“Mr Belizo?”, the stewardess said to Percy for the 2nd time, getting his attention at last and handing him his martini. Percy Willis was on his way to Rio and would have to start getting used to people calling him Umberto Belizo. That’s the name that was on his brand new passport.
Percy had been reflecting on a month of firsts as he gazed out the window on the clouds far below. This was the first time he had ever flown first class to anywhere. This was the first time he had ever left North America. This was the first time he had ever used a fake passport. This was the first time he had ever transferred $45,000,000 of his boss’s money to Umberto’s numbered account in Lichtenstein, a country still renowned for its banking secrecy.
And being a man who recognizes patterns, he also reflected that this was a month of lasts for him. It was the last time he would be known as Percy Willis. It was the last time he would meekly take the abuse and insults from his boss. It was the last time his wife would cheat on him.
He knew right from the beginning that marrying Marie was a big mistake. He was lead programmer at Penshurst Securities and prided himself on his impeccable logic. Where was his brain when he proposed to her? It was overdosing on testosterone obviously and incapable of computing that Marie was a body and face only. Of course Marie loved him. There never was a man she met she didn’t love. Marriage didn’t change that.
He stopped counting her affairs when he got to 7. He became indifferent to her cheating but when he saw her leaving his office with the boss, he changed. He might have ignored it as just another fling, but his boss had always regarded him as a bit of a door mat and took a sadistic pleasure in insulting Percy whenever the opportunity came up. Percy should have stood up for himself but he wasn’t very good at confrontation. He loved the money and the work and used that as his justification for taking the abuse. But somehow, thinking about Marie with that moron was like the final straw.
It’s amazing the skills Percy had picked up over the years. If it could be done on a computer, Percy could do it. And getting an entire new identity, citizenship, bank account and life were there for the creating. And he was very, very good at his work. It would be a few days before the money would be missed and it wouldn’t be traced to Umberto Belizo, Percy Willis or anyone else connect to him.
And even though he knew he would never be found, he added his final bit of security to his adventure. It was still impossible to extradite someone from Brazil on any crime involving theft or embezzlement.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Where will I travel and why - Sue
Flick, pause, flick, flick, pa.............use. The photo of the African elephant zooms off the page of the travel brochure. He’s in full charge with ears flapping and a beautiful wrinkly grey trunk extended. I briefly take in the magic of the photo, how the photographer has captured the elephant in flight, all in perfect focus, even his eyebrows.
I’m lying along the black leather sofa with big comfy feather cushions supporting my back. With my long tanned legs bent, I am perfectly balancing the magazine against my knees. Bob Marley’s soft sexy reggae voice sends shivers down my back. My tummy turns sommersaults as I look at the photo.
I have just inherited $100,000. That is like five years income for me and even that is erratic. The life of a travel writer is definitely unpredictable. This is the chance of a lifetime. To travel where I want to go, for as long as I like. No strings attached to that editor. Not answerable to anyone. My tummy catapults up towards my throat, I gasp as I run out of breath, my eyes water with awe. God, that elephant is beautiful.
The travel agent is a specialist for Africa and tonight’s video night is a first for me. Usually all the travel planning and bookings are done for me and all I have to do is turn up and write. But this is mine, all mine, to research, to plan. All I really know is, I want to go to Namibia and as my thoughts wander off and my memory recalls that elephant, I vaguely hear someone talking to me.
“So Sue, why Africa, why Namibia?”
Ï’ve just always wanted to go. It’s a sort of romantic yearning. I can only imagine exploring the wild, wide open spaces and experiencing that space of nothing but everything. Of winding my way around those enormous enveloping sand dunes that hug the south coast, of camping under the stars, of making the first footprints in the virginal sand, of watching the wisps of sand dance off the knife edge dunes as the wind picks up the tiny sandy grains. Add to all of that the animals, the local African villages and the sheer joy of doing this myself, for as long as I like.
I am sitting on a hard backed chair, hunched forward with my head in my hands. I’m transfixed as the slideshow takes me into the world of my dreams. The giraffes, on their spindly legs graze happily at the top of the acacia trees. The elephants roll around in the muddy waterhole, the babies frolicking and snorting in the shallows. The hilarious wart hog dashes across the screen as he’s chased by a young golden lioness.
I’m there, there in the desert.
The lights go on. There’s a bubbling, babble of voices only just within my thoughts. They get louder. There’s laughter, there’s comraderie, there’s excitement.
“Well Sue, are you coming with us?”
“You be......................”. I jam shut my mouth. I’m usually so impulsive but right now I can hear my little inner voice.
“Hey, not so fast. You said you wanted to research, to plan, to savour every moment of the preparation. To live like the locals, to dwell in their world. To ponder the possibilities. To live your dream”.
