Gum Leaves

Fiction or non-fiction, any theme, from 200 to 1000 words.

Winning entries will be published here

FICTION: First prize: A$100
Second prize: A$50

NON-FICTION: First prize: A$75
Second prize: A$40


This competition closes end of October annually

First Place - Fiction 

Ordinary Lives

Second Place – Fiction

Maniac

First Place – Non Fiction

by Michael Woodhouse

Cutsyke. Summer1957.

                We are on holiday from school. Thinly disguised as a Field Marshall (self-appointed) I am inspecting my rat-bag army. We have intelligence that the gang from Westfields will attack along our southern flank. Such incursions occur frequently in summer.

                I have just promoted the ‘twinny’ Wrights, Brian to Corporal and Tony to Sergeant. Michael Careford is a Lieutenant. Neither of us knows what this means but he likes the title and I tell him he should stand to my left on parade. Barry Walsh, because he is small, is a private. So too is ‘Antny’, my younger brother, known in military circles by his nom de plume, ‘R.Kid’. Everyone his age or less is a private.

                The territorial disputes have existed for generations. The Cutsyke Crest Commando, of which I am Commander in Chief, holds all territories to the north of the sewerage treatment works. To the south is Westfields territory. The sewerage works, like the Gaza strip, is a demilitarised zone. Several incursions into Cutsyke territory have been reported from the vicinity of the plant. Our strategic objective is to reassert control and increase border security.

                It is decided we must re-arm and be prepared for an invasion that is likely to take place before we return to school. We reject Albert Mayes proposal to borrow an air rifle from his brother, Jud. This campaign will be fought with conventional weaponry, catapults and throwing arrows. If that fails it is inevitable that some hand to hand fighting will occur.

                ‘Hands up who’s got a catty.’ I pose the question to my troops and several hands are raised. Michael Careford lifts his jersey to reveal an impressive homemade catapult. It is tucked into his snake belt. The twinnies have used their pocket money wisely and bought steel catapults from the craft shop in Sagar Street. The handle is cross-hatched for improved grip and there is an indentation for the thumb. Powerful elastic cord dangles ominously and the leather pouch looks like it will take a good sized pebble. I am relaxed, secure in the knowledge that such firepower will be enough to hold invaders at bay.

                Our task for the day is to manufacture a cache of throwing arrows and we set about the job of collecting branches that can be fashioned to make the shafts. From earlier campaigns we know that eighteen inches is about the optimum length, heavier at the tip than at the flighted end. Using the pocket knives that no one objects to us carrying, we sit in a group, telling jokes and whittling. Tips are sharpened to an evil point and Barry Walsh suggests that we dip them in dog turds so as to infect the wounds of the enemy. His proposal is opposed on two grounds. First, we do not have authority for chemical weaponry. Second, we must hold the tip between our thumb and forefinger when throwing the arrow. The motion is defeated. Unfortunately we have no cardboard from which to make flights. This will be our objective tomorrow.

                The average range of a homemade throwing arrow in the hands of a small boy is about fifty metres. Accuracy is often sacrificed for distance although constant practice will improve the level of skill. Propulsion requires that a notch be cut into the shaft just below the flight. A knotted piece of string is hooked in place and gripped tautly at the tip. A well thrown arrow is a beautiful sight. Propelled in the manner of a javelin it rises and falls in a graceful arc if. A volley of arrows thrown simultaneously would fall to the ground like a shower of rain, repelling the Westfields warriors.

Chucking arrows is an ancient form of warfare that precedes the Norman invasion. Through constant practice Cutsyke boys generally attain a high level of competence. King Harold was not from Cutsyke.

                The tactics for defending our territory are agreed by the War Council. Arrows will be discharged before invaders reach the beck. If this is not successful then we will switch to catapults. Each archer is required to carry a catty in his belt and the pockets of his shorts must be filled with pebbles of suitable calibre. As a last resort we will engage in hand to hand fighting. Any soldier who runs away will be court martialled on a charge of showing cowardice in the face of the enemy.

                For the remainder of the holiday we bring provisions – jam sandwiches and bottles of lemon barley water – to the sewerage plant and keep the area under constant surveillance. It is a peaceful campaign. Sensing our preparedness the enemy does not attack.

                It was to be my last tour of duty with the Cutsyke Crest Commando. After the holiday many soldiers, like me, are starting secondary school. The banner must pass to younger men. I am not sorry to be relieved of my command. Border patrol is young men’s business.

                These days I have lost touch with most of my old comrades, but I believe all did reasonably well in their lives. The seeds of law enforcement were sown early in me and I joined the police force. Of the twins, Brian became a sales manager and Tony, an accountant. Michael Careford set up his own company and made a small fortune. Many of the non-commissioned officers became successful tradesmen. R.Kid was a professional footballer before managing a pub. Military service was the making of us.

I think of these old campaigners on endless summer days when I see the kids at play. Sometimes a little shiver runs through me as I wonder how our lives might have been changed if we’d ever thrown those murderous arrows. I might still have made it to Australia: under government sponsored relocation, perhaps.

Judge's comments

First Place - Fiction 

The First Dahlia

by Kate Gilbert

        I watch my sister moving up the patchwork road verge at a chin-wobbling trot, mouth open and fat legs pumping. She climbs past houses stacked up the steep hill like a child’s building blocks. Two deep-chested rottweilers urge her on. A neighbour waves unheeded with his empty coffee mug.

        I wait near the window. Patches of dew cling to grass in spite of a rising summer sun. Heat lies like a suffocation on the town, washed up against the side of the mountain, and the running woman.

        One hand presses a large pink flower to her chest. The other holds her dressing gown clear of terry towelling scuffs. Her creased face is blotchy. Pieces of faded frizz stick to her temples as she leans into the hill. She gains the corner, executes an exact right angle turn and slaps along the concrete footpath, disappearing behind the high hedge.

*              *              *

        ‘Come and help me do the dahlias,’ my sister commanded not long back. She lives two doors down. We shared a cuppa and I watched her plant the bulbs. Her tongue peeped from her mouth as she dug, and she was slow to rise to her feet. Her knees gave her trouble, the last few years.

        ‘Enough left for that garden outside your front,’ she announced, swiping snails from her bottom fence rail with the trowel.

        ‘You can plant them,’ I said, ‘but I won’t see the flowers.’

         She ignored me with a slow blink and pressed her lips together.

         ‘Mine’ll be first,’ she said. ‘More sun.’

        ‘You know I’ll be gone by the time the first one blooms,’ I persisted.

        She patted my shoulder, her face blank. Only her grey eyes, crows’ feet deepening, betrayed covert awareness.

        ‘Oh, you won’t know yourself, soon,’ she said. 

        She ventured no closer to a good-bye. She helped me up the street, chatter punctuated by her throaty smoker’s laugh—the same laugh I had heard after births, deaths and marriages for fifty or more years. An ahh of sympathy at the loss of a child, a stilted phone call when my business collapsed, stoic hard work sorting our parents’ belongings—I had come to expect no more. But I watched through the window as she hunched home, bent and beaten.

*              *              *

        Now I hear feet on the gravel as she rushes past my dahlias and their firm, nodding buds. A key scratches at the lock; her hand rattles the doorknob. It chips plaster from the wall with a bang and the flower she drops makes a vivid spot on the foyer tiles. I wait for the crumpled face, the I love you, the reaching out.

        My sister runs past me, across the room to the empty wheelchair and kneels beside my fallen body on the cold floor. There is silence while she holds her breath. Then she expels it slowly with a jag midway. She picks up the bright knee-rug and folds it corner to corner, and places it on the seat.

~~~

Second Place – Fiction

He says, she says

by Vicky Daddo

        He says, look at you, all grown up now.  She says, do I know you?  He says, fancy a drink?  She says, glass of champagne.  He says, I love you.  She says, I know.  He says, move in with me?  She says, marry me first.  He says, you look beautiful in white.  She says, you should have cleaned your shoes.

         He says, I’ve seen a block out of town.  She says, I’ve seen a new apartment in town.  He sighs.  She tuts.  He says, I’ve got a promotion.  She says, I’ll up the credit card limit.  He says, let’s look for a bigger house.  She says, how about a Mediterranean cruise.  He sighs. She tuts. 

         He says, you look terrible.  She says, it’s seasickness.  He says, you still look terrible.  She says, it’s going back to work.  He says, go to the doctor.  She says, I’ve been to the pharmacy.  He says, oh.  She says, oh yes.  He says, that’s great.  Isn’t it?  She says, great.  Really great.  He says, you look wonderful.  She says, I hate this.  He says, you’ll be a fantastic mother.  She says, I’ll need a nanny.  And a cleaner.  

         He says, push.  She says, fuck off.  He says, it’s a boy.  She says, I need a drink.  He says, I love you.  She says, I know.  He says, how about it?  She says, fuck off.  He says, fine.  She says, fine.  He says, well?  She says, not again.  He says, you still look wonderful.  She says, I’ve booked you into the clinic.  He says, it’s a girl.  She says, I need a bigger drink. 

         He says, I’ve got a promotion.  Sydney.  She says, fantastic.  He says, what about the kids, school, our friends?  She says, so what?

         He says, what have you done today?  She says, didn’t you notice my hair?  My nails?  My new jeans?  He says, I’ve worked an eighty hour week, I’ve got a headache.  She says, here’s the panadol, dinner’s in the oven, kids are in bed.  He says, where are you going?  She says, the gym. 

         He says, are you having an affair?  She says nothing.  He says, you get the house, the car, the kids, the dog.  What do I get?  She says nothing.

         He says, I love you.  She says nothing.

        He says, when are you due?  She says, May.  He says, I bet you still look wonderful.  She says, I feel like crap.  He says, when did he leave?  She says, Christmas.  He says, sorry.  She says, come round for coffee?  He says, maybe. 

        She says, you cleaned your shoes.  He says, just for you.  She says, I’ve treated you badly.  He says, I know. She says, why did you come?  He says, because you still look wonderful in white.  She says nothing, looking down at her bathrobe.  He says, the baby’s crying.  She says, the baby’s always crying.  He says, you’re crying.  She says, I love you.  He says, I know.

