Tuesday 15 March 2011

The Splash by Gordon

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

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?”

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.