thinking little of the contents. However, there was something really curious about the crumpling. The paper was folded in from each corner and then crumpled. My curiosity got the better of me. I untangled the piece.
The characters appeared to be all in Chinese. But, as I glanced at the piece of paper it caught the sunlight so I could see a set of words faintly embossed in the paper. They read: “See me ….” The rest was obliterated by the folding and so the sunlight was unable to show up the hidden characters.
I walked into a nearby restaurant and asked for a coffee. As my coffee was being delivered the waiter slid a gun out of his right hand pocket while holding the coffee in his left. “Follow me or you die” he said in a very Chinese accent.
Gordon MacAulay
24 January 2011
Saturday 22 January 2011
The adventures of Jules by Peta
Jules opened the crumpled wad of paper. The guy in the black cape had stuffed it into his hand as he rushed by hotly pursued by a rowdy, angry and scary looking bunch of men. The all looked Arabic and yelled and screamed as they raced by, knocking people left and right. The caped man was now no where to be seen. Vanished into thin air.
The paper was like parchment, old and yellowed around the edges. The writing was odd, Egyptian like. Jules had no idea what it said but sensed they were of some importance. Instinctively he knew that somehow he was being drawn into something potentially dangerous. He was sure the hieroglyphics meant something to some one.
As he pondered this, noise erupted once again. From the direction they had disappeared, the mob appeared again. The shouting had ceased. They huddled together in a protective manner, almost shuffling along. As the group leveled with Jules, he noticed the caped man in the middle of the group, trapped amongst the others’ bodies, confined by their presence. His eyes were like pools of oil and fastened on Jules. They widened to their extreme. Jules saw so much within them – mortal fear and pleading. Pleading to Jules. He understood this immediately but felt powerless to help. Briefly the black eyes flickered down to Jules’ hand, still holding the paper and back up again to Jules’ face. Pleading. And then Jules understood. The message on the paper was somehow vital to this man’s survival or some greater puzzle.
Jules remembered vaguely nodding as the huddle of bodies continued past him and was lost again in the crowded street. He stared after them for a long time. Suddenly he felt like Idianna Jones caught up in a mystery so powerful it could be life changing. The big difference was he knew Harrison Ford would know precisely what to do. He had not one iota of an idea. Not yet any way.
Carefully he folded the paper and stored it in his pocket. He’d work this out. He had been chosen, who knows why, but he knew there was a reason and the caped man’s life could depend on it.
The paper was like parchment, old and yellowed around the edges. The writing was odd, Egyptian like. Jules had no idea what it said but sensed they were of some importance. Instinctively he knew that somehow he was being drawn into something potentially dangerous. He was sure the hieroglyphics meant something to some one.
As he pondered this, noise erupted once again. From the direction they had disappeared, the mob appeared again. The shouting had ceased. They huddled together in a protective manner, almost shuffling along. As the group leveled with Jules, he noticed the caped man in the middle of the group, trapped amongst the others’ bodies, confined by their presence. His eyes were like pools of oil and fastened on Jules. They widened to their extreme. Jules saw so much within them – mortal fear and pleading. Pleading to Jules. He understood this immediately but felt powerless to help. Briefly the black eyes flickered down to Jules’ hand, still holding the paper and back up again to Jules’ face. Pleading. And then Jules understood. The message on the paper was somehow vital to this man’s survival or some greater puzzle.
Jules remembered vaguely nodding as the huddle of bodies continued past him and was lost again in the crowded street. He stared after them for a long time. Suddenly he felt like Idianna Jones caught up in a mystery so powerful it could be life changing. The big difference was he knew Harrison Ford would know precisely what to do. He had not one iota of an idea. Not yet any way.
Carefully he folded the paper and stored it in his pocket. He’d work this out. He had been chosen, who knows why, but he knew there was a reason and the caped man’s life could depend on it.
Monday 17 January 2011
The stuff of life (by Heather)
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone.
Lena smoothed the paper out gently on the flat centre of the steering wheel in front of her. The little sheet of paper was torn from a notebook, a rough edge on one side.
She had spotted it, tucked in beside the gearshift, as she’d been driving, and immediately pulled over to the side of the road to retrieve it.
Robtars
Nutk
Qlfoof
The hieroglyphics DID mean something to someone – they meant something to Ben, to whose unmistakeable hand the squiggles belonged. The rounded letters backed over one another, crashed into each other, fell in a heap over the note-paper lines.
It would be funny if…it were funny.
But without Ben to translate the undecipherable; to race the cart down the supermarket aisles to find the robtars (potatoes?), the nutk (milk, probably), the Qlfoof (catfood, almost certainly); to haul the green bags back to car – well, it wasn’t very funny, really.
A familiar panic engulfed her as she ransacked the paper for clues – there must be an answer to the incomprehensibility her life had become, and where more likely than here in his very own handwriting?
