In under 500 words, and using no more than 10 adjectives, write the story of your escape from great danger.
Sweat drips into my eyes. I grip the cliff face in front of me with knees and stomach. My elbow is anchored into an undersized root while I search in vain for a handhold. My face itches where a clod of clay has come undone a moment before and launched itself at me. The thought in my head is: I don’t want to die; I’m only fourteen.
My cousin Kathie hovers 30 or 40 feet below. She is pacing back and forth along the gravel riverbed, craning her neck upward, wanting to be helpful but by now as frightened as I am. The plan was that she would follow me up the cliff, but I’ve quickly discovered that this climb is a disaster. Kathie waits anxiously below, willing me to make it unscathed to the top.
I don’t like my choices. Clearly, one is to keep climbing, but I just can’t feel or see a place where I can anchor a hand or foot.
Another is to hang there until rescued. But as I’m wearing out fast, that’s out of the question.
Backing down also isn’t an option. I destroyed my key footholds on the way up the crumbly clay face. There are no rocks and tree roots behind me.
Jumping is also not an alternative. Kathie isn’t much more than a speck below me.
I’m about as frightened as I’ve ever been in my life.
“You have to go UP,” Kathie shouts.
I’m afraid to speak for fear of dislodging my grip.
Her voice comes again from below. “You have to make it up another few feet; there’s a log you can grab. Then you’re at the top and you can just pull yourself over.” I twist my head to look up. I can see the protrusion she’s talking about, perilously out of reach.
I have to choose. So I choose. Up.
I send out a prayer. I scratch out a clod of clay at the top of my reach and grab the gap. I swing a shoe up onto the root where my elbow has been. I glance up at the log, now less than three feet away. I throw my weight onto the morsel of root and lunge for the log. To my relief I catch it in my fingertips, then claw it into my arms as I swing in mid-air.
I quickly discover problems with that log.
One is that it’s rotten. It won’t last long and I’m going to have to move fast.
Another is that it’s filled with ants, who spill down my arms in outrage.
But I grip that rotting, stinging log as if it’s Elvis Presley and kick my way up and over the top. One last clod tumbles to the gravel below.
I lay for a second at the top, patting the earth and gasping. Only then do I really notice the ants. I peel off my shirt and pants and do the Ant Dance, screaming with pain and joy and waving madly at Kathie.
I know it’s a long walk around the river bend until the bank flattens out and I can meet up with her, but that’s all right with me. Right now, I could run to the moon.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Saturday, 6 March 2010
The sound of rocks crunching (Kerry)
In fewer than 500 words, and using no more than 10 adjectives, write the story of your escape from great danger.
I'll never forget the sound of rocks crunching.
At first I felt the world had shimmied through a time warp. Everything was slowing down. In that space anything was possible, and nothing. Time stretched to infinity but circumstances seemed totally out of my control.
It began when I chose to tackle the ford over the river. I use the word 'tackle' advisedly. Usually I didn’t think twice about crossing it. Usually I simply put the Landrover down a cog and picked my way across the stones. I know the ford like the back of my hand. But yesterday things were different. We had been warned over the radio that the river was expected to rise later in the day. The floods up in Charleville had broken all records. But despite the warning I chose to tackle the ford.
I should have known better.
There was water flowing across the ford and I couldn’t see the stones. We don’t have a stick to measure the water at that point but it looked alright to me. I eased into it cautiously. I’m not a maniac. I’m aware of the dangers. But it was when the vehicle hit the log under the water in the middle of the crossing that I knew I was in trouble. The Landrover stalled. I could feel the power of the flood pushing against the side of the vehicle. The force of the water set up a kind of rocking motion.
I was powerless. The water was half way up the doors. It was impossible to open my door. It would have done no good to open the window to try to crawl out. I haven’t been able to fit through a car window since I was fifteen.
I undid my seatbelt and waited for infinity to pass.
The Landrover simply tipped quietly into the river. There was a crunch as the side of the vehicle connected with the ground. The windows shattered with the impact. I was flung down against the passenger door, cracking my head on the handle. Some giant was dragging the car down the riverbed. It scraped and jolted across the rocks, tossing me about inside.
But the water coming into the car was my biggest concern. It was up to my knees. I groped my way onto the steering wheel above me, clutching at the seat belt to steady myself. I was crouching with one foot on the steering wheel and the other braced against the seat.
I needed all my strength to turn the handle and push the door upwards. I wasn’t ready for the rush of water through the cabin. It pummelled me against the windscreen but I was able to use its power to escape from the cabin through the doorway.
The river was swirling dangerously beside the vehicle. I fought my way through the current to the bank and scrambled out just in time to see the Landrover sink out of sight below the water.
I'll never forget the sound of rocks crunching.