~~~

First Place – Non Fiction

by Kate Gilbert

Auntie Marilyn is coloured-in-brown—her hair, her skin, her eyes and her clothes. I stand at the door and watch Auntie Marilyn wrap her thin, brown hair around rollers. She smiles her crooked smile at me and talks in her singsong teacher’s voice.

            She lowers a dome over her head, wobbling it side to side so that all the rollers disappear underneath. Then she holds out her hand to me, and we sit together on the edge of the bath. I wriggle so close that the hot air breathes on me from under the dryer.

            The doorbell rings and I race to open it, Auntie Marilyn shutting the door behind me in mysterious panic. Uncle Les stoops into the hallway and shifts about on the cracked lino. He looks too scared to smile. I look at his big, square head. He has blunt, brown hands.

            Auntie Marilyn arrives in the hallway in a flurry, on a wave of spearmint and gardenia. They are like a small brown mouse and a big brown bear. My mother the matchmaker appears, to hover and wave as they leave.

            ‘I knew he wouldn’t mind giving her a lift,’ she says later to my father, who shakes his head at her and looks at the ceiling.

*     *     *     *     *

            I am an unwanted chaperone when Uncle Les visits. He and Auntie Marilyn sit in the sagging corner of the three-seater lounge, leaving the vast expanse of the rest of it for me. Auntie Marilyn laughs at my questions, but Uncle Les doesn’t answer and his ears turn red. We walk slowly to the house on the corner where the old white horse crops the grass short, and we offer him apple, our fingers stretched back and away from his nibbling lips. I ride Uncle Les’s high shoulders up the hill towards home, his hands around my ankles, and when we reach our house he gallops around it. The laughs are shaken from me so that I can hardly ask for more, and we collapse on the grass. We are breathless; even Auntie Marilyn, who was only the starting and finish line.

            My heart longs for me to be a flowergirl, but Auntie Marilyn says that she does not want one. Instead, I have a new dress for the wedding— palest pink crepe with lines of white daisies at the princess line bust and hem. I hold her train up, out of the dust, because that is what a flowergirl would do. The photographer tries to take a shot without me, but Auntie Marilyn is still laughing, and strokes my hair.

*     *     *     *     *

            Even after my family moves away, I visit them in their coal-miner’s cottage where the horse still crops the grass short. They pick me up and we drive through the night under orange streetlights. We watch “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” at the drive-in movies, eating popcorn and drinking lemonade. I wake them several times in the night, when I am scared by the loud party next-door. I am fussy about the night-light, and they cover it with Uncle Les’ brown checked hankie. This starts to smoke, causing a fuss and many what-ifs. The hankie is ruined by a round scorch mark, but she still laughs and he still smiles.

            But one day, after I am grown-up, after four children are born and they move to the country where Auntie Marilyn is a teacher and Uncle Les drives a bus; one day his big, warm heart stops beating while he is driving a tractor in the sun.

            My mother cries on the phone.

            ‘No-one knew,’ she said to my father, ‘—and only thirty-eight.’