I’m lying along the black leather sofa with big comfy feather cushions supporting my back. With my long tanned legs bent, I am perfectly balancing the magazine against my knees. Bob Marley’s soft sexy reggae voice sends shivers down my back. My tummy turns sommersaults as I look at the photo.
I have just inherited $100,000. That is like five years income for me and even that is erratic. The life of a travel writer is definitely unpredictable. This is the chance of a lifetime. To travel where I want to go, for as long as I like. No strings attached to that editor. Not answerable to anyone. My tummy catapults up towards my throat, I gasp as I run out of breath, my eyes water with awe. God, that elephant is beautiful.
The travel agent is a specialist for Africa and tonight’s video night is a first for me. Usually all the travel planning and bookings are done for me and all I have to do is turn up and write. But this is mine, all mine, to research, to plan. All I really know is, I want to go to Namibia and as my thoughts wander off and my memory recalls that elephant, I vaguely hear someone talking to me.
“So Sue, why Africa, why Namibia?”
Ï’ve just always wanted to go. It’s a sort of romantic yearning. I can only imagine exploring the wild, wide open spaces and experiencing that space of nothing but everything. Of winding my way around those enormous enveloping sand dunes that hug the south coast, of camping under the stars, of making the first footprints in the virginal sand, of watching the wisps of sand dance off the knife edge dunes as the wind picks up the tiny sandy grains. Add to all of that the animals, the local African villages and the sheer joy of doing this myself, for as long as I like.
I am sitting on a hard backed chair, hunched forward with my head in my hands. I’m transfixed as the slideshow takes me into the world of my dreams. The giraffes, on their spindly legs graze happily at the top of the acacia trees. The elephants roll around in the muddy waterhole, the babies frolicking and snorting in the shallows. The hilarious wart hog dashes across the screen as he’s chased by a young golden lioness.
I’m there, there in the desert.
The lights go on. There’s a bubbling, babble of voices only just within my thoughts. They get louder. There’s laughter, there’s comraderie, there’s excitement.
“Well Sue, are you coming with us?”
“You be......................”. I jam shut my mouth. I’m usually so impulsive but right now I can hear my little inner voice.
“Hey, not so fast. You said you wanted to research, to plan, to savour every moment of the preparation. To live like the locals, to dwell in their world. To ponder the possibilities. To live your dream”.
Ethiopia with love (Kerry)
It was the rhythmical action of the Chinese woman knitting on the train that had first caught my attention. Needle through, wool around, needle under, off; needle through, wool around, needle under, off. The woman herself was serenely oblivious to anyone else; totally engrossed in her stitch-by-stitch activity.
When she paused to start a new row I asked her what she was knitting. Her response was a surprising one.
“I’m knitting squares for the Fistula Hospital in Addis Ababa,” she replied brightly. “It’s for the ABC’s Wrap With Love project. Some others sew the squares into blankets and they’re sent all over the world wherever they’re needed.”
I knew then that I wanted to visit Ethiopia and the amazing hospital in the capital, Addis Ababa. I was particularly interested in the Australian doctor in charge of the hospital, the eighty year old Dr Catherine Hamlin. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to understand what motivated her to leave her own country and spend her life working in Africa among the poor and underprivileged.
It took several months to organise the visit but I have just finished my first week at the hospital. I am running art classes for the women. They are already being offered classes in nutrition and needlework, as well as reading and writing.
There is such a feeling of love and goodwill in this place. The patients are so grateful to be here. They love having other people to talk to. They are totally accepted for who they are, not judged by their condition. It is a new experience for many of them who have spent years in isolation, living virtually as hermits.
Many of the women who are treated here remain at the hospital as staff. As I look out the window of the classroom I see several women, some draped in colourful knitted wraps, walking around the gardens in pairs or sitting chatting happily in groups. Noticing one woman, Mariam, sitting by herself, I wander out and sit quietly beside her. She is knitting.
I have been told some of Mariam’s story. Like many young girls in Ethiopia, she was married when she was only thirteen and became pregnant soon after. She had a difficult labour without medical assistance and was badly injured during the birth. When it was apparent that she had developed a fistula, she was rejected by her husband and his family and left to wander the countryside. It took her ten years to save the money to pay for the hazardous 500 km bus trip from her home to Addis Ababa. Mariam is cured, but because she is unable to have more children, she doesn’t want to return to her husband. She now works at the hospital.
I speak to her in my halting Ethiopian. “Hello. How are you?”
Miraculously she understands. She adjusts her wrap around her shoulders and replies with conviction and a broad smile, “I am here. I am here.”