At first I felt the world had shimmied through a time warp. Everything was slowing down. In that space anything was possible, and nothing. Time stretched to infinity but circumstances seemed totally out of my control.
It began when I chose to tackle the ford over the river. I use the word 'tackle' advisedly. Usually I didn’t think twice about crossing it. Usually I simply put the Landrover down a cog and picked my way across the stones. I know the ford like the back of my hand. But yesterday things were different. We had been warned over the radio that the river was expected to rise later in the day. The floods up in Charleville had broken all records. But despite the warning I chose to tackle the ford.
I should have known better.
There was water flowing across the ford and I couldn’t see the stones. We don’t have a stick to measure the water at that point but it looked alright to me. I eased into it cautiously. I’m not a maniac. I’m aware of the dangers. But it was when the vehicle hit the log under the water in the middle of the crossing that I knew I was in trouble. The Landrover stalled. I could feel the power of the flood pushing against the side of the vehicle. The force of the water set up a kind of rocking motion.
I was powerless. The water was half way up the doors. It was impossible to open my door. It would have done no good to open the window to try to crawl out. I haven’t been able to fit through a car window since I was fifteen.
I undid my seatbelt and waited for infinity to pass.
The Landrover simply tipped quietly into the river. There was a crunch as the side of the vehicle connected with the ground. The windows shattered with the impact. I was flung down against the passenger door, cracking my head on the handle. Some giant was dragging the car down the riverbed. It scraped and jolted across the rocks, tossing me about inside.
But the water coming into the car was my biggest concern. It was up to my knees. I groped my way onto the steering wheel above me, clutching at the seat belt to steady myself. I was crouching with one foot on the steering wheel and the other braced against the seat.
I needed all my strength to turn the handle and push the door upwards. I wasn’t ready for the rush of water through the cabin. It pummelled me against the windscreen but I was able to use its power to escape from the cabin through the doorway.
The river was swirling dangerously beside the vehicle. I fought my way through the current to the bank and scrambled out just in time to see the Landrover sink out of sight below the water.
Last Resort (Eve)
(In under 500 words, and using no more than 10 adjectives, write the story of
your escape from great danger.)
Under the weight of concrete, I know I will not be able to surface at this time and perhaps at any time. I know this for a fact. I think I know how I got here. I have a memory of being here before, and if that is the case, I must have escaped somehow. For the moment, the frayed filament of this thought keeps me from hysteria.
The stress on my body is enormous, and yet I recognise I am still breathing. My breath is shallow. How is it that I can breathe with my body bearing this pressure?
The force of the mass holding me down, the crush of this load tyrannises me. I am cast down, and I understand I cannot get out of this on my own.
But now, I hear voices nearby. Who? What are they saying? Murmuring. What are they doing? What is their intent? Are they strangers? Can they save me? Do they see me under this weight because I surely cannot make a sound to save myself?
In consultation with Michaela and her husband, Professor Vargas had spoken to them, measuring his words like a slow-release medication. “We have come a long way since the old days of shock therapy. We will administer ECT now only with your consent. We give it in an operating theatre where the patient is anaesthetized and given muscle relaxants.
“We are not doing this indiscriminately; it’s being done because with serious, life-threatening depression, these are the most effective treatments we have. There is the risk of loss of memory, but, in the balance, it’s likely there will be a big improvement after some of these treatments.”
The psyche nurse dressed Michaela in a gown. It took two nurses to get her onto the gurney as her condition was near catatonic. An orderly wheeled her into the anteroom for prepping by the anaestheologist. . The full anesthesia would be administered intravenously in the theatre. Electrodes attached to Michaela’s scalp would conduct electrical current, causing her to have a grand mal seizure - hopefully positively altering her brain’s electrochemical processes.
Waking groggily in the recovery room, Michaela was wholly unaware of the procedure she had undergone. Back in her room, she was bone-tired and soon fell asleep for the rest of the day.
Late in the evening when Michaela eventually opened her eyes, she spent some minutes adjusting to the haziness of the room.
She sensed space in her mind, a welling up of lightness in her spirit, bordering on elation.
She could see she was a patient in hospital. There were flowers, a family photo. She couldn’t place a single one of the five figures in the frame, and she didn’t know why she was in this hospital setting.
What was plainly palpable, though, was the peace she felt. The past was not an issue and the future unimportant. She trusted everything was as it was meant to be in this moment, and then, in this moment, too.
your escape from great danger.)
Under the weight of concrete, I know I will not be able to surface at this time and perhaps at any time. I know this for a fact. I think I know how I got here. I have a memory of being here before, and if that is the case, I must have escaped somehow. For the moment, the frayed filament of this thought keeps me from hysteria.
The stress on my body is enormous, and yet I recognise I am still breathing. My breath is shallow. How is it that I can breathe with my body bearing this pressure?