            Auntie Marilyn is coloured-in brown. She smiles her crooked smile at me and talks in her warm, singsong voice. But she doesn’t laugh any more.

~~~

Highly Commended

The Rectory Ghost

by Kate Gilbert

            It wasn’t as if nothing had ever happened before we took the photo. It was the usual stuff: the sense of a presence, things moving by themselves, switching on and off, opening and closing. But no one believed us, because we’re the two loonies of the bunch. Chris, my talkative sister, lives in the country with too many children and animals. I’m scatty and a daydreamer. We never doubted that he—or she—existed.

The old rectory was built as a replica of an English bishop’s house. Arriving home alone from school, I would let myself into the hallway, the crossroads of the house, where something hung about. Dusky light trickled down the stairs from the window halfway up. In the dimness at the end of the hall, the solid cedar door, painted with thick cream enamel, would be closed and bolted. The house seemed to hold its breath, exhaling with the creak of a stair, the rustle of ash falling down a chimney, the rumble of the fridge motor.

Once when I came out of the bathroom the windchime jangled fiercely in the doorway at the end of the hall. Another time the cedar door slammed shut. Both times the outside doors were closed and there was no wind.

But there was the night when, as I placed my hand on the bathroom doorknob, it opened from within. It was only my grandfather, relieving his old man’s bladder. We yelled enough to wake any dead that may have been about, then fell on each other gasping and clutching our hearts. It was he, after all, who had introduced me to Edgar Allan Poe and others. But this false alarm undermined my credibility badly with the down-to-earth members of the family.

The cedar door slammed another time, when my sister was alone. When she heard it, she came in from outside where she had been hanging out clothes. The kettle was busy boiling and the kitchen light was on. Opening the cedar door to the rest of the house, she yelled, ‘Hello?’ up the hallway and, getting no reply, assumed someone had switched the kettle on then gone upstairs. She turned off the kettle and light and went outside to finish the washing. On her return, the kettle was again boiling and the light shining. While she was in the kitchen the cedar door slammed shut. She ran in a panic out the back door and round to the front of the house, down the driveway and into an old friend arriving. She refused to go into the house and they sat on the veranda until the rest of the family arrived home.

Our brother, the youngest of my siblings, is a financial analyst with little imagination. After his sisters had been married off, our parents went on holidays, leaving him to house sit. He stayed in the empty rectory, safe within its twelve-inch thick walls under the high ceilings where shadows clung to corners. Giving up on late night television, he switched everything off and wandered out onto the veranda for one last cigarette before retiring. He stood on the crumbling top step and leant against the bricks, a result of convict labour one hundred and fifty years before.

His cigarette smoke rose straight up through the air, crisp with early autumn. A distant dog barked, and a faint smell of bitumen seeped from the circular drive, sealed a few weeks before. Black and smooth under the driveway lights, it stretched past the hulking church and its spiked iron fence.

The crunch of a footstep on gravel sounded on the chill air. Another followed. David peered through the sleeping trees towards the church and cemetery beyond. The pointed porch and dark doorway, the arched entry to the vestry and belltower, the sweep of scattered stones around the church—all seemed still and undisturbed. The footsteps continued, slow and heavy, then stopped as if they had reached the grassy path that curved through a gap in the rickety rectory fence.

My brother glanced over his shoulder to check that the door was still open behind him, and took a step backwards. The holy huddle of buildings was isolated in a patch of weedy paddocks, and an inviting place for tramps and burglars.

When the footsteps started again, they trudged gradually towards David on the veranda. He had dropped his cigarette by now. Edging back towards the door, he sheltered in the gloom cast by the wall. Strain as he might, he could see nothing in the bright pools of fluorescent light. The drive ran hard and level to the road.

‘I finished up in the gap,’ he told me, ‘between the screen door and the wooden door. They sounded so close I couldn’t stand it any more, and I ducked inside and slammed the door, went straight upstairs to bed and left the lights on all night.’

When my father retired, Chris and I went together to farewell the old house, where our family had lived for twenty-four years while my father was rector of the parish. My son twirled Chris’ daughter in the shade under the camphor laurel tree and the other cousins hunted for acorns near the fence, while we went inside to photograph the empty rooms and reminisce.

On our way out, we stood at the front door and Chris said, ‘Okay Mr Ghost…’

‘It might be a woman,’ I objected.

‘She won’t care. They had no rights in those days anyway,’ she returned.

‘Suffrage began back in the seventeenth century. I wouldn’t like to offend her…’

‘Oh, all right,’ said my sister. ‘Listen, Ghost! No one believes in you but us. This is your big chance. If you show up on film, that’ll be evidence, see? So, muster yourself, ready?’

I clicked the camera and for an instant illuminated the curving staircase, and the narrow hallway stretching to the cedar door. Then we turned, laughing, our good-byes finished, and went into the sunshine.

Chris and I collected the photographs from the developer. They were perfect. The fireplace the rat fell into, the window over the stairs through which my other sister sneaked out at nights, the gable bedrooms, the rising damp and peeling paint that drove my mother mad—it’s all there in the clearest detail, if looking a bit forlorn without family or furniture.

One photograph is different. The edges are blurred, the frame is tilted, yellow light leaks from the centre to the corners of the print and there’s a greenish smudge across the painted cedar door. It’s the photograph of the hallway, the crossroads of the old rectory where something hangs about. The ghost rose to the challenge.

After some time, a new minister and his family moved into the rectory. Having been promised a modern house with air conditioning, they saw no old-fashioned, two-storey, ghostly charm in the old rectory. It held even less charm after my children told their daughter about the ghost. She refused to sleep in her own room and annoyed her older brother by sharing his room for months. She woke everybody up whenever she had to go downstairs in the middle of the night. She insisted that someone be at home when she returned from school in the afternoons.

Eventually, the minister, his daughter and her friend came to dinner at our place and I apologised for my children’s blabbing.

‘It’s all right,’ said the rector, ‘we took care of him.’

‘Oh,’ I said, flabbergasted. He was an ex-cop, not really a people person, and I hadn’t expected him of all people to believe the ghost existed. ‘But…isn’t that a bit harsh? I mean, it could have been there a hundred and fifty years, never hurting anyone.’

‘Can’t have him hanging about,’ declared the rector. ‘So we did a few things, and he’s gone.’

 ‘Might have been a she,’ I murmured.

 When they were leaving, the rector’s daughter and her friend loitered near the front door while the men went outside to look at the minister’s new four wheel drive.

 ‘Hey,’ whispered Karla, ‘you know the ghost?’

 ‘Yeah, how about that?’ I said, my face probably reflecting my indignation.

 ‘I know,’ said Karla, ‘I felt a bit sorry for him too.’

 ‘Her,’ I said.

 ‘Well anyway, he’s not really gone,’ said Karla nudging her friend, who nodded, round-eyed. ‘Well, not far, anyway. He’s gone over to the vestry. He’s busy turning lights on and off and shutting doors over there now.’

 I told Chris next time I phoned. We thought that maybe the ghost would return, when there was a more relaxed type of minister in residence, perhaps with an unruly family who couldn’t be bothered exorcising. Maybe it was the same spirit that David heard late that night, moving between the church and the rectory, and the exorcism had simply forced a temporary downsize. Perhaps a former rector…or his wife…perhaps…

 Of course, Chris and I never doubted her for an instant.

A Shunt in Palahniuk’s Priapism 

by Harry Dennison

Recently, I’ve found a rather parasitic conundrum clawing away at my frontal lobe. This spiny, poisonous and irrefutably uncomfortable complication is a constant criticism of complete unknowns of the general public and a universal sense of malaise towards humanity, borrowing from the French legal system; assuming every human being is a moron until proven otherwise. Immediately, this does not give base credibility to any individual whatsoever, and can be considered misanthropic, anti-social and untoward. However, through this ethically and probably morally unstable approach to social interaction, I as an unfortunate tack-on to society, have developed a strong sense of independence and motivation.

With a constant emphasis on teamwork and positive attitudes in today’s overly medicated and plastically optimistic society, it’s easy to find oneself lost in a bile coloured haze of displaced emotions and lack of self-determination. Maintaining an inherently cynical attitude to mankind as a whole, ensures that, whilst one is grudgingly able to co-operate with the demands of society, independent integrity is always maintained and the internal “me” is never lost beneath reams of PR handouts and ‘customer-relations’ seminars. Essentially, your independence and entitlement to criticism is replaced by the cheap words and cheap grins of middle-management assclowns.

 
Holistically, this is a very negative strategy to espouse, and unless one sufficiently rids themselves of unnecessary notions of ‘empathy’, life can become substantially depressing and ultimately forecast a desolate state of solitude. That’s not implying empathy is useless altogether, it allows for humane decision-making, and satisfaction of others without exposing too much personal insight. However, worrying how someone will think of you when you call him or her a “moron”, when they are without doubt, tangibly idiotic, is benign empathy, which we all suffer from (as opposed to Religious folk who are fated to the slow painful life of a ‘Yes Man’, a symptom of malignant empathy).

Welcome to my Kantian nightmare: The utmost truth vs. the good of a progressive, realistic society: Whether igniting the fires of human independence at the expense of their companion’s sentiments, or maintaining co-operation whilst taking a substantially slower and less satisfactory route of achievement. As an intellectual reader, I’m sure you find yourself confronted by unsavoury idiots from time to time, you put on a smile, shrug it off, and compress it into the small, dark, bat cave we call the hippocampus. Eventually, one day, someone makes an offhand remark about the emotional qualities of Vampire Fiction, and the next thing you know, you’re beating their (probably smug) face in with the nearest pot-plant or vase. Perhaps unleashing your verbal chimera from time to time, to viciously tear apart the very fabric of their emotional displacement will result in their prolonged safety and your time spent outside of a local court on an AVO hearing.

~~~

Commended

Beekeeping

by Coral Andrew

   She was drawing a picture in the dirt, in the nature strip outside where she lived. It was a house with a chimney with smoke coming out of it. She’d seen pictures of houses with smoke coming out of chimneys in a story book her Grandma had given her. With a stick, she drew a pathway and flowers with round petals, all the way up to the front door. She looked at the broken concrete leading to her door and wished she could have flowers. She would ask if they could have some flowers – when Mummy woke up – when her headache went away.

    Last night Mummy was naughty so Daddy smacked her.  She had to be very quiet because when Daddy smacked Mummy, Mummy had to take medicine and stay in bed all day. She ran her finger down the pathway with the flowers alongside it, then her whole hand, backwards and forwards, until the picture was again dirt. The little furry dog from the house next door skittered past and she jumped to her feet and chased it, stopping at the top of the hill to watch it run down to the fence along the railway line at the bottom. She wasn’t allowed to go near the railway line. She wasn’t even allowed to stand at the fence looking through as the trains passed, their carriages filled with coal from the big open cut mine where Daddy worked. They always went past slowly and sometimes the driver looked up and waved to her.

    A shrill voice rang out but the dog ignored it. It relieved itself on a fence post, sniffed its way along the base of the fence and disappeared into a patch of scrappy bushes on the other side of the hill. It wasn’t supposed to go down to the railway line either but it always did.  Maybe it was looking for another dog to play with. Maybe it was lonely. She wandered back, her bare feet sinking into the soft, cool dirt of the nature strip. She could tell when her Mum was up by the blaring of the radio but the house was silent. She kicked her foot against the rusted wire of the gate, over and over, the harsh, metallic rattle soothing her.

    ‘Do you have to do that?’ called her mother from the bedroom. ‘It’s getting on my nerves.’

    She eased herself down the gate post and slumped onto the ground. She could hear voices from the end of the street. There were children down there but she wasn’t allowed to go and see them. She wasn’t allowed to talk to strangers. They were kicking a football. She had a football once but Daddy squashed it when she was naughty and now she just had a pram and a doll and some pencils. Soon she would go to school and then she would play with other children all day. They had books at school. She loved books. Sometimes, when she was good, Daddy would read her a story before she went to sleep. She would sit on his knee and his arms would go around her to hold the book and she would lean back against him and so she always tried to be good. She wished Mummy would be good, too, then Daddy wouldn’t have to smack her.

    The whistle of a train echoed from the paddocks on the other side of town. She jumped up and ran, her feet stinging from the summer heat built up in the concrete path, up to the hill onto the patches of coarse grass that still survived. She could hear the rumble of the carriages and see the engine in the distance, black with a wide yellow stripe around the middle, and its powerful hum already pulsated through her feet. When it got closer, the humming would get louder and it would be like a hundred bees inside her. They would lift her up and carry her over the fence and she would sail above the train until the last carriage was gone.

    The little dog scurried past her, down the hill to the fence. She watched it prancing backwards and forwards, barking madly. She looked down towards her house, back at the dog and back to the house. The curtains were shut – her Mum was asleep. The wind blasted her hair as she raced down the hill, skipping and jumping, skidding the last few feet to the base of the fence. From down here she could no longer see the engine coming. If she could get higher she would be able to see the driver close up as he went past, see him smiling at her, laughing at the bees inside her. She dug her toes into the wire and started pushing herself up. There used to be barbed wire on top of the fence but someone had pulled it off here and it had never been replaced. The air vibrated around her as she rested her knee on the metal rail that ran along the top of the fence.

    The train was a giant snake, slithering its way along the track, a snake with no end. If she could get even higher she would see its tail. Grasping the wire with both hands she moved her weight from her knee to her foot and dragged the other up beside it. She could see the driver’s face clearly now, frowning at her. Soon he would be smiling – laughing. As he rumbled towards her she let go of the fence, stood and threw her arms wide. She wavered and the bees picked her up and carried her, out over the snake. She could just see its tail as the shriek of its whistle drowned out the mad yapping of the dog and her mother’s scream.

 
by David Troman

The drone of the turboprop engine approaching the aerodrome drew Lizzie’s attention skywards. She counted as twelve tiny dots fell away from the drop plane. Eleven of them mushroomed into black silken parachute canopies bearing their human cargoes in safety whilst the twelfth continued its acceleration towards terminal velocity.