_______________________
Postscript
I had seen a documentary on TV of the remarkable work of Dr Catherine Hamlin and had heard an interview with her on the ABC. She totally inspired me. She and her husband, both doctors, had gone to Ethiopia in the 1950s to work with women who suffered from the condition called obstetric fistula. It is a condition that is rampant in Ethiopia and many other countries with the lethal combination of poverty, poor education and poor obstetric care. A tear in the bladder or rectum wall during difficult births causes a chronic problem of leaking urine or faeces. The women are ostracised by their community and are often left to fend for themselves. Dr Hamlin is involved with surgery once a week on Thursday mornings to keep her hand in and to keep in touch with the residents and her staff. She spends a lot of her time raising funds for the hospital and making people around the world aware of the tragedy of obstetric fistula. She is determined to have the hospital financially secure before she dies so that women can continue to be treated here for free. She is also training women to be mid-wives and nurses to ease the shortage of people with medical skills throughout the country.
When she paused to start a new row I asked her what she was knitting. Her response was a surprising one.
“I’m knitting squares for the Fistula Hospital in Addis Ababa,” she replied brightly. “It’s for the ABC’s Wrap With Love project. Some others sew the squares into blankets and they’re sent all over the world wherever they’re needed.”
I knew then that I wanted to visit Ethiopia and the amazing hospital in the capital, Addis Ababa. I was particularly interested in the Australian doctor in charge of the hospital, the eighty year old Dr Catherine Hamlin. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to understand what motivated her to leave her own country and spend her life working in Africa among the poor and underprivileged.
It took several months to organise the visit but I have just finished my first week at the hospital. I am running art classes for the women. They are already being offered classes in nutrition and needlework, as well as reading and writing.
There is such a feeling of love and goodwill in this place. The patients are so grateful to be here. They love having other people to talk to. They are totally accepted for who they are, not judged by their condition. It is a new experience for many of them who have spent years in isolation, living virtually as hermits.
Many of the women who are treated here remain at the hospital as staff. As I look out the window of the classroom I see several women, some draped in colourful knitted wraps, walking around the gardens in pairs or sitting chatting happily in groups. Noticing one woman, Mariam, sitting by herself, I wander out and sit quietly beside her. She is knitting.
I have been told some of Mariam’s story. Like many young girls in Ethiopia, she was married when she was only thirteen and became pregnant soon after. She had a difficult labour without medical assistance and was badly injured during the birth. When it was apparent that she had developed a fistula, she was rejected by her husband and his family and left to wander the countryside. It took her ten years to save the money to pay for the hazardous 500 km bus trip from her home to Addis Ababa. Mariam is cured, but because she is unable to have more children, she doesn’t want to return to her husband. She now works at the hospital.
I speak to her in my halting Ethiopian. “Hello. How are you?”
Miraculously she understands. She adjusts her wrap around her shoulders and replies with conviction and a broad smile, “I am here. I am here.”
_______________________
Postscript
I had seen a documentary on TV of the remarkable work of Dr Catherine Hamlin and had heard an interview with her on the ABC. She totally inspired me. She and her husband, both doctors, had gone to Ethiopia in the 1950s to work with women who suffered from the condition called obstetric fistula. It is a condition that is rampant in Ethiopia and many other countries with the lethal combination of poverty, poor education and poor obstetric care. A tear in the bladder or rectum wall during difficult births causes a chronic problem of leaking urine or faeces. The women are ostracised by their community and are often left to fend for themselves. Dr Hamlin is involved with surgery once a week on Thursday mornings to keep her hand in and to keep in touch with the residents and her staff. She spends a lot of her time raising funds for the hospital and making people around the world aware of the tragedy of obstetric fistula. She is determined to have the hospital financially secure before she dies so that women can continue to be treated here for free. She is also training women to be mid-wives and nurses to ease the shortage of people with medical skills throughout the country.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Get a move on
Just so you know how this turns out, I am writing this from the balcony of a little B&B in Mondello, overlooking a blue-green Mediterranean while the morning sun spills over the hills in nearby Palermo. I’m nibbling on a bit of left-over lobster tortellini I couldn’t finish at the restaurant last night. But the story itself happened a week ago on a cool autumn day at our home near Katoomba in the Blue Mountains.
Get a move on
I sat by the window with my cup of coffee, speculating. My 63rd birthday was coming up in four days.
It would have been a minor event except for the online survey I had filled in yesterday (sent out by my electronic greeting card supplier, of all things). The survey had gone fine until the last question, which had asked me to specify my age category. The last choice on the list was “Over 63”. After my initial indignation (“What kind of a number is 63 to have heading up a category?!”), I had fallen into a low grade panic that had stayed with me since. You’d better get a move on, a demanding voice in my head kept whispering.
So this morning I had sat down with my cup of coffee, intent on planning a celebration that would quiet the urgent get-a-move-on voice. Obviously that meant a travel celebration, appropriate as travel was a thing I was most enjoying since my retirement a year ago.
Spike, my husband of 30 years who was having a bit of a sleep in, would go along with anything. He loved an adventure as much as I did. And although he hadn’t realised it, he was in the last category too.