The force of the mass holding me down, the crush of this load tyrannises me. I am cast down, and I understand I cannot get out of this on my own.
But now, I hear voices nearby. Who? What are they saying? Murmuring. What are they doing? What is their intent? Are they strangers? Can they save me? Do they see me under this weight because I surely cannot make a sound to save myself?
In consultation with Michaela and her husband, Professor Vargas had spoken to them, measuring his words like a slow-release medication. “We have come a long way since the old days of shock therapy. We will administer ECT now only with your consent. We give it in an operating theatre where the patient is anaesthetized and given muscle relaxants.
“We are not doing this indiscriminately; it’s being done because with serious, life-threatening depression, these are the most effective treatments we have. There is the risk of loss of memory, but, in the balance, it’s likely there will be a big improvement after some of these treatments.”
The psyche nurse dressed Michaela in a gown. It took two nurses to get her onto the gurney as her condition was near catatonic. An orderly wheeled her into the anteroom for prepping by the anaestheologist. . The full anesthesia would be administered intravenously in the theatre. Electrodes attached to Michaela’s scalp would conduct electrical current, causing her to have a grand mal seizure - hopefully positively altering her brain’s electrochemical processes.
Waking groggily in the recovery room, Michaela was wholly unaware of the procedure she had undergone. Back in her room, she was bone-tired and soon fell asleep for the rest of the day.
Late in the evening when Michaela eventually opened her eyes, she spent some minutes adjusting to the haziness of the room.
She sensed space in her mind, a welling up of lightness in her spirit, bordering on elation.
She could see she was a patient in hospital. There were flowers, a family photo. She couldn’t place a single one of the five figures in the frame, and she didn’t know why she was in this hospital setting.
What was plainly palpable, though, was the peace she felt. The past was not an issue and the future unimportant. She trusted everything was as it was meant to be in this moment, and then, in this moment, too.
Friday, 5 March 2010
The Great Escape - by Rick
In under 500 words, and using no more than 10 adjectives, write the story of your escape from great danger.
My mobile phone rings again. Unnecessarily I glance at the display to see who it might be. I know who it might be. It’s the same caller as the last three I ignored. It’s going to be Lois again. She never gives up and I’m doomed.
It’s Lois. Do I pick up? This really is silly. I can’t possibly avoid her forever. Can I?
I decide to answer the phone. I mean maybe she’s ringing to ask me to play bridge or go shopping. But I know it won’t be that. She wouldn’t have rung back three more times. She would have found another partner or shopping mate.
“Hello?” I answer pretending I couldn’t possibly know who’s calling.
“Betty hi. It’s Lois. I’m so glad I’ve finally reached you. Do you have a minute?”
“Oh, hi Lois. Oh dear, I was just about to go out. Will this be brief?” I know it won’t be and the noose tightens.
“Oh sure Betty. Just a few seconds. I was wondering if you had an evening free this week. I’d like to get together and talk.”
“This week? Oh I’m not sure. Maybe I could ring you back after I check my diary. I’ve got to go out now.”
“It’s only Monday. Surely you have one evening open. Why don’t I just pencil you in for Wednesday? Is that ok?”
“What’s it about Lois? I’m not sure Wednesday works. I think Bob and I are going bowling that night.”
“Oh Betty you don’t bowl! You’re such a fooler. I’d rather not talk over the phone, especially since you have to go out. So Wednesday or Thursday – which should it be?”
I’ll bet you’d rather not talk but I don’t say that. Instead what comes out of my mouth is so absurd I’m not sure I said it. “Lois I’m going to talk to a real estate agent. Bob and I are moving.”
“Moving? Wow that is big news. Did Bob get a promotion? Why are you moving? Where are you moving to? But never mind. You can tell me all about it either Wednesday or Thursday. Which shall it be?”
“I’d rather not commit yet Lois. Bob and I might have to start packing right away and I would rather keep my options open. Maybe I could ring you back.”
“Well ok Betty. I can understand that you’re a bit stressed. I’ll hear from you soon. Toodles.”
I breath a sigh of relief as she hangs up. I’ve escaped. For now. Maybe. But she’ll persist. Those new Amway reps always do. Jenny warned me after she got nailed.
Now how am I going to explain to Bob that we have to move?
My mobile phone rings again. Unnecessarily I glance at the display to see who it might be. I know who it might be. It’s the same caller as the last three I ignored. It’s going to be Lois again. She never gives up and I’m doomed.
It’s Lois. Do I pick up? This really is silly. I can’t possibly avoid her forever. Can I?
I decide to answer the phone. I mean maybe she’s ringing to ask me to play bridge or go shopping. But I know it won’t be that. She wouldn’t have rung back three more times. She would have found another partner or shopping mate.
“Hello?” I answer pretending I couldn’t possibly know who’s calling.