Lizzie allowed her lips to curl microscopically upwards into a triumphant smile then carefully schooled her features into dismay and anguish. Lights, camera, action. Act three, scene one “Hell hath no fury”. Now was her time  as both leading lady and director to put to good use all the skills that she had acquired during her years with the amateur dramatic society and give the performance of her life.

She took off at a run towards the scene of the impending tragedy, looking round her as she did so and adjusting her pace to ensure that she was not first on the scene. She was still some yards distant when a sickening red splat announced the impact of the falling body with unyielding tarmac. Val and Sue were ahead of her and both turned blanched faces towards her. The two of them grabbed her arms and stalled her progress as Val shouted instructions.

“Don’t go any further, Lizzie. It’s Dan. You don’t want that to be your last sight of him. Come away.”

“I don’t believe you. It can’t be. I won’t let it be.” She struggled and sobbed as they held on tight and held her between them.

“Shush, shush. Come on. You’re with friends. Let’s get you into the clubhouse before you collapse and sit you down.”

She allowed them to settle her on an overstuffed sofa and persuade several sips of brandy between trembling lips before she risked a look round the room. The rest of the jumpers were just entering the clubhouse along with all the other club members who had been on the aerodrome doing other tasks at the time. They all seemed to be buying into her performance if their expressions of shock were anything to go by.

“How’re you feeling now? Any steadier?” Val had never left Lizzie’s side 0r let go of her hand throughout the ordeal and now she squeezed that hand tightly as she spoke.

“Yes thanks. I just feel numb.”

“That’ll be the brandy. Here you are. Strong sweet tea is far better for shock.” Dan’s voice penetrated Lizzie’s consciousness. she swivelled her head in search of the source and located it as he walked towards her from behind the bar. He reached over and placed the cup of tea that he was carrying in her free hand. “Two shocks in such quick succession would be too much for most people. I should think you’ll be needing that. Ah but I’m forgetting, my little accident was no surprise to you, was it, Lizzie.”

“Dan! What… It can’t be… Is this someone’s idea of a sick joke? I don’t think it’s very funny. What do you mean no surprise?”

“You deserve an Oscar, at least. Lizzie. You always were a good actress. Fortunate for me that your luck ran out before you achieved equal success as a  murderess.”

“What? What are you talking about, Dan?”

He fished in his trouser pocket, pulled out a mobile phone and skimmed through its memory until he found what he wanted then turned it towards Lizzie. The picture detail was as sharp as the knife with which she was cutting his ripcord.

“Yes. I had to come back to lock up and heard noises in the packing shed. I had to capture the moment or no-one would have believed me. As it was everyone was only too keen to help me foil your little plan so dropping a dummy in my place was no problem. Why, Lizzie? That’s what I don’t understand. I thought you loved me.”

Lizzie pointed at Val and spat. “So did I until I saw the two of you coming out of the jeweller’s in the High Street together and you kissing her without caring a jot who saw. Nobody cheats on me!”

The sadness in Dan’s voice as he spoke was undeniably genuine, he had never been a good actor. “Val had been helping me choose a ring for you as a birthday present. I was saying thank you. No-one cheated on anybody.”

The door of the clubhouse was opened to admit two WPCs who approached Lizzie and took her in charge. As she was taken away she turned to Dan. “I hope you kept the receipt. you won’t be needing that ring unless you’re planning on giving it to her now that I’m out of the way.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, Liz.”

Was Lizzie the only one who noticed the Cheshire cat smile as it flew across Val’s face and then vanished as if it had never been?

October 2009

Judge's comments

Increasing entries mean that an increasing  number of good stories have to be set aside, but another reason that good stories miss out is their lack of subject originality.  If a number of entries have the same subject matter, the standard has to be high in other judged aspects.

First Place, fiction,  goes to A Squeal, and Then a Squeak  by Sam Cooney.   This story would be a delight to listen to read aloud - a great story for radio or cassette.  I liked 'the earliest yawn of day.'  Very much reaching the reader on an emotional level, interest is never allowed to flag, and a good pace is maintained without rushing any where. The reader is left with something to ponder on, in the conclusion.

Second Place, fiction,  goes to Lures by Rohan Wightman.  A great setting has been created, and a great atmosphere. Interest is maintained all through, and skilful use of dialogue helps portray character.

For non-fiction, First Place  is A Brush with the Law by Michael Woodhouse.   There is humour in the telling. The reader can well imagine the scenario,  feel involved with the events,  feel what the main character is feeling. Characters are well portrayed, assisted by excellent use of dialogue.

Second Place for non-fiction goes to One Step from the Apocalypse by Vicky Daddo. This takes us right into the disaster area.  The author's life was at risk, yet amongst the grim realities life continued, even  with humour. The tragedy is not made melodramatic; it is factual, and very real.

Congratulations to these successful writers!

The highly commended and commended  writing was all pleasing, and could have been more successful at another time or under another judge.  Further stories submitted by these authors, and others, were worthy of note.  Thank you for the privilege of reading them.

Ruth Strachan

Highly Commended              SHADOW OF DOUBT                 by Max Merckenschlager He arrived on dusk – one more ragged “sundowner”. Our bristle-backed kelpies had already alerted me, barking and gagging as they jerked and cartwheeled furiously at the ends of their chains. The swagman skirted around the woolshed, giving them a wide, respectful berth. A mean-jawed mongrel shadowed his heels. It sailed disdainfully past the pack without so much as a sideways glance. I stood by the sink watching the drama through my kitchen window till he crossed our yard and tap-tapped patiently on the back door. "Can you spare me a meal, missus?" We both knew the routine. "I'll send the children out with something later,” I replied. “There's a heap of wood behind the hen-house that needs splitting.” Throwing a sharp glance back over my shoulder I called, for the swaggie’s benefit, “Frank, will you tell the kids to hurry and fetch me that water from the creek, please? I'm nearly finished peeling these vegies." Frank wasn't moving. In fact, we hadn't spoken in days. He was away shearing at McAllister’s and I didn't expect him home for at least another week. A half-smile flickered across the swagman’s face. He sauntered off, and soon I could hear the sharp ring of our steel axe as it bit deep into red-gum. I kept up my one-sided conversation with Frank awhile, pausing from time to time to listen hard for that reassuring song of the axe.     Later, the children carried out a small stockpot. They squatted close to the swagman, their chins cupped in thought, and stared ungraciously at our visitor while he scoffed the lot and then polished the inside of his enamel dish with several rounds of bread. "Don't you kids let on to him that your dad's away shearing," I had warned them both. "We don't want every stranger knowing all our ins and outs!" Times were tough for everyone during those depression years. You walked a knife-edge sometimes, trying to do the right thing by others while staying safe yourself.   When the children returned, they were overflowing with tales about the exciting places 'our' swaggie had been and all the things he had done – embellished and sanitised by the storyteller, no doubt. They were still recounting odd snippets when I tucked them in, long after dark. Then I turned my full attention to the swagman. It had seemed the right and reasonable thing to do, offering him the shelter of our hayshed to doss down for the night. But afterwards, as I watched the distant glow of his pipe from my kitchen, I scolded myself for going too soft and putting                                                                                                                        the tinder-dry building at risk. Then I stared reflectively into the flames of my own sitting-room fire and kept silent vigil, while the children slept restively – reliving the swagman’s adventures, I guessed. “Ah, Frank!” I whispered longingly, “If only you were here now!”                                                                                                         That helped me a little. I curled up and dozed briefly. My husband’s comforting image flickered and smiled from the fire’s curling flames – only to vanish again as I woke with a start at the crackle and slump of a seething red log. I rose and peered again into the darkness of our yard through a tear in the kitchen curtain. No glowing pipe. “Perhaps he’s asleep?” I thought hopefully. Or prowling around, up to no good! It was my usual practice to let the dogs run loose overnight, to keep an eye on things. But after seeing the swagman’s brute, I had thought better of it. Chained, they were of little consequence to him. But up close and personal? He had the same cold, professional look of those hardened pugilists from the boxing troupe which included our district in its annual circuit. And our dogs lacked their killer instinct, just like the local farming hopefuls who fancied themselves in the ring with one of them. Of course, I should have brought one inside with me overnight for company and support. It struck me what a fool I was, sticking to our long standing rule of no dogs in the house. A bit late for that now though, I realized. In the yard I would have been too vulnerable. I settled back again and gripped the fire poker, cradled reassuringly in my lap.           Time dragged my eyes, rolling like two lead balls in their sockets. I lost count of visits to the unlit kitchen and its keyhole of torn curtain. Mercifully, nothing stirred outside. Was that a good sign or a bad one? I checked and re-covered the children, softly kissing their angelic foreheads. The darkness seemed eternal. No moon at all. But then, some faint calls drew me once more to the kitchen. A thin red light pierced the curtain’s chink. I could hear more calls and then the unmistakable “Caarck, caarck …… caaaaaarck!” of a miserable crow in the pepper tree, stringing off its shopping list of woes. Morning! I closed my eyes, smiling as I drank in a deep, cool draught of daybreak.   Suddenly the farm dogs erupted in a barking frenzy of ill-will. Was it the prelude to something awful and unspoken which I’d been dreading? I inched open the curtain and viewed the whole yard scene. There, passing the home-paddock sliprails, was my swagman and his shadow – heading off together as silently as they had come, along our farm track towards the main gate. ~~~

[i] Sheldrake’s works include: The Rebirth of Nature (1990); Seven Experiments that Could Change the World (1994); Dogs that Know When Their Owners are Coming Home (1999); The Sense of Being Stared At (2004)

 Commended
                                          

My Friend, Harry

 by Coral Andrew

The light was on out the back and I could just see him, standing beside the lemon tree, smoking. Harry had come to live with us after the war, as he was single and most of the available housing was allocated to families. He had been married to my father’s sister before the war, but while he was in France she took up with an American sailor and followed him to Kansas.