I turned it around in my head for awhile and finally moved to the computer and called up Google World. I stared at big orange Australia filling the screen in front of me. The cat jumped into my lap, demanding a bit of attention. I stroked it idly while I contemplated the Kimberlies, Broome, Margaret River. All wonderful choices and all on the wish list. But the get-a-move-on voice was pushing me further afield.
I used my mouse and thoughtfully spun the globe.
Malaysia. Hmmm.
India. Nepal.
The Middle East?
An African safari!
France – always a favourite destination. Spain, never been there. Italy. Hmmmm – Italy. My heart tripped a little.
Another rotation took me to the Americas. No, not this time. Galapagos Islands. Without a doubt, near the top of the list. Imagine snorkelling in those sublime waters with those wonderful creatures. I lost myself in the Galapagos for an hour while I trolled Google Maps and Wikipedia.
The cat sat patiently on the floor beside me.
You know, it didn’t really matter where. The world was so full of wonder and beauty and adventure that it really didn’t matter.
In the end, the mouse wandered back to Europe, and began to home in on Italy. It paused near Tuscany, Umbria. Ahhhh, Palermo. Sunshine, antiquity, Mediterranean waters. I mean, why not, when you’re making the big move into the last category. Spike would fuss a bit about the money but he knew as well as I did that we had enough.
I turned to the cat. “All right, it’s been decided. Palermo it is. You’re going to the neighbours for a couple weeks.” The cat turned its back to me.
“Spike? Come on, get up. We’ve got things to do, places to go.”
Get a move on
I sat by the window with my cup of coffee, speculating. My 63rd birthday was coming up in four days.
It would have been a minor event except for the online survey I had filled in yesterday (sent out by my electronic greeting card supplier, of all things). The survey had gone fine until the last question, which had asked me to specify my age category. The last choice on the list was “Over 63”. After my initial indignation (“What kind of a number is 63 to have heading up a category?!”), I had fallen into a low grade panic that had stayed with me since. You’d better get a move on, a demanding voice in my head kept whispering.
So this morning I had sat down with my cup of coffee, intent on planning a celebration that would quiet the urgent get-a-move-on voice. Obviously that meant a travel celebration, appropriate as travel was a thing I was most enjoying since my retirement a year ago.
Spike, my husband of 30 years who was having a bit of a sleep in, would go along with anything. He loved an adventure as much as I did. And although he hadn’t realised it, he was in the last category too.
I turned it around in my head for awhile and finally moved to the computer and called up Google World. I stared at big orange Australia filling the screen in front of me. The cat jumped into my lap, demanding a bit of attention. I stroked it idly while I contemplated the Kimberlies, Broome, Margaret River. All wonderful choices and all on the wish list. But the get-a-move-on voice was pushing me further afield.
I used my mouse and thoughtfully spun the globe.
Malaysia. Hmmm.
India. Nepal.
The Middle East?
An African safari!
France – always a favourite destination. Spain, never been there. Italy. Hmmmm – Italy. My heart tripped a little.
Another rotation took me to the Americas. No, not this time. Galapagos Islands. Without a doubt, near the top of the list. Imagine snorkelling in those sublime waters with those wonderful creatures. I lost myself in the Galapagos for an hour while I trolled Google Maps and Wikipedia.
The cat sat patiently on the floor beside me.
You know, it didn’t really matter where. The world was so full of wonder and beauty and adventure that it really didn’t matter.
In the end, the mouse wandered back to Europe, and began to home in on Italy. It paused near Tuscany, Umbria. Ahhhh, Palermo. Sunshine, antiquity, Mediterranean waters. I mean, why not, when you’re making the big move into the last category. Spike would fuss a bit about the money but he knew as well as I did that we had enough.
I turned to the cat. “All right, it’s been decided. Palermo it is. You’re going to the neighbours for a couple weeks.” The cat turned its back to me.
“Spike? Come on, get up. We’ve got things to do, places to go.”
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
A chapter of loathing - by Rick
A chapter of loathing? I could write a book. Chapter 1 – Loathing, Chapter 2 – Loathing, Chapter 3 – well you get the picture. Each chapter a variation on the theme of loathing, each one more depressing and filled with despair than the previous, on and on until all you feel like is drinking a bottle or two of scotch to reach the safety of unconsciousness.
How did I get into this state of affairs? How did a fun-loving, bridge-playing, girl-chasing, beer-drinking healthy young 26 year old get into this fine mess?
It all started with reading a book. If ignorance is bliss, then maybe knowledge is loathing. Makes sense if you think about it and that’s what reading a book did for me – it got me thinking. My mentor in this was Ayn Rand whose books The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged left me transformed forever. Up until reading these books, I thought logic was something you used to solve puzzles or program computers. I didn’t draw the conclusion that logic was something that man used to live life with.
As I started to brighten my life with my new found knowledge, I shone it more and more on the social and political arenas of human affairs. I started to read the front pages of the newspapers rather than just the comics and bridge columns. So much was about politics, about corruption, about bankruptcies and bailouts – anything that was sensational.