“Betty hi. It’s Lois. I’m so glad I’ve finally reached you. Do you have a minute?”
“Oh, hi Lois. Oh dear, I was just about to go out. Will this be brief?” I know it won’t be and the noose tightens.
“Oh sure Betty. Just a few seconds. I was wondering if you had an evening free this week. I’d like to get together and talk.”
“This week? Oh I’m not sure. Maybe I could ring you back after I check my diary. I’ve got to go out now.”
“It’s only Monday. Surely you have one evening open. Why don’t I just pencil you in for Wednesday? Is that ok?”
“What’s it about Lois? I’m not sure Wednesday works. I think Bob and I are going bowling that night.”
“Oh Betty you don’t bowl! You’re such a fooler. I’d rather not talk over the phone, especially since you have to go out. So Wednesday or Thursday – which should it be?”
I’ll bet you’d rather not talk but I don’t say that. Instead what comes out of my mouth is so absurd I’m not sure I said it. “Lois I’m going to talk to a real estate agent. Bob and I are moving.”
“Moving? Wow that is big news. Did Bob get a promotion? Why are you moving? Where are you moving to? But never mind. You can tell me all about it either Wednesday or Thursday. Which shall it be?”
“I’d rather not commit yet Lois. Bob and I might have to start packing right away and I would rather keep my options open. Maybe I could ring you back.”
“Well ok Betty. I can understand that you’re a bit stressed. I’ll hear from you soon. Toodles.”
I breath a sigh of relief as she hangs up. I’ve escaped. For now. Maybe. But she’ll persist. Those new Amway reps always do. Jenny warned me after she got nailed.
Now how am I going to explain to Bob that we have to move?
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Realising the Dream (Kerry)
You realise the 'brick wall' is an illusion.
“What d’you think, Auntie Pat?” Ali sings out to her aunt who is sitting on the ground at the other end of the wide verandah. She proudly holds up the painting she’s been working on. Its colours gleam in the bright light.
“It’s real good, Ali,” Pat shouts back. “You let somethin’ go I reckon. You bin here a week now, painted every day, just like your grandma used to.”
Ali sets the canvas down on the ground again and studies it carefully. It makes her heart sing to look at it. The wet paint has responded to her mark-making in ways she had not expected. There is a melody playing in her head as she tracks over the beautiful blending of pinks, yellows and sky blues. She loves the boldness of its black background. Picking the painting up carefully, she walks over to Pat. She sits down cross-legged beside the old woman. Pat goes on quietly with her own painting, dipping the brush in the little pots and applying the colours gently to the surface of her canvas.
Ali waits. She closes her eyes. Up close she hears the minute sounds of Pat’s brush on the canvas. There is a cicada scratching a discordant tune in the peppercorn tree beside her. Occasionally she picks up the sound of a crow in the bush over near the shed. Away from the shelter of the verandah the sun burns relentlessly. Ali can feel the luxurious warmth of it on her arms even in the shade. This is her country. It’s in her bones. And in her head.
Pat lays down her brush.
“So, you happy to be here?” she asks nonchalantly.
“It’s not like last time,” Ali replies firmly. ”When Mum brought me here all those years ago I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be a white girl then. At school I always felt not quite one or the other. Not black, not white. Neither.”
Ali fiddles with the buttons on her shirt. It was painful for her to remember how confused she had been.
“You pretty angry those days,” Pat suggests. “Banging your head against the wall don’t help. Your mum show you proper country, your place. But you had eyes shut. Not seeing. Now you see. It’s there. In your painting. Your Dreaming.”
Ali had stopped banging her head against that illusory wall of prejudice and misunderstanding a couple of years ago.
“It’s good to be here. With you, Auntie Pat. Learning about the country, my family.”
Ali spreads her painting out on the ground beside Pat’s. She acknowledges the peace she feels in her heart.
“What d’you think, Auntie Pat?” Ali sings out to her aunt who is sitting on the ground at the other end of the wide verandah. She proudly holds up the painting she’s been working on. Its colours gleam in the bright light.
“It’s real good, Ali,” Pat shouts back. “You let somethin’ go I reckon. You bin here a week now, painted every day, just like your grandma used to.”
Ali sets the canvas down on the ground again and studies it carefully. It makes her heart sing to look at it. The wet paint has responded to her mark-making in ways she had not expected. There is a melody playing in her head as she tracks over the beautiful blending of pinks, yellows and sky blues. She loves the boldness of its black background. Picking the painting up carefully, she walks over to Pat. She sits down cross-legged beside the old woman. Pat goes on quietly with her own painting, dipping the brush in the little pots and applying the colours gently to the surface of her canvas.