   We had a small bungalow at the back of our weatherboard house and he lived there, sharing the yard with two goats, brought in to keep the grass down. I would often see him leaning against the fence, stroking their heads and talking to them quietly. He used the wash-house outside the back door, other than when he stoked the chip heater for his weekly bath, but my mother insisted he eat with us and after a while he became part of our family.

   I loved Harry. He was so gentle and quiet. He always answered my interminable questions. When I asked why his hair was white he said it was because of the war. My father told me Harry had black hair before the war but the stress of all the bad things he saw turned it white. 

   ‘Why didn’t your hair go white?’ I asked.

   ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I guess I can take more than poor old Harry.’

   Sometimes Harry’s hands shook, but when I asked him what was wrong, Mum took me by the shoulders and pushed me out the door, telling me not to come back till I had some manners.

   ‘Harry, why don’t you get married?’ I asked him.

   ‘Nah,” he said. “Who’d marry me?’

   ‘I would – if I was older.’

    He chucked me under the chin. ‘And I’d marry you.’

   We were wandering through the bush, near the small country town where my father ran the local garage. We lived at the end of the long main street, on the edge of what would eventually be a national forest, so there was no shortage of nature for us – Harry and me.                

   ‘Look at that,’ he said. A lorikeet had landed on a branch directly in front of us and was screeching its dominance to us and the forest. ‘Isn’t he magnificent? He’s a scaly-breast. There’s orange under his wings. When he flies you’ll see.’

   The bird took off and Harry watched, mesmerized. I watched Harry, watching the bird. He was easily as fascinating to me as anything he could show me. He was different to the other men I knew. He saw me, for one thing. No-one took much notice of ten-year-old girls. And he was generous – I know he would have shared anything with me if he’d had anything to share. His time was what I wanted and he gave me that. He was honest, too. ‘No use rippin’ someone off,’ he said, one day, as we were watching an army of ants marching along the roots of a tree and into a hole halfway up the trunk. ‘It’ll come back to haunt ya’.’

   He worked for my father part-time at the garage, pumping petrol, repairing tyres, picking up spare parts from the railway station – ‘easy stuff,’ my father had answered, when I asked about Harry’s job. ‘Harry’s not as strong as he was.’ When he wasn’t working, he wandered through the bush, and, as often as I could, I tagged along. I relaxed with Harry. I could say anything and know it wouldn’t get back to my parents. He would listen and nod and that was what I needed. ‘Just try and keep ‘em happy,’ he said, one day, when I was upset about something at home. ‘It’ll make your life easier.’ I rarely followed this advice.

   Sometimes he brought his pipe instead of cigarettes and we would sit by the creek for hours, breathing in the sweet smell of the tobacco. Insects hummed, tiny fish plopped, trying to catch the dragonflies that sat on the surface of the water and the bellbird call rang through the trees.

   When Harry started coughing, I took no notice. All the adults around me who smoked, coughed. When he became thin, I told him he should eat more. He agreed with me. He always agreed with me and it made me feel important. Eventually, I had to admit that Harry was sick.

    ‘I wish you weren’t sick, Harry,’ I said.

   ‘Me too.’

   ‘Will you get better?’

   ‘Probably not.’

   Harry never used many words, so when he spoke I listened. I started crying.

   ‘Don’t cry, little one,’ he whispered. ‘Everything’s fine.’

   ‘You’re not going to die, are you?’

   ‘I might.’

   I didn’t go to the funeral; Mum didn’t make me. I went down to the creek where Harry used to show me where the eels hid and how tadpoles turned into fat frogs.

    ‘Thanks, Harry,’ I said to the trees. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

   A breeze rippled through the branches and I thought I heard, ‘Don’t forget, little one, you promised when you were older you’d marry me.’

 ~~~

 Grieving Mum

by Annika Ohlson-Smith

She listens to the signals in the receiver. For each signal there is a flutter high up in her stomach. And for each flutter there is a hope. At every second signal cum flutter she hopes Mum will answer and every other that she will not. Either way will cause grief. Her weekly dose.

If Mum answers, she will know Mum is still there. If not, after guilt replaces the initial relief, there will be the usual inner debate whether to believe Mum is asleep, or…should she contact the home care agency?

The signals stop. She can hear fumbling with the receiver at the other end. A clearing of throat and Mum’s voice – very weak today – stating her surname, as is her custom, and then “hallo…hallo who is it?”

She instantly swallows the guilt to make her voice happy.

“Hallo Mamsen! It’s me, Maggie! How are you today?”

They chat for a while about the usual things. Mum’s failing heart. She has been in and out of hospital the last six months because of fluid in her legs and lungs. The caretakers.

“There are new girls every day and so many of them! But I shouldn’t complain, they are very kind. They cook and clean. I don’t have to do anything (or ‘there’s nothing left for me to do’). They are good company (or ‘I wish they would leave me alone’)”.

The sudden death of the dog.

“Have I told you I lost Simba?”

“Yes, Mamsen, you have.”

 Simba – the Lion King – an overfed dachshund that died of diabetes a year ago. She had always thought Mum would die from grief, when it happened, but she had survived. Mum stopped going out for her daily walks though.

“I just can’t cope meeting the other dog owners with their dogs!”

 The weather. The confusing facts of the heat of her summer and Mum’s wet and cold winter. At the same time!

 “The world is upside down nowadays, mark my words.”

 And the ever present dilemma – to move or not to move to the rest-home.

 As it’s a repeat of every other conversation they have had for some time now, she relaxes her listening a little after a while and just puts in a murmuring “aha” and “oh dear” here and there. Mum seems to have not a too bad day today. She relaxes a bit more and the flutter settles.

 She doesn’t react immediately, but eventually she realises that there was no sense or reason in Mum’s last harangue. Misfit words tumbling around one after another. Then Mum becomes silent. In the silence she can hear Mum fighting panic.

 “Mum? Mamsen, what is it? Are you ok?”

 Heavy breathing.

 “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

 “I…I don’t know…”, shaky now, “I don’t know, Maggie…I…this is not me. This is not ME, Maggie!”

 Guilt cements her chest. Tears sting her eyes. Mum shouldn’t have to fight this alone! I should be there cradling her in my arms, rocking her, promising everything will be ok, telling all the white lies in the world. 

 But as it is, she is on the other side of the world and can do nothing. Nothing, but change the subject in too cheery a voice. Pretending Mum’s slip into Alzheimer’s black hole hasn’t happened.

     …

As usual after talking to Mum she cannot go to sleep. The grief makes her almost breathless. Because Mum is right. This is not her. While she is tossing and turning in bed pictures of Mum cavalcade in front of her eyes, stirring up old memories.
                                                                                                                               

     Coming home from school on Thursdays. The sweet smell of strong coffee and newly baked cinnamon buns. Mum with stove roses on her freckled cheeks at the kitchen table. Her weekly magazine in front of her. Dunking a bun in her coffee with cream, Mum excitedly reveals their favourite serial novel will come to an end the following week. ‘…and you will never guess what the Duke is up to, it’s such a drama!’ 

    …Mum in her gypsy mood ‘Great! You are just in time to help me shift the piano.’ Theoretically, their living-room had only four walls, but Mum managed to shift the piano against at least twelve. If it wasn’t for Dad, we would have shifted house every so often. As it was, Mum had to be content with shifting around the furniture and buying new curtains for every season – or reason.

     …Mum in her captain’s cap at the annual regatta, so suntanned you couldn’t detect her freckles. Singing her own yachting song. ‘Where are sailors just like us? Winning races without fuss.’   Swinging her arms conducting the spectators. Beaming over the awarded magnum bottle of champagne for best cheer leader.

No, she must stop these mementos from popping up in her head. She is so tired her body feels bubbly. That’s when the poem comes to her. Line after line demanding to be written down. Writing verse about everything is a gift she has got from Mum. But with the poem fear is back. Fear of losing Mum of course, but also fear of ending up as Mum. Before her old anxiety demons are in full bloom, she sneaks out of bed. Shuffling into the office she finds pen and paper. Better not start up the computer. Her hands are slightly shaking, but she has to get it out of her system and on to the paper. Doctor’s orders, she mutters.

     …

In the kitchen, wrapped in a fleece throw, she stirs two soluble, rapid Panadols into a glass of water, while heating up a cup of milk on the stove. The Panadols usually help her relax and the milk will take away the chill inside.

To guide her thoughts out of grief she picks up the book she bought yesterday. With the bedside lamp on lowest light so as not to disturb her sleeping husband, she starts reading.                                                        

When the phone rings she is deep asleep.