What I found was that logic had taken a holiday. There wasn’t any. What I found were rationalisations and justifications everywhere to try and explain why some piece of legislation had created a boondoggle instead of the promised Nirvana. And that’s when the loathing began.
I began to take it all personally and very seriously. That $50,000 grant to study the mating habits of mosquitoes was taken directly out of my tax dollars as was the study of Parisienne cafes by my member of parliament that cost me $150,000. Every broken political promise was done on purpose to upset me. I would watch the news on TV and come away seething with self-righteous indignation. How dare they? How could they be so stupid?
I took action. I joined up with a bunch of like-minded folk and created a political party. I ran for office under the Libertarian platform of a minimalist government. When the public saw that they had an alternative to the status quo of big, expensive and all intrusive government, they would leap at it with joy and gratitude.
Not so. Turns out people like governments that promise them things and my cohorts and I were soundly rejected. So my loathing expanded from conniving and corrupt politicians to the public at large. Everyone was conspiring against me. No one took the brilliance of my logic seriously. No one thought of the devastating long term consequences of the actions we were taking. We were all doomed and nothing could be done about it. Armageddon approacheth.
I was very significant. But there was no breakthrough in the loathing until I began to use the logic on myself. Who said I had to take on “saving” the world? I did. Was that a logical thing to do? Had I thought it all out? Did it make sense? Well, no, no and no. What I saw was that I too could take logic and put it on the shelf when it suited me. How about that!
Over time, especially after doing the Forum, I got to see the world in a much more expanded view and bit by bit the loathing evaporated. Yes I still see red when I hear about the latest bit of nonsense from Howard or Rudd or the like but it’s short and goes away quickly like stomach gas.
It’s kind of corny I know, but I would have to say that my life has transformed from a book of loathing to a book of loving. And that is one of the most logical things I’ve ever done.
How did I get into this state of affairs? How did a fun-loving, bridge-playing, girl-chasing, beer-drinking healthy young 26 year old get into this fine mess?
It all started with reading a book. If ignorance is bliss, then maybe knowledge is loathing. Makes sense if you think about it and that’s what reading a book did for me – it got me thinking. My mentor in this was Ayn Rand whose books The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged left me transformed forever. Up until reading these books, I thought logic was something you used to solve puzzles or program computers. I didn’t draw the conclusion that logic was something that man used to live life with.
As I started to brighten my life with my new found knowledge, I shone it more and more on the social and political arenas of human affairs. I started to read the front pages of the newspapers rather than just the comics and bridge columns. So much was about politics, about corruption, about bankruptcies and bailouts – anything that was sensational.
What I found was that logic had taken a holiday. There wasn’t any. What I found were rationalisations and justifications everywhere to try and explain why some piece of legislation had created a boondoggle instead of the promised Nirvana. And that’s when the loathing began.
I began to take it all personally and very seriously. That $50,000 grant to study the mating habits of mosquitoes was taken directly out of my tax dollars as was the study of Parisienne cafes by my member of parliament that cost me $150,000. Every broken political promise was done on purpose to upset me. I would watch the news on TV and come away seething with self-righteous indignation. How dare they? How could they be so stupid?
I took action. I joined up with a bunch of like-minded folk and created a political party. I ran for office under the Libertarian platform of a minimalist government. When the public saw that they had an alternative to the status quo of big, expensive and all intrusive government, they would leap at it with joy and gratitude.
Not so. Turns out people like governments that promise them things and my cohorts and I were soundly rejected. So my loathing expanded from conniving and corrupt politicians to the public at large. Everyone was conspiring against me. No one took the brilliance of my logic seriously. No one thought of the devastating long term consequences of the actions we were taking. We were all doomed and nothing could be done about it. Armageddon approacheth.
I was very significant. But there was no breakthrough in the loathing until I began to use the logic on myself. Who said I had to take on “saving” the world? I did. Was that a logical thing to do? Had I thought it all out? Did it make sense? Well, no, no and no. What I saw was that I too could take logic and put it on the shelf when it suited me. How about that!
Over time, especially after doing the Forum, I got to see the world in a much more expanded view and bit by bit the loathing evaporated. Yes I still see red when I hear about the latest bit of nonsense from Howard or Rudd or the like but it’s short and goes away quickly like stomach gas.
It’s kind of corny I know, but I would have to say that my life has transformed from a book of loathing to a book of loving. And that is one of the most logical things I’ve ever done.
Monday, 20 April 2009
A chapter of loathing (by Heather)
Create a story, poem, or any piece based on this metaphor: “a chapter of loathing”. 1110 words.
Jason watched as the repossessors grabbed the last piece of furniture and left the apartment.
His eyes met Rosie’s. She stood glaring at him, an unreadable expression on her tense face.
“Well, at least we have each other,” he said, attempting to lighten the moment.