Ali waits. She closes her eyes. Up close she hears the minute sounds of Pat’s brush on the canvas. There is a cicada scratching a discordant tune in the peppercorn tree beside her. Occasionally she picks up the sound of a crow in the bush over near the shed. Away from the shelter of the verandah the sun burns relentlessly. Ali can feel the luxurious warmth of it on her arms even in the shade. This is her country. It’s in her bones. And in her head.
Pat lays down her brush.
“So, you happy to be here?” she asks nonchalantly.
“It’s not like last time,” Ali replies firmly. ”When Mum brought me here all those years ago I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be a white girl then. At school I always felt not quite one or the other. Not black, not white. Neither.”
Ali fiddles with the buttons on her shirt. It was painful for her to remember how confused she had been.
“You pretty angry those days,” Pat suggests. “Banging your head against the wall don’t help. Your mum show you proper country, your place. But you had eyes shut. Not seeing. Now you see. It’s there. In your painting. Your Dreaming.”
Ali had stopped banging her head against that illusory wall of prejudice and misunderstanding a couple of years ago.
“It’s good to be here. With you, Auntie Pat. Learning about the country, my family.”
Ali spreads her painting out on the ground beside Pat’s. She acknowledges the peace she feels in her heart.
The Brick Wall
George walks over towards the table where his mother is sitting waiting for him. It’s the same table at the same restaurant at the same time as every other Thursday for the past 12 years. The Burtons love their rituals.
“Georgie, Georgie I’m over here”, his mother calls, as if there is some look of doubt on George’s face.
“Hello Mother,” George says in greeting as he bends down and places a kiss on her forehead. “What’s looking good on the menu today?”
“Oh it all looks good dear. But I think I’ll stick with the chicken pot pie. It’s mild and tasty and agrees with my digestion. You remember what happened that time I tried the Thai beef salad that you recommended. I was off my food until the following Monday.”
“Yes, stick with the tried and true Mother. Hmmm. Let me see what’s on the specials board.”
“Georgie it’s too bad you didn’t bring a girl friend today. We have an extra chair.”
“Wow Mother. 43 seconds before you got around to talking about my girl friends or lack there of. I think that could be a record.”
“Oh Georgie you’re such a kidder. You know I’m only thinking in your best interests. You’re not getting any younger and besides, a handsome man like you should be settling down and starting a family. The way George and I did.”
“And 10 seconds later I’m reminded that you have no grand children yet. That is quite the one-two punch. Usually you wait until after I’ve ordered before we get into giving me advice on my love and lack-of-family life. Why so ahead of schedule?”
“If you must know, I was talking to Gilda Worthington this morning and she was so excited because her Billy had just phoned and announced that their 3rd child, another grandson, had just been born. And I was happy for her but so sad thinking about how much you’re missing in life. Am I wrong for wanting you to be happy?”
“No Mother, of course not. But we keep having these conversations over and over and getting nowhere. I am happy. I like being single and I like how my life is going. I don’t see why having an heir is going to make me be a better man or a happier one. Why can’t you just accept that?”
“Because having children is one of the greatest things a person can do. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn’t had you. You are the best thing that I ever did and all I want is for you to have a bit of that same joy in your life. Why can’t you see that? I can’t understand why you’re so stubborn.”
“Because I’m gay Mother.”
Suddenly there is a hush at the Burton table and a long, long pause as Martha sits there.
“Oh, you’re not gay Georgie. Stop teasing me.”
“It’s true Mother. So forget the grandchildren.”
Martha sits there again without talking. And as she sits there, George is puzzled because she looks quite calm and perhaps even looks a bit relieved.
“Mother you don’t seem to be very upset about this. I thought maybe you would react a bit stronger.”
“You’re right Georgie, I’m not upset. Startled a bit but that’s all. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I don’t really care about all that. Your life is your own and as long as you’re happy, then I’m happy. I love you no matter what. So we’ll talk about something else besides my missing grandchildren in the future. Goodness what a luncheon this is turning out to be.”
“Mother I’m a bit confused. I can really get that you’re not upset. You’re so relaxed and it’s like suddenly a weight has gone off your shoulders. I get that you accept me, but I don’t get why if you can accept an announcement like this with such calm, why you couldn’t have accepted me all these years for not wanting to have children.”
“Georgie to be honest, a weight has gone off my shoulders and I never saw that until just now. I’m so tired off having these same conversations year after year and going nowhere. And I just realized that I’ve been helpless to stop. It really has been like beating my head against a brick wall and now I don’t have to. Maybe I never had to. Maybe all I needed was this splash of cold water in my face to shake me up a little.”
“Now let’s get on with ordering our meals. And maybe we can talk about why you’ve taken 38 years to tell me this.”
“Georgie, Georgie I’m over here”, his mother calls, as if there is some look of doubt on George’s face.
“Hello Mother,” George says in greeting as he bends down and places a kiss on her forehead. “What’s looking good on the menu today?”