~~~

October 2008

Judge's comments

It was a pleasure to read every entry in this competition, and to be able to award the extra prizes this time. I hope the same will be possible next year.

In stories as short as these, I was particularly looking for a good focus. I also wanted something to change between the beginning and end of the story. I was not disappointed on either score!

First Place goes to The List Girl by Vicky Daddo.  The title suits the story well, and opening it with dialogue immediately takes the reader's interest. There is no physical description of the characters, yet we understand them and their reactions well, owing to the writer's skill.  As the plot develops we at first don't notice the clues to the situation, such as "It's your day" being a black faux-pas. When all becomes evident in the closing lines the reader realises the poignancy inherent in the story, and is drawn back to read it again with all its nuances.

Second Place goes to An Elemental Story by Philippa Bower.  This has a punny title for a funny story! It is cleverly written, and a delight to read.

For non-fiction, First Place  is Bicycling in the Fifties by Pat Fletcher. Flash-backs in the story are well handled. It is told in a conversational style, and we understand much through the portrayal of the situation, without needing to be directly told.

Second Place for non-fiction goes to So, So Young by Jacqui Merckenschlager. Memories of childhood are told in evocative prose. It is a story that can be read over and over for its beauty and depth.

Congratulations to these successful writers!

Ruth Strachan 

 Cedar and Ash
   by Suzan Dalziel  
 

“Wake-up Mum, we’re here.”

The sound of the engine died away as Rose slowly opened her eyes, “Sorry love, I must  have dozed off.” Stretching her aching muscles from the long car trip, she blinked about them.  

 It was a pretty setting. The property lay near the top of a wide valley. The old weatherboard lay sheltered against the hilltop with rugged views of the low southern ranges. 

“Do you remember it?” Rose asked.

“Not really.”

“I guess you were too small.” Rose granted reluctantly. She noticed the brightness of the day and swiftness of the wind and was glad of it.

 “I remember that big old pine tree.”

“Cedar, it’s a cedar tree,” Rose amended softly admiring the aged tree still standing tall at the end of the rutted drive-way, its proud stature a contrast to the broken homestead around it. The perfect sentinel, she thought.

“Are you sure about this Mum?” 

 She gave a small reassuring smile, “Yes love.”

“I’ll wait for you here then.”

 Rose walked through the fallen gate and moved carefully over the rocky drive. The natural valley spread out to her left; a swathe of greens and browns of the native bush. Rose breathed deeply and felt alive again as delicious scents and memories and a forgotten happiness swept over her.

They had loved it here, her and Henry. And they had had to leave it. Now, she was the only one left that remembered what it was like.

The strong breeze swept up the hill to rustle the heavy branches behind her. Rose could hear the cedar’s verse; I remember, I was here, I will always be here.

Standing within the giant’s shade she could see the footrest she had used to scamper up it as a little girl; it had seemed such a stretch to reach it back then. Later it had provided some rare privacy for her and Henry as she would walk him to his car after a visit. Her father’s stare from the open doorway no match for its lengthy shadows. If it wasn’t for you old friend I may never have been kissed!

Suddenly she reached out to grab its fissured body, the swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Flashes of old moments forced their way in, Rose wanted to cry and yell and laugh all at once. Henry walking wearily through the kitchen door after a day driving the cattle, his sweaty smell comforting and strong. Henry fixing the incessant hole in the water tank as she’d gossip on, just content in his nearness. The hard work never deterred him, just gave fuel to his ideas and plans for their future.  
 
Then suddenly in their third year of marriage he began having feverish episodes that left him weak and disorientated. They worsened until they’d had to move away, closer to his treatment. Rose had hoped for a speedy recovery and to return before long. But his strength and surety did not fully return and somehow bit by bit, they’d fallen into the haze of urban jobs and urban lives.

Occasionally when Rose would reveal how she missed the valley’s perfume of approaching spring and the dry summer grasses rippling in the wind, Henry would shake his head, “I can’t get away just now,” he’d say, “Work is too busy.” Always he had reasons why they couldn’t go back. One day a lifetime ago they had visited but Henry became distant and impatient with the children’s noise and stream of questions.

 “I’m sorry Rose,” he’d said regretfully once home, “It’s not the same, I’m not the same, I can’t go back until…”

Until you’re whole again, she remembered his resignation clearly. The very emptiness that they’d loved together had become something to overcome, something that needed strength and resilience as its master. Something that Henry had lost.

Nothing to fear now Henry; I’ve brought you home.

Rose took the small dark urn from her bag and stroked its coolness.

This is it my love, time to rest.  
 
She was much calmer than she’d imagined. A feeling of ending yet of rightness came upon her. Uncapping the urn she began a slow walk around the cedar tree, gently pouring Henry’s ashes into the organic softness at its base. The steady wind caught some of the ashes and they lifted and swirled around her. She watched them climb higher and then sweep down into the valley below.

Rose was happy to know that where her end lay Henry would be waiting, strong again under the cedar tree.

She walked back to the waiting car. 

~~

Being a Refugee
by Pat Fletcher

The Sudanese family who moved in next door had spent ten years in a refugee camp in Kenya. They had two small children, a boy of about six and a tiny girl with a scream that would turn you to stone. The husband was a lay preacher. He marched off to work at the local church most days, leaving his wife at home with the little ones. She was heavily pregnant, and I soon discovered her knowledge of English was nil.  

Another Sudanese family lived in the district, and the wife would visit two or three times a week, but mostly, this sad and bewildered lady spent her time alone. I didn't see much of her except when she listlessly swept the driveway or sat forlornly on the front step.  Our communications were limited to greetings. A couple of times Joseph expressed the wish that we should become kind of surrogate parents, but we weren't in a position to take on that role.

They had been brought to Australia by a church group, presumably connected to the church where Joseph worked. Their sponsors, whom I'll call John and Mary, deposited them in the Homeswest house, visited them a few times a week, then once a week, then occasionally.  Nice people: I'm sure they meant well, but they obviously hadn't the faintest idea what it might be like for a family from a totally different culture and environment to be planted into a conservative, middle-class neighbourhood.

I suspect they believed that with a shopping centre across the road and public transport within easy walking distance, the family would be just fine. I wonder if they had any notion of what it must be like to be transported from the isolated community of a third world refugee camp to the bustle and apparent freedom of a western culture.

About six months later I arrived home one day to see Joseph, the two little ones at his feet, about to enter his front door. I greeted him and enquired after his health as usual, noticing the absence of his usual brilliant smile. He hesitated before admitting that he "was not so good today". That must have taken a lot of courage - African men don't confess malaises to women, especially white women - but he probably had no one else to tell, and his problem must have seemed appallingly shameful.

The police had come and taken his wife away, along with their brand new baby! He thought they'd taken her to gaol but really didn't know, and had no idea how to contact her or what to do.

I was horrified. What on earth had this fearful, unhappy little woman done to attract police attention? I could only imagine his anguish. In places where he'd come from, the police meant trouble with a capital T. He didn't know what she'd done wrong, and didn't understand why they'd carted her.

Thankfully his sponsor, John, had given me his business card. I phoned, told him Joseph's dilemma, and left it to him.

Later that day, a police car and an unmarked sedan parked on the verge of their house. I watched as a large motherly person and a policewoman gently helped Mrs Joseph and baby from the back of the unmarked car and, preceded by two policemen, led her to the front door. I tried not to peek too much through my kitchen window, but when the woman in civilian dress returned to the unmarked car, I had to find out what had happened. She was reluctant to say anything but relented when I explained my interest.

It transpired the family had been waiting at the train station in Perth. Presumably there had been some kind of "domestic", and Joseph had dealt with her nagging in true African-husband style: he’d walloped her. Someone must have called the police, and Mrs Joseph and baby had been taken to a woman's refuge, safe from the dreadful husband's abuse. Did they have the slightest concept of her terror at being removed by the police from the only security she knew?

Lessons in this for everybody: Joseph - one of the laws of his new country; the sponsors - that there's more to rescuing people than playing hero. And Mrs Joseph was introduced to English lessons.

~~

Aliens 
by Sandra James

not for publication

October 2007

Judge’s comments

What I was looking for in these short pieces was simplicity.  The length is not there to develop a complex plot.  Still, something must eventuate between the beginning and the end, something of interest.  Although the winners were stories or story-like, many of the top entries were not.