Remembering to take large gulps of air, she folded the little list carefully and tucked it into her pocket.
She leaned far over to check under the seat to see if there was anything else, anything at all, anything that could give her what she needed.
She straightened, combing a lock of unruly hair back with her hand. She placed both hands firmly on the steering wheel in front of her. She carefully checked the rear view mirror behind her, then slid the car into gear.
She would go on.
Lena smoothed the paper out gently on the flat centre of the steering wheel in front of her. The little sheet of paper was torn from a notebook, a rough edge on one side.
She had spotted it, tucked in beside the gearshift, as she’d been driving, and immediately pulled over to the side of the road to retrieve it.
Robtars
Nutk
Qlfoof
The hieroglyphics DID mean something to someone – they meant something to Ben, to whose unmistakeable hand the squiggles belonged. The rounded letters backed over one another, crashed into each other, fell in a heap over the note-paper lines.
It would be funny if…it were funny.
But without Ben to translate the undecipherable; to race the cart down the supermarket aisles to find the robtars (potatoes?), the nutk (milk, probably), the Qlfoof (catfood, almost certainly); to haul the green bags back to car – well, it wasn’t very funny, really.
A familiar panic engulfed her as she ransacked the paper for clues – there must be an answer to the incomprehensibility her life had become, and where more likely than here in his very own handwriting?
Remembering to take large gulps of air, she folded the little list carefully and tucked it into her pocket.
She leaned far over to check under the seat to see if there was anything else, anything at all, anything that could give her what she needed.
She straightened, combing a lock of unruly hair back with her hand. She placed both hands firmly on the steering wheel in front of her. She carefully checked the rear view mirror behind her, then slid the car into gear.
She would go on.
Sunday 16 January 2011
The Agent - by Rick
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone. Otherwise why would they be there, why would the paper be all crumpled, and why would it be sitting in my wastepaperbasket. I call them hieroglyphics but technically they may not be. But they look like those little bird pictures, wavy lines, pharaohs sort of turned in profile that you see on Egyptian tombs. Of course I’m not an expert, and it could be some sort of code.
But why it bothers me is that I’m a CIA employee and naturally suspicious about everything. OK, I do work for the CIA and what I do is install the software updates onto the PC’s of the operatives but it puts me in contact with a lot of clever dudes and I pick up things. Like how to read a suspicious clue when it hits you in the face.
How did that piece of paper end up in my trash bin anyway? I operate in a small office that’s behind a door that has a 7 digit password on it that only my supervisor and I know. And he’s off in Europe at an IT conference. See the software that I install on the PC’s isn’t your simple Microsoft Office or the like. I install the super snooping type of software that every agent needs to do his work. Stuff like voice recognition, finger print analysis, chemical decomposition and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand and don’t have a need to know either. But the agents all need this stuff and I’m the only one in our division that is cleared security-wise to touch all their PC’s. Not just anyone can go and do it. I’m patriotic, trusted and have to be.
So now I have to figure out what to do. Clearly there’s been some sort of breach in security. Someone broke the code and got into my office. And if they could do that, they could also break into the code on my PC and get the security codes for over 250 CIA agents. Now I have to be one step smarter. The person who did this wasn’t stupid. The hieroglyphics have to be a message of some sort. Is it a warning to me personally? Am I being tested by our security department? If I don’t crack the code will I lose my job?
Or is it more sinister? Do we have a mole in our building? Am I being taunted, dared to take this further? I mean should I report this to head of security right now? Is this bigger than just me? But how could I do that without first at least trying to figure it out? I’ve got to show some initiative don’t I? Or maybe not? Maybe this is really big? Maybe this is something from a terrorist cell that’s infiltrated our building? Maybe this has been left here for somebody besides me? Maybe my office is considered some sort of drop-box and they didn’t count on me rummaging around in my waste bin. I mean if I hadn’t drop my flashstick into the bin, I wouldn’t have even found this paper. Hey, that’s right. This paper wasn’t meant for me to find?
Hey maybe I’m being tested by the head of the CIA himself....
But why it bothers me is that I’m a CIA employee and naturally suspicious about everything. OK, I do work for the CIA and what I do is install the software updates onto the PC’s of the operatives but it puts me in contact with a lot of clever dudes and I pick up things. Like how to read a suspicious clue when it hits you in the face.
How did that piece of paper end up in my trash bin anyway? I operate in a small office that’s behind a door that has a 7 digit password on it that only my supervisor and I know. And he’s off in Europe at an IT conference. See the software that I install on the PC’s isn’t your simple Microsoft Office or the like. I install the super snooping type of software that every agent needs to do his work. Stuff like voice recognition, finger print analysis, chemical decomposition and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand and don’t have a need to know either. But the agents all need this stuff and I’m the only one in our division that is cleared security-wise to touch all their PC’s. Not just anyone can go and do it. I’m patriotic, trusted and have to be.