“Oh it all looks good dear. But I think I’ll stick with the chicken pot pie. It’s mild and tasty and agrees with my digestion. You remember what happened that time I tried the Thai beef salad that you recommended. I was off my food until the following Monday.”
“Yes, stick with the tried and true Mother. Hmmm. Let me see what’s on the specials board.”
“Georgie it’s too bad you didn’t bring a girl friend today. We have an extra chair.”
“Wow Mother. 43 seconds before you got around to talking about my girl friends or lack there of. I think that could be a record.”
“Oh Georgie you’re such a kidder. You know I’m only thinking in your best interests. You’re not getting any younger and besides, a handsome man like you should be settling down and starting a family. The way George and I did.”
“And 10 seconds later I’m reminded that you have no grand children yet. That is quite the one-two punch. Usually you wait until after I’ve ordered before we get into giving me advice on my love and lack-of-family life. Why so ahead of schedule?”
“If you must know, I was talking to Gilda Worthington this morning and she was so excited because her Billy had just phoned and announced that their 3rd child, another grandson, had just been born. And I was happy for her but so sad thinking about how much you’re missing in life. Am I wrong for wanting you to be happy?”
“No Mother, of course not. But we keep having these conversations over and over and getting nowhere. I am happy. I like being single and I like how my life is going. I don’t see why having an heir is going to make me be a better man or a happier one. Why can’t you just accept that?”
“Because having children is one of the greatest things a person can do. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn’t had you. You are the best thing that I ever did and all I want is for you to have a bit of that same joy in your life. Why can’t you see that? I can’t understand why you’re so stubborn.”
“Because I’m gay Mother.”
Suddenly there is a hush at the Burton table and a long, long pause as Martha sits there.
“Oh, you’re not gay Georgie. Stop teasing me.”
“It’s true Mother. So forget the grandchildren.”
Martha sits there again without talking. And as she sits there, George is puzzled because she looks quite calm and perhaps even looks a bit relieved.
“Mother you don’t seem to be very upset about this. I thought maybe you would react a bit stronger.”
“You’re right Georgie, I’m not upset. Startled a bit but that’s all. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I don’t really care about all that. Your life is your own and as long as you’re happy, then I’m happy. I love you no matter what. So we’ll talk about something else besides my missing grandchildren in the future. Goodness what a luncheon this is turning out to be.”
“Mother I’m a bit confused. I can really get that you’re not upset. You’re so relaxed and it’s like suddenly a weight has gone off your shoulders. I get that you accept me, but I don’t get why if you can accept an announcement like this with such calm, why you couldn’t have accepted me all these years for not wanting to have children.”
“Georgie to be honest, a weight has gone off my shoulders and I never saw that until just now. I’m so tired off having these same conversations year after year and going nowhere. And I just realized that I’ve been helpless to stop. It really has been like beating my head against a brick wall and now I don’t have to. Maybe I never had to. Maybe all I needed was this splash of cold water in my face to shake me up a little.”
“Now let’s get on with ordering our meals. And maybe we can talk about why you’ve taken 38 years to tell me this.”
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
No way out (by Heather)
28 February 2010. Write about the discovery that a 'brick wall' limitation is actually an illusion.
The day you find out that your dad is a killer is a bad day.
Jay slumped under the tea tree hedge, considering his dilemma. With his arms wrapped around his legs, he smacked his head hard onto his knees.
He struggled to think carefully about his problem. He was eight years old, too young really to live on his own yet. He could go to his friend Simon’s a few blocks over, or catch the bus to Grandma’s – but sure as anything they’d call his dad. His dad would come with his big black truck, grab Jay by the arm and drag him with almost no words back to the vehicle. Jay would sit tight to the window, but soon enough they’d be home.
And there he’d be, living with the killer again.
He whacked his head against his knees once more, trying to shake a smart thought into it.
Because there was also the question of Bella.
If he was going to save Bella, he’d need to take her with him. She didn’t move very fast any more and he for sure couldn’t get her up the steps onto the bus. Also, she still ate a lot. He’d have to get dog food. He might have to get into stealing. He’d never done anything like that before, but he could turn to crime if he had to. He peered out through the leaves, where he could just see Bella lying at the foot of the steps.
Seeing Bella reminded him of the conversation he’d overheard a little while ago. He’d walked into the kitchen just as his dad said into the telephone, “Well, I’ll bring her in, then, and we’ll put her down.”
He knew they were talking about Bella, and he knew what “put her down” meant. His dad intended to kill Bella. Jay had bolted from the house.
And then, right there under the tea tree, with his head back tight to his knees, he had another realisation.
His dad had most likely killed his mum.
His head throbbed with the insight. His mum had simply disappeared about a week ago. In the morning she was there. When he got home from school, she was gone. By the time his dad got home, it was dark and Jay was plenty worried.