Rosie’s reaction was not the one he was after. “Get out of here,” she hissed. “I can’t bear to look at you. Get out of my life.” Her palpable hatred hurled him out of the apartment.
Jason pressed the lift button robotically and caught the lift down. He stood in the lobby, barely able to breathe. He pulled out his mobile phone and looked at it blankly. This may be the only thing in the world I own now, he thought. He found Chris in his recent call list and rang the number.
Chris replied after several rings with a wary hello.
Jason flipped the phone into his other hand. “Chris? That you? Jesus, Chris, it’s all fallen over. It’s all gone!”
“Hey, slow down, man. What’s happened?”
“The repo guys have been here all afternoon and they’ve taken everything. Everything! And Rosie’s…” he nearly choked, “left me. I don’t know what to do. I’m panicking here. What should I do, Chris? How can I get it all back?”
Chris’ reply was slow in coming. “Okay, get a grip, man. You know you can’t get it back. You got the boot at the bank, your investments all fell over, you lost all your money, you borrowed from a loan shark and now you’re saying you lost Rosie. It’s all over, Jase. You can’t get it back. Don’t be an idiot.”
“But you know we all thought the market was going to rally. December looked so promising. You said yourself that it was just a matter of tiding ourselves over til the new year. I mean, you’re the one who set me up with Max, for chrissake.”
Chris’ voice took a dangerous tone. “Hey, don’t lay it on me, man. I warned you, you knew you were talking to the underworld. You knew it was a dangerous place. All you could see was protecting your precious high flyer life. Don’t you even think of trying to lay it on me.”
Jason tried to think but found his mind disturbingly out of gear. “Chris, I got no place to stay tonight. Can I come over? Just for a few days til I get this sorted?”
There was a pause. “Hey, Jase, you know I’d have you over in a minute, but I’ve just scored the schoolteacher with the red BMW, remember her? – first time she’s coming over and I need the place to myself. Maybe you could try Johnson.”
Jason drew himself up from the wall he’d been slumped against. “Yeah, cool. I’ll do that. Talk to you later.” He snapped shut the phone. A wave of hatred came at him, so strong he could feel it compressing his heart into a lump of iron. Chris had one thing right – he’d just wanted to protect his life: to protect Rosie with her developing career as an artist, his own career, their lifestyle, even to protect Chris and the guys at work. Was that so wrong? He brought his fist to his chest, unable to believe the force of the hate. Deserted by everyone!
Rosie gone. The sudden throb of pain in his chest belied the lump of iron.
Across the street in the next block was the old pub he and Rosie had frequented from time to time. He dropped onto a stool at the bar and ordered a schooner. He sat, fingering his glass, boxed in with a roiling mass of bitter thoughts – with the utter hopelessness of his self-made situation.
There was a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a girl of 19 or 20; cute, perky, full of herself.
“Hi there,” she said. “I thought you looked a little gloomy there and might like a bit of company. I’m Michelle.” She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly.
Jason looked at her blankly, then took her hand and said, “Jason.” She eased up onto the stool beside him and popped her drink down.
Indicating a nearby table of girls, she forged on. “We were just talking about how a life is like a book, and we’re all in the middle of chapters in our lives. It’s a romantic idea, isn’t it?”
He found his voice. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, you could have, like, a chapter of adventure. Or a chapter of enlightenment. Or a chapter of love,” she said coyly, tossing a mane of casually groomed hair. “What chapter are you in, Jason?”
The lump of iron stirred in Jason’s chest. He looked directly at her. “Don’t know. Maybe yours is an empty chapter. Do you see blank pages?”
She drew back as if he had struck her, then laughed shortly. “Boy, you sure got a chip on your shoulder!” She grabbed her drink and her handbag, and headed back to the table where her girlfriends watched like wolves.
He turned away and flinched when he saw behind the bar a dishevelled guy with wild eyes, eyes so angry that Jason checked quickly to make sure the guy didn’t have a gun. With a start, he realised that what he was seeing was a reflection of himself in the mirror behind the bar.
He stared at the reflection. What chapter are you in, Jason? he mimicked. This is the chapter of loathing, he thought, savouring the word. For months now he had hated his job, hated his life, hated himself. Christ almighty, how long was the chapter of loathing going to be?
Was this the last chapter of his book?
He threw some change on the bar, got up and left. He walked back toward the apartment and stood across the street in the shadows, watching the window upstairs. He was jolted to see Rosie at the window, her canvas on an easel she’d managed to protect from the repossessors. She was painting, staring intently out at the view, then back to the easel. How could she paint at a time like this? What was she still doing up there in that empty apartment anyway?
He watched her until she disappeared from the window. Moments later the lights went out.
He moved toward the apartment door. She’d be coming out soon, with a few meagre possessions and no place to go.
The lump of iron in his chest flexed, softened by concern, by wonder at Rosie. He could hear the lift doors opening now, and for the first time in months of anguish, the tears came.