Unlike just a dream of the past, Karma incorporates knowledge that the younger sibling has died.  It is a visit from ‘where it is you exist now’, and they are ‘not talking about where you are now’.  There is emotion here, a pleasure mixed with tension, they are ‘drawn as if we had no choice’. There is an immediacy and a good focus, with the end linking back to the opening. There is excellent imagery. Sounds and words like ‘squelch’ are very evocative, and with a voiced reading we can hear alliteration and poetic cadences. This still gives pleasure on subsequent readings.

In Tourist, good use is made of flash-back, although the time elapsed in the present is merely hours or even minutes.  The dialogue is very natural, at the same time revealing much to the reader.  The attitude of the wife soon becomes unbelievable. There is an element of farce here, but subtle enough to let through the horror of the eventual realization.   It is enjoyable to re-read this story and note the humour, unnoticed on the first reading, of  “My wife’s into bookmarks in a big way”  and “travelling a lot with tourists now.”

We hope in 2008 to offer another competition for fiction, and reserve Gum Leaves for non-fiction.  Let’s keep our fingers crossed!  But this one worked well, although I had expected greater difficulty in judging the mixture. The pleasure I had from reading so many delightful works made up for any difficulty.  The worst part, as so often, was in putting aside very worthy entries. Congratulations to the successful!

Ruth Strachan 

“Thank you,” I say, modestly. The first customers of the day. American ... or possibly Canadian. I can never tell.

“We’re tourists,” he says.

I smile politely. Americans - no doubt about it.

“So, where else are you off to ... besides here?” I notice that Susan, my young assistant, is helping Mrs. Tourist to choose a scarf.

“Pearldrop Bay. It’s on our list of ‘must-sees’. Have you been there?”

“Only last year. Might I suggest that you sit on the beach for awhile and watch the clouds. The way they form over the mountains on the far side of the bay.”

“Thanks. We probably won’t have time. ‘Schedule’ you understand.”

“Yes, of course. Schedule.” He wanders over to his wife. Susan will look after them now.

I relax, recalling the last visit to Pearldrop with my wife. The American’s got a ‘schedule,’ same as Belinda. She loved her ‘schedules’ so much. Let’s see, when were we there? November seventh? Yes, seventh.

“Come on Belinda. Relax for a minute and watch the clouds. See how they form when the wind hits the left side of the ... Belinda, what are you doing?”

“Packing. I’ll drive. You’re too slow. We’ve got to get to Silver Beach before five.”

“Why? Can’t we stay here and watch ...”

“What? ‘The clouds’? Give me a break, Stevie.”

I hate it when she calls me that although I’ve given up telling her. My name’s Steve or Steven. I wouldn’t say she does it to irritate me. It’s simply ... well, she doesn’t think.

“Come on, ‘little’ Stevie,” she says, before kicking me in the kidneys. It hurts. The previous bruises haven’t healed. I try not to show the pain as I get to my feet, dusting the sand from my clothes. She’s already walking away.

“Whoops!” she exclaims. “Almost forgot. Souvenir shop.”

I follow her, reluctantly, predictably. Why do I let her ruin my life?

‘Do you sell leather bookmarks?’ That’s what she’ll say next, in that squeaky voice which I’ve begun to hate.

“Do you have leather bookmarks for sale?” followed by exited squeal number two when the assistant shows her the selection. Obsessive, compulsive bookmark collector.

“If you haven’t got a bookmark, then no one knows if you’ve been there,” she tells the young girl. The assistant smiles back, not having heard Belinda say the same thing to eighty seven other bookmark salespeople. Eighty seven bloody coloured leather rectangles with embossed pictures and words, proudly displayed in our living room.

I follow her back to the car, opening the passenger door for myself.

“Ahem, Stevie. Aren’t we forgetting something?” I stammer an apology, rushing to open the driver’s door for her. I wait until she’s seated, before gently closing it.

“Women deserve to always be treated with courtesy,” she reminds me with her cold stare. Belinda-Rule, number seventeen.

That evening, we examine her two bookmarks. Belinda prefers the beige one from Silver Beach the best. I agree with her. It’s simply easier.

After we watch her favourite television shows, she invites me to massage her thigh. She hitches her nightie to expose the naked flesh then checks that my hands are clean so that I don’t put any germs on her ‘lovely’ body.

‘Soft as satin, soft as silk,

Smooth as creamy buttermilk.’

I recite her special words as my fingers brush her leg, gently rubbing her special oil onto her golden-tan skin.

Is this why I allow myself to be humiliated? Love? No, it’s not ‘love’. Lust then.

She slaps my cheek. A hard, stinging slap.

“Naughty! That was too high. Just for that you can sleep in the car, tonight.” Her tone is angry, commanding. I’ve heard it before ... too often.

“How dare you spoil our holiday, like that, Stevie. I’m very disappointed in you, very disappointed indeed.”

I want to yell at her, to tell her she couldn’t be as disappointed as me.

I don’t.

Instead I open the door of the motel room. There’s a thick frost on the car windscreen. “Before you go, get me my machine out. It won’t upset me and it’s not as small as ....”

“Excuse me ...”. Someone’s speaking to me. I’m in the shop. The American is standing opposite.

“Sorry ... . I was daydreaming. Sorry about that. Has Susan sorted you out?”

“Oh, yes. We bought a few things. Wanted a bookmark. Not one of those cardboard ones. Can you help?”

“I know the ones you want. My wife’s into bookmarks in a big way.” I point out the selection of leather ones at the end of the counter.

“Ah, a fellow collector. Is that your wife?” He nods his head towards Susan who is rearranging some shelves.

"Oh, no,” I laugh. “My wife’s overseas. We’re separated. She travels a lot these days. ”

Mr. Tourist selects a pale green bookmark. He comments on the supple texture. Placing it in a bag, I watch the Americans move toward the shop door.

“By the way, which state are you from?” I call out.

“Vermont. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I reply.

I move down the counter to tidy the souvenir selection. Postcards - looking sparse. I’ll have to order some more on Thursday. The furry animals grin at me stupidly as I reposition them. Then there’s the leather bookmarks - they’ve been a steady seller. Only eleven left in the stand and five of those are red. I call to Susan to get some more from the store room.

While she’s gone, I caress the tips of my fingers against the soft leather bookmark on top. This one is still its natural colour, a golden-tan.

‘Mmmmm’, I begin softly, as I close my eyes to concentrate on the touch, the texture. My whisper is tinged with memories of the past,

‘Soft as satin, soft as silk ...’

~ ~ ~

Karma

by Winsome Mitchell

             You came to me last night filling my dreams with memories and my heart with longing. It was wonderful to see you, young and healthy with a glow to your cheeks and I just wanted to hold you. To be still; content with your presence for a time but typically, you were impatient to keep moving.

            “Come with me,” you said stretching out your hand, but even then I could hear the cry of the distant gannets and sensed where we were going.

            “Let’s go bike-riding instead,” I protested, but you ignored me and even though you were the younger sibling I followed you reluctantly to the willow lined river bank.

We climbed among the trees, children again, swinging like brown limbed monkeys from the golden branches before we broke and tangled them one over the top of the other to form a dense tree-hut. We sat hidden beneath the wilting leaves, eating half ripe apples smuggled from the neighbour’s orchard; not talking about where you are now, but instinctively understanding that even your death hadn’t destroyed our special bond.

Meanwhile, the receding tide lifted the hem of her rippled skirt to reveal an undergarment of thick grey mud, and we left the shelter of the trees to wade calf deep in the sludge. I lifted the ends of rotting logs and savoured the sound of your laughter as you poked and prodded the mud beneath with a piece of driftwood. We screamed in mock terror when you flicked out a crab or an eel, then dropped that log and squelched on to the next.

In this way we moved steadily toward the river mouth. The plaintive cry of gannets-in-mourning grew steadily more strident, and when I saw the remains of the old wharf rising from the sand like a monolith, I knew it signaled the beginning of the end of my dream.

            Yet still we pressed on. Drawn as if we had no choice.

 Young hands reached up and young legs twined themselves around the weathered piles. We hauled ourselves onto the sun-bleached skeleton of the wharf and searched its bones for the gannets’ eggs which lay nestled in carefully prepared nests of dried seaweed and bird droppings. Would we never learn?

 Ignoring a gathering sense of loss we shouted in delight as we wrapped our fingers around the chalky blue eggs and then drew back our arms, only to fling them forward and smash the eggs against the wooden cross-beams. As the life exploded from the shattered shells and stained the ruins with yellow death, the black and white parent birds shrieked their distress and took to the skies with their long, pointed wings just as they did all those years ago.

The cacophony grew even more shrill until at last the sound of the birds invaded my sleep and I sensed you slipping away; our dreamtime together stolen by the gannets just as we stole the life from their unborn chicks so long ago. I struggled against the first pinpricks of wakefulness and watched helplessly as your image became more and more distant. In vain I attempted to grasp the coat-tails of vanishing sleep and with a heavy heart, opened my eyes to the new day.

Once again the gannets had gained their revenge and I awoke missing you, while you went back to wherever it is you exist now.