He’d been worried ever since. His dad had been grumpy, mean, hollering at him over nothing – all week. When he thought about it now, Jay could see it was the way a killer would behave.
He thought about his mum and experienced a feeling like an arrow piercing his heart. She was beautiful and he loved her heart and soul.
He ached with missing her. He ached with concern about Bella. He ached with hate for his killer dad.
Jay heard a door slam and anxiously peered through the branches. He could see his dad standing there on the veranda, one of his killer hands pressed against the rail, the other shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Jay shuddered inside as he looked at the man who he now realised was capable of anything. There was a twisted look on that executioner face.
“Jay? Jay, are you out here?” his dad’s rough voice said.
Jay waited until his dad went inside, then crept out of his hiding place. He tiptoed to the foot of the steps where Bella still sprawled. He quietly cajoled her to her feet, half dragging her by her collar. He got her down the drive way and headed down the block, his heart thundering with the effort as well as with the fear of getting caught.
He was part way down the block when he remembered the Rawson’s tool shed. They didn’t generally keep it locked, and it could be a good place to hide until he could figure out something better to do. He cautiously pulled Bella around the side of the Rawson house. He slipped the latch on the tool shed and coaxed Bella inside. He closed the door softly behind him, then slid to the floor.
Gratefully Bella dropped down, putting her chin on Jay’s lap.
His heart continued to pound, his problem seeming bigger than ever. He had never in his life felt so alone, so desperate. There was no one he could trust. He hadn’t known that your heart could feel pain like this, or how your stomach could clench so tight, or how your breath could hurt. He pressed close to Bella, who whimpered softly. He watched the dust motes swirl through patches of sunlight coming through the side walls. He felt a little more peaceful when he tried to trace their paths, so he did that for awhile.
The next thing he knew was when Bella started whining beside him. He jerked his eyes open and his head shot up. It was completely dark. He struggled to remember where he was and his heart started raced again.
Suddenly he could hear his dad, calling. “Bella? Come on girl, where are you? Jay? Jay?”
Bella barked. A moment later, he heard his dad fumbling with the latch. He poured himself back as far as he could, but there wasn’t much hope really when Bella was there letting the whole world know where he was. He heard the shed door open, then a flashlight shone all over him. He could see a faint outline of his killer dad behind the bright stream of light. He ducked his head down, cowering under a shelf. Terror raced through every limb of his body. He wanted to scream but no sound would come out.
His situation was hopeless, completely hopeless.
A little while later he was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of hot chocolate in front of him. His father had his big hands cupped close around his own little ones, not quite touching. Jay looked at those hands closely, wondering how he could ever have thought they could do anything bad. He was wondering how anything could change as fast as his fear had turned into relief.
“Your mother is like a bird, Jay,” his dad was saying. “She needs to fly, she needs her freedom. It’s not that she doesn’t love you; it’s just that she needs to try out this other life that she has in her mind. I spoke with her today and she said that when she’s settled you’re to come and visit her.”
Jay remained silent, looking up at his dad. He thought about his mother, and how sometimes you felt like you could put your hand through her, like she wasn’t really there at all. Maybe that’s how it was for a bird that really needed to be free.
“But that’s not how it is for me,” his dad continued. “What I need is you. I love you and I love Bella. But Bella is old, old, old, and she’s in an awful lot of pain. The vet will put her off to sleep and she’ll be in peace. That’s two bad things happening to us, to you and me. And then nothing more bad is likely to happen for a long, long while. We’ll get a puppy, you’ll see your mum every now and then, and life will be pretty good again.” His hands moved a tiny bit closer to Jay’s. “Can you hear this, Jay? Are you okay inside that quiet little head of yours?”
Jay pushed around the side of the table, climbing into his dad’s arms. His heart hurt a little about Bella, it hurt about his mum – but when he reached up to touch his dad’s face, he knew just the two of them would be okay.
“No puppy for awhile yet, okay, Dad?”
The day you find out that your dad is a killer is a bad day.
Jay slumped under the tea tree hedge, considering his dilemma. With his arms wrapped around his legs, he smacked his head hard onto his knees.
He struggled to think carefully about his problem. He was eight years old, too young really to live on his own yet. He could go to his friend Simon’s a few blocks over, or catch the bus to Grandma’s – but sure as anything they’d call his dad. His dad would come with his big black truck, grab Jay by the arm and drag him with almost no words back to the vehicle. Jay would sit tight to the window, but soon enough they’d be home.
And there he’d be, living with the killer again.
He whacked his head against his knees once more, trying to shake a smart thought into it.
Because there was also the question of Bella.