Jason watched as the repossessors grabbed the last piece of furniture and left the apartment.
His eyes met Rosie’s. She stood glaring at him, an unreadable expression on her tense face.
“Well, at least we have each other,” he said, attempting to lighten the moment.
Rosie’s reaction was not the one he was after. “Get out of here,” she hissed. “I can’t bear to look at you. Get out of my life.” Her palpable hatred hurled him out of the apartment.
Jason pressed the lift button robotically and caught the lift down. He stood in the lobby, barely able to breathe. He pulled out his mobile phone and looked at it blankly. This may be the only thing in the world I own now, he thought. He found Chris in his recent call list and rang the number.
Chris replied after several rings with a wary hello.
Jason flipped the phone into his other hand. “Chris? That you? Jesus, Chris, it’s all fallen over. It’s all gone!”
“Hey, slow down, man. What’s happened?”
“The repo guys have been here all afternoon and they’ve taken everything. Everything! And Rosie’s…” he nearly choked, “left me. I don’t know what to do. I’m panicking here. What should I do, Chris? How can I get it all back?”
Chris’ reply was slow in coming. “Okay, get a grip, man. You know you can’t get it back. You got the boot at the bank, your investments all fell over, you lost all your money, you borrowed from a loan shark and now you’re saying you lost Rosie. It’s all over, Jase. You can’t get it back. Don’t be an idiot.”
“But you know we all thought the market was going to rally. December looked so promising. You said yourself that it was just a matter of tiding ourselves over til the new year. I mean, you’re the one who set me up with Max, for chrissake.”
Chris’ voice took a dangerous tone. “Hey, don’t lay it on me, man. I warned you, you knew you were talking to the underworld. You knew it was a dangerous place. All you could see was protecting your precious high flyer life. Don’t you even think of trying to lay it on me.”
Jason tried to think but found his mind disturbingly out of gear. “Chris, I got no place to stay tonight. Can I come over? Just for a few days til I get this sorted?”
There was a pause. “Hey, Jase, you know I’d have you over in a minute, but I’ve just scored the schoolteacher with the red BMW, remember her? – first time she’s coming over and I need the place to myself. Maybe you could try Johnson.”
Jason drew himself up from the wall he’d been slumped against. “Yeah, cool. I’ll do that. Talk to you later.” He snapped shut the phone. A wave of hatred came at him, so strong he could feel it compressing his heart into a lump of iron. Chris had one thing right – he’d just wanted to protect his life: to protect Rosie with her developing career as an artist, his own career, their lifestyle, even to protect Chris and the guys at work. Was that so wrong? He brought his fist to his chest, unable to believe the force of the hate. Deserted by everyone!
Rosie gone. The sudden throb of pain in his chest belied the lump of iron.
Across the street in the next block was the old pub he and Rosie had frequented from time to time. He dropped onto a stool at the bar and ordered a schooner. He sat, fingering his glass, boxed in with a roiling mass of bitter thoughts – with the utter hopelessness of his self-made situation.
There was a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a girl of 19 or 20; cute, perky, full of herself.
“Hi there,” she said. “I thought you looked a little gloomy there and might like a bit of company. I’m Michelle.” She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly.
Jason looked at her blankly, then took her hand and said, “Jason.” She eased up onto the stool beside him and popped her drink down.
Indicating a nearby table of girls, she forged on. “We were just talking about how a life is like a book, and we’re all in the middle of chapters in our lives. It’s a romantic idea, isn’t it?”
He found his voice. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, you could have, like, a chapter of adventure. Or a chapter of enlightenment. Or a chapter of love,” she said coyly, tossing a mane of casually groomed hair. “What chapter are you in, Jason?”
The lump of iron stirred in Jason’s chest. He looked directly at her. “Don’t know. Maybe yours is an empty chapter. Do you see blank pages?”
She drew back as if he had struck her, then laughed shortly. “Boy, you sure got a chip on your shoulder!” She grabbed her drink and her handbag, and headed back to the table where her girlfriends watched like wolves.
He turned away and flinched when he saw behind the bar a dishevelled guy with wild eyes, eyes so angry that Jason checked quickly to make sure the guy didn’t have a gun. With a start, he realised that what he was seeing was a reflection of himself in the mirror behind the bar.
He stared at the reflection. What chapter are you in, Jason? he mimicked. This is the chapter of loathing, he thought, savouring the word. For months now he had hated his job, hated his life, hated himself. Christ almighty, how long was the chapter of loathing going to be?
Was this the last chapter of his book?
He threw some change on the bar, got up and left. He walked back toward the apartment and stood across the street in the shadows, watching the window upstairs. He was jolted to see Rosie at the window, her canvas on an easel she’d managed to protect from the repossessors. She was painting, staring intently out at the view, then back to the easel. How could she paint at a time like this? What was she still doing up there in that empty apartment anyway?