So now I have to figure out what to do. Clearly there’s been some sort of breach in security. Someone broke the code and got into my office. And if they could do that, they could also break into the code on my PC and get the security codes for over 250 CIA agents. Now I have to be one step smarter. The person who did this wasn’t stupid. The hieroglyphics have to be a message of some sort. Is it a warning to me personally? Am I being tested by our security department? If I don’t crack the code will I lose my job?
Or is it more sinister? Do we have a mole in our building? Am I being taunted, dared to take this further? I mean should I report this to head of security right now? Is this bigger than just me? But how could I do that without first at least trying to figure it out? I’ve got to show some initiative don’t I? Or maybe not? Maybe this is really big? Maybe this is something from a terrorist cell that’s infiltrated our building? Maybe this has been left here for somebody besides me? Maybe my office is considered some sort of drop-box and they didn’t count on me rummaging around in my waste bin. I mean if I hadn’t drop my flashstick into the bin, I wouldn’t have even found this paper. Hey, that’s right. This paper wasn’t meant for me to find?
Hey maybe I’m being tested by the head of the CIA himself....
Saturday 15 January 2011
Message from the bottom drawer (Kerry)
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone.
The scribble looked important but the question was to whom and what did it mean. I had just been rummaging through the bottom drawer of my grandmother’s tall boy when I cam upon the scrap. My mother had told me of my grandmother’s interest in witchcraft so was this connected?
Carefully I flattened the paper on the old table behind me. The ragged edges were a warning to me to handle it with care. The writing appeared to be in ink; there were blotches above the top line. A careless spill perhaps. Or maybe the message (if that’s what it was) had been written in haste. Some characters had faded, particularly those nearest the edges of the paper.
I recognised the hieroglyphics as Middle Eastern in character or maybe Greek. My knowledge of such things stemmed from the course I had done earlier in my youth on Middle Eastern and Ancient languages. I decided it was probably Arabic script. I’m sure I would have recognised some of the characters as Greek symbols. Especially since I had taken extensive university Maths courses and was very familiar with pi, epsilon, beta, alpha and so on.
I knew that I was not going to be able to translate the words myself but I wondered if my next door neighbour, Hassan, who comes from Iran would be able to help me. I was curious now and immediately resolved to visit him
I knocked tentatively on his door. We were neighbours but I wouldn’t have said we were exactly friends. He was much older than me and didn’t share my taste in music, or pets for that matter. Mine were too loud for him on both counts, the metal jazz and the Rottweiler. Before he came to the door I composed myself and tossed around in my head what I would say to him.
When he finally opened the door and steered his wheelchair out into the porch I was ready to broach the subject of the hieroglyphics.
“Hi, Hassan,” I stammered. “Sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I’ve just taken delivery of a piece of furniture from my grandmother who died a month ago. I found this piece of paper in one of the drawers. I think the writing on it is in Arabic and I wondered if you would be able to translate it for me.”
I handed the paper to him. He scanned it quickly. His face turned pale. His eyes widened. The paper dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Hastily he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through the doorway. I heard the key turn in the lock.
The scribble looked important but the question was to whom and what did it mean. I had just been rummaging through the bottom drawer of my grandmother’s tall boy when I cam upon the scrap. My mother had told me of my grandmother’s interest in witchcraft so was this connected?
Carefully I flattened the paper on the old table behind me. The ragged edges were a warning to me to handle it with care. The writing appeared to be in ink; there were blotches above the top line. A careless spill perhaps. Or maybe the message (if that’s what it was) had been written in haste. Some characters had faded, particularly those nearest the edges of the paper.
I recognised the hieroglyphics as Middle Eastern in character or maybe Greek. My knowledge of such things stemmed from the course I had done earlier in my youth on Middle Eastern and Ancient languages. I decided it was probably Arabic script. I’m sure I would have recognised some of the characters as Greek symbols. Especially since I had taken extensive university Maths courses and was very familiar with pi, epsilon, beta, alpha and so on.
I knew that I was not going to be able to translate the words myself but I wondered if my next door neighbour, Hassan, who comes from Iran would be able to help me. I was curious now and immediately resolved to visit him
I knocked tentatively on his door. We were neighbours but I wouldn’t have said we were exactly friends. He was much older than me and didn’t share my taste in music, or pets for that matter. Mine were too loud for him on both counts, the metal jazz and the Rottweiler. Before he came to the door I composed myself and tossed around in my head what I would say to him.
When he finally opened the door and steered his wheelchair out into the porch I was ready to broach the subject of the hieroglyphics.
“Hi, Hassan,” I stammered. “Sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I’ve just taken delivery of a piece of furniture from my grandmother who died a month ago. I found this piece of paper in one of the drawers. I think the writing on it is in Arabic and I wondered if you would be able to translate it for me.”
I handed the paper to him. He scanned it quickly. His face turned pale. His eyes widened. The paper dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Hastily he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through the doorway. I heard the key turn in the lock.
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