If he was going to save Bella, he’d need to take her with him. She didn’t move very fast any more and he for sure couldn’t get her up the steps onto the bus. Also, she still ate a lot. He’d have to get dog food. He might have to get into stealing. He’d never done anything like that before, but he could turn to crime if he had to. He peered out through the leaves, where he could just see Bella lying at the foot of the steps.
Seeing Bella reminded him of the conversation he’d overheard a little while ago. He’d walked into the kitchen just as his dad said into the telephone, “Well, I’ll bring her in, then, and we’ll put her down.”
He knew they were talking about Bella, and he knew what “put her down” meant. His dad intended to kill Bella. Jay had bolted from the house.
And then, right there under the tea tree, with his head back tight to his knees, he had another realisation.
His dad had most likely killed his mum.
His head throbbed with the insight. His mum had simply disappeared about a week ago. In the morning she was there. When he got home from school, she was gone. By the time his dad got home, it was dark and Jay was plenty worried.
He’d been worried ever since. His dad had been grumpy, mean, hollering at him over nothing – all week. When he thought about it now, Jay could see it was the way a killer would behave.
He thought about his mum and experienced a feeling like an arrow piercing his heart. She was beautiful and he loved her heart and soul.
He ached with missing her. He ached with concern about Bella. He ached with hate for his killer dad.
Jay heard a door slam and anxiously peered through the branches. He could see his dad standing there on the veranda, one of his killer hands pressed against the rail, the other shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Jay shuddered inside as he looked at the man who he now realised was capable of anything. There was a twisted look on that executioner face.
“Jay? Jay, are you out here?” his dad’s rough voice said.
Jay waited until his dad went inside, then crept out of his hiding place. He tiptoed to the foot of the steps where Bella still sprawled. He quietly cajoled her to her feet, half dragging her by her collar. He got her down the drive way and headed down the block, his heart thundering with the effort as well as with the fear of getting caught.
He was part way down the block when he remembered the Rawson’s tool shed. They didn’t generally keep it locked, and it could be a good place to hide until he could figure out something better to do. He cautiously pulled Bella around the side of the Rawson house. He slipped the latch on the tool shed and coaxed Bella inside. He closed the door softly behind him, then slid to the floor.
Gratefully Bella dropped down, putting her chin on Jay’s lap.
His heart continued to pound, his problem seeming bigger than ever. He had never in his life felt so alone, so desperate. There was no one he could trust. He hadn’t known that your heart could feel pain like this, or how your stomach could clench so tight, or how your breath could hurt. He pressed close to Bella, who whimpered softly. He watched the dust motes swirl through patches of sunlight coming through the side walls. He felt a little more peaceful when he tried to trace their paths, so he did that for awhile.
The next thing he knew was when Bella started whining beside him. He jerked his eyes open and his head shot up. It was completely dark. He struggled to remember where he was and his heart started raced again.
Suddenly he could hear his dad, calling. “Bella? Come on girl, where are you? Jay? Jay?”
Bella barked. A moment later, he heard his dad fumbling with the latch. He poured himself back as far as he could, but there wasn’t much hope really when Bella was there letting the whole world know where he was. He heard the shed door open, then a flashlight shone all over him. He could see a faint outline of his killer dad behind the bright stream of light. He ducked his head down, cowering under a shelf. Terror raced through every limb of his body. He wanted to scream but no sound would come out.
His situation was hopeless, completely hopeless.
A little while later he was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of hot chocolate in front of him. His father had his big hands cupped close around his own little ones, not quite touching. Jay looked at those hands closely, wondering how he could ever have thought they could do anything bad. He was wondering how anything could change as fast as his fear had turned into relief.
“Your mother is like a bird, Jay,” his dad was saying. “She needs to fly, she needs her freedom. It’s not that she doesn’t love you; it’s just that she needs to try out this other life that she has in her mind. I spoke with her today and she said that when she’s settled you’re to come and visit her.”
Jay remained silent, looking up at his dad. He thought about his mother, and how sometimes you felt like you could put your hand through her, like she wasn’t really there at all. Maybe that’s how it was for a bird that really needed to be free.
“But that’s not how it is for me,” his dad continued. “What I need is you. I love you and I love Bella. But Bella is old, old, old, and she’s in an awful lot of pain. The vet will put her off to sleep and she’ll be in peace. That’s two bad things happening to us, to you and me. And then nothing more bad is likely to happen for a long, long while. We’ll get a puppy, you’ll see your mum every now and then, and life will be pretty good again.” His hands moved a tiny bit closer to Jay’s. “Can you hear this, Jay? Are you okay inside that quiet little head of yours?”
Jay pushed around the side of the table, climbing into his dad’s arms. His heart hurt a little about Bella, it hurt about his mum – but when he reached up to touch his dad’s face, he knew just the two of them would be okay.
“No puppy for awhile yet, okay, Dad?”
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