He watched her until she disappeared from the window. Moments later the lights went out.
He moved toward the apartment door. She’d be coming out soon, with a few meagre possessions and no place to go.
The lump of iron in his chest flexed, softened by concern, by wonder at Rosie. He could hear the lift doors opening now, and for the first time in months of anguish, the tears came.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
A Case to Answer (Gordon)
Gordon: Prompt of 19 April 2009, 500 words—A Chapter of Loathing
A garish coloured novel lay on the table amongst a sprawling bundle of books and papers and a devastating letter. Catherine picked the novel up and yelled at the top of her voice: “I hate you.” There was terror in her words and given forth with a venom she had not realised was possible for a human to express. Her emotional level was at breaking point. The questions were racing through her mind in a torrent of “whys”, “hows” and “what if only” that all had no answer and no possibility of answer. Her reputation had been destroyed forever. She felt a tightening in her stomach that almost reached the level of pain and her breathing was intense and rapid. Her heart was racing and she felt a heightened strength that almost reached to dizziness.
Exhausted, she sat down, bent over and cried great sobbing tears.
With emotional release came a profound tiredness and resignation. Her resignation became translated into hopelessness. Catherine thought long and hard. What can I do? Who will help me? Should I sue? All that work wasted? Does it all matter? What if it is really a dream and completely made up?
She picked up the newspaper chaotically spread on the floor. Carefully she put the pages together again, matching the folds and the edges so it looked like it had never been read. As she closed the front page over the others she noticed a headline that struck her with dramatic force. It read: “Author sues for defamation.” It was in large black bold print. Immediately she opened the paper out and read the story over and over again. It was as though she could float herself into the character of the defamed author. She could hear herself standing in court saying to the judge: “It is not just.” “The story was wrong.” “I did not copy.” “I wrote the book myself.”
In that moment she felt terribly alone and living in her head. The world around her was closed, grey and fuzzy and out of focus. Her beautiful kitchen view out the windows took on a green blur and the glasses and cups and cutlery on the sink had a presence but no definition. She suddenly jerked her head up, stood tall and walked quickly to the phone and rang her lawyer friend.
Months later, her fury had long subsided to a deep seated hate for the editor who wrote to her saying, “Chapter 2 was copied and we are pulping all copies of the book.” Sitting in court, she felt justified. Opposite was Ted Brand, the focus of her loathing and as they all stood to hear the judgement she could only glance at him. Then came the verdict: “There is no case to answer, copyright has not been breached.” Again, tears flowed, but this time, it was tears of release and the muscles on her face could only offer a small forgiving smile which only for a second hid her loathing.
Gordon MacAulay
19 April 2009
A garish coloured novel lay on the table amongst a sprawling bundle of books and papers and a devastating letter. Catherine picked the novel up and yelled at the top of her voice: “I hate you.” There was terror in her words and given forth with a venom she had not realised was possible for a human to express. Her emotional level was at breaking point. The questions were racing through her mind in a torrent of “whys”, “hows” and “what if only” that all had no answer and no possibility of answer. Her reputation had been destroyed forever. She felt a tightening in her stomach that almost reached the level of pain and her breathing was intense and rapid. Her heart was racing and she felt a heightened strength that almost reached to dizziness.
Exhausted, she sat down, bent over and cried great sobbing tears.
With emotional release came a profound tiredness and resignation. Her resignation became translated into hopelessness. Catherine thought long and hard. What can I do? Who will help me? Should I sue? All that work wasted? Does it all matter? What if it is really a dream and completely made up?
She picked up the newspaper chaotically spread on the floor. Carefully she put the pages together again, matching the folds and the edges so it looked like it had never been read. As she closed the front page over the others she noticed a headline that struck her with dramatic force. It read: “Author sues for defamation.” It was in large black bold print. Immediately she opened the paper out and read the story over and over again. It was as though she could float herself into the character of the defamed author. She could hear herself standing in court saying to the judge: “It is not just.” “The story was wrong.” “I did not copy.” “I wrote the book myself.”
In that moment she felt terribly alone and living in her head. The world around her was closed, grey and fuzzy and out of focus. Her beautiful kitchen view out the windows took on a green blur and the glasses and cups and cutlery on the sink had a presence but no definition. She suddenly jerked her head up, stood tall and walked quickly to the phone and rang her lawyer friend.
Months later, her fury had long subsided to a deep seated hate for the editor who wrote to her saying, “Chapter 2 was copied and we are pulping all copies of the book.” Sitting in court, she felt justified. Opposite was Ted Brand, the focus of her loathing and as they all stood to hear the judgement she could only glance at him. Then came the verdict: “There is no case to answer, copyright has not been breached.” Again, tears flowed, but this time, it was tears of release and the muscles on her face could only offer a small forgiving smile which only for a second hid her loathing.
Gordon MacAulay
19 April 2009
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