~ ~ ~

He noticed the change in the air first of all. There was a newly-arrived subtle, dusty taint. It was not a smell that could be described in detail, more a whiff of clay talc in the gentle breeze, stirred and enhanced by moisture.

The sound would be next, or rather the absence of it. Countryside noise would be dulled and absorbed, like spilt ink soaking into well-used blotting paper on a desk. He smiled at the image. Times had changed from the pen nibs that scratched words across the pages of his school days. Only nature remained eternal - the sounds and touch of a raindrop was the same now as it had always been.

The old man fidgeted in his attempt to get more comfortable, then gazed at the irregular blue horizon for the usual signs of coming rain. They were the same hills which heralded childhood storms a lifetime ago. He could not discern any warning today - only a grey haze at the land-sky boundary. Maybe that was it, he considered, frustrated at his failing eyesight.

The sun had long since departed along with its cooling shadows. The colours of the native garden blooms were not as vibrant now but were still testament to the warmth of the summer’s day. Slowly he turned at a nearby sound, half-expecting his daughter to be coming so she could take him inside. She was his youngest, a mother-to-be herself. She would come soon, caring for him now that he could no longer care for himself.

His attention was drawn to a flash of tinted movement, near the earlier noise. Only a robin, constantly alert in its explorations. For a moment it came near to him, realised its error and flew off again.

The hush altered slightly as a single raindrop fell to a dried leaf on the parched earth. He peered intently to witness the change in dappled colour of the leaf from beige to burnt umber. The rain had proclaimed its coming to the parched landscape all around him. He wondered about his daughter. Surely she knew and would come to move him from the certain storm. She wouldn’t leave him in the open. She wouldn’t.

Another droplet splashed nearby. It also disturbed the tranquillity of the leaf litter. Where was she? Touching the wheels of his chair to push them, he knew instinctively that his strength had long since gone. He could not move himself to shelter.

There was a gentle silent sigh in resignation at the possibility that he might get wet. The first rain in five months. He recalled another lazy, dry summer like this. It was long ago when he ran freely around these same gardens. At that time he was filled with the energy and joy of a child. So many years gone. And yet, in some aspects, it was yesterday to him. His mother standing, arms crossed over the lilac-spotted apron she always wore. Her manner was gentle, always helpful and he recalled her smile. In his thoughts, the old man heard himself once more. “Rainz, mama. Look at the rainz,”

A cooling splash licked the greying hairs of his bared arm. More spots followed, cast down from the leaden skies. He rejoiced in the movement, the activity, the sensations of his changing feelings.

There was one solitary droplet hanging precariously on a leaf close to his feeble sight. It was a thing of boyhood fascination - a shimmering rainbow. It beckoned him to reach out to touch it.

Gazing upwards he closed his eyes against the increasing assault, all concerns forgotten about becoming wet. It was too late. Already his sodden clothing swathed his frail body. He thought again of his daughter. Why isn’t she here? His worries were now for her, rather than himself.

The hard rain beat against his closed eyes. He felt life forces of nature tumbling about him, protecting and renewing his spirit-drained soul. “Rainz”, he recalled in his exhilaration.

The precious waters transformed the dry garden and countryside, enhancing the colour of the plants wilted by the summer warmth. All around the glistening figure of the old man life was being renewed. Accepting his own fate as a part of the same life cycle, he smiled inwardly at the energy bestowed on him. An opened mouth let the waters rejuvenate his inner self as it bathed his skin.

Overhead the thunder rumbled across the clouds, preceded by sudden flashes of strobed whiteness. He relaxed whilst sharing the loud declaration of nature’s majesty.

The wheelchair moved. Instinctively he tensed. What was happening? He felt himself pushed to the shelter of the verandah as the storm continued. Grudgingly, he accepted the disturbance, aware that his time of union with the rain was now over.

His daughter moved around to face him. Her hair was disheveled, her demeanour confused. She must have been sleeping.

“ Why didn’t you call me?” she demanded, both concerned and guilty.

His eyes replied. Instantly Julie regretted her accusations.

“Because you couldn’t,” she understood from his plaintive appearance, sobbing at the reminded truth.

‘It’s all right,’ his eyes continued through the tears. Slowly, he pulled himself upright and demanded for her to look at him.

“Rain”, he whispered, a single coherent word forced through the haze of his now-language. The old man smiled, knowing she was sharing his pleasure at the brief respite from aridity for the fourth generation ancestral home.

“Yes, Dad. Rain.”

~ ~ ~

The Lecture

by Pat Rosier

The lecture is at the American Embassy in Wellington. That’s what it calls itself on its signage, ‘The American Embassy.’ We, the audience, have to give advance notice of our attendance, so we can be listed, and then show photo ID at the entrance and have what we carry xrayed. So courteously done, by people with American manners and New Zealand accents. In the ante-room are elegant nibbles, small pancakes with savoury toppings. Wine, beer or juice and substantial paper napkins with an embedded crest are passed around by non-speaking waiters.

The cultural adviser, a New Zealander, introduces his boss the public affairs officer, an American. He is a diplomat, public affairs tells us, and his last posting was in Kabul, where his office was a well-appointed cargo container. The accommodation in Wellington is more to his liking. He doesn’t mention the high wire fence and the check points to get in.

The lecturer, who has a teaching post at Auckland University, compared portraiture in New Zealand and the United States. She is young and blond and thin, with strappy shoes, longish feather-cut hair and modern half-frame glasses. Her dress is made of a fine fabric, see-through in non-revealing places, light and lacy. The colour is not blue, not green, not grey; a dull, flat, flattering colour. She speaks in a slow, deliberate manner, holding each syllable separate in its own space. Her educated American accent is very clear and easy to hear.

Portraits, she says, are representations of a subject in the widest sense and not necessarily a naturalistic picture. The use of photography as a portrait medium does not eliminate idealisation of the subject. The status of portraits and portrait artists in the art world is low. Portraits, especially commissioned ones, are used as a means to display the rank of the subject. She shows slides of portraits by Rembrandt and Van Dyke alongside painted portraits of Bill and Hillary Clinton.

Do we, she asks — as viewers — concentrate on the subject or the painting? Does the recognition factor — oh, look! that’s Marilyn Monro — get in the way of us seeing the painting itself, judging it as a work of art?

After too few slides she calls for questions. You can see how enamoured of her the older men are; they tell her about themselves, their families. A couple of women offer information about portraits in New Zealand that she might want to see.

‘Would she go out with me?’ comes not sotto voce enough, from a young man in the second row and she blushes and turns her body and her attention to the woman in the front talking about the paintings in the corridors of the old government buildings that now house a law faculty. The public affairs officer winds up the questions, gives gracious thanks. Flowers are brought on and presented by a shy girl. The final applause is enthusiastic; it was a stimulating lecture and she is young, beautiful and charming.

~ ~ ~

THE BLOCK

by Tarang Bates

The fan whirred fast above my head. I sat watching my skirt lift and flutter with the movement of air. Aztec red and purple on sand, pleasing to the eye.

This place is hot and dry, brown and parched – where the chooks scratch down to the roots of the plants for succulent moistness.

Far away from the lush tropical north, which I call home. Contemplating family affairs. This family is large – I am a part of it now. Part of this gathering from far and wide, to make emotional and complicated family decisions.

Even the Jacaranda struggle here. The Eucalyptus are wild and huge and of unimaginable colour. Although there are places their bleached skeletons stand amongst the fallen. On the banks of the Murray, the earth at their feet covered with a white layer of salt, their death.

This gathering is large and many generations. A boy of the latest generation, points out a beautiful scene. This is his life, this dry, brown place and he has a love and an appreciation of its spirit that surprises me.

“Use the outside dunny for number twos. Shut the door to stop the snakes,” is yelled out across the crisp brownness.

I wonder how the next generation down from me, the newest herd of sisters-in-law, take to this tradition of bold and honest, loud and chaotic communication. I watch as they quietly circle the periphery of the chaos, trying to fathom from their faces and body language, if they are fazed by the brashness.

There is something about this family in its boldness, strength and wildness, that you just can’t help warm too. Opinions and spirits are strong; life was hard once, creating a determination, fullness in all things.

Will the new members of the herd see this, before they flee back to what is safe, polite, comfortable and predictable?

Non-stop - loud, rampant, controversial conversations, rage over the huge dinner gatherings, coupled with loud, loud laughing, layering over and over until it all becomes a blur.

The block, they call it, acres of sand and trees that struggle with the elements.

A place of special memories for this tribe..

~ ~ ~

Staying True

by chayne de cairns

He was knocking at her door~ again. The night's light rain pooling at his grass and mud splattered feet as she opened the door. Florescence reflects off his glim-lit eyes, she sees hope there, a silent call for her not to turn him away. Not tonight. Mentally she kicks herself for the Damask rose washing past her silhouette form centered in the whirlpool breeze that arabesques past him at the door. A smile ghosts her compressed lips as she brushes past him, taking the lead down the front stairs, they cross through the garage to the spare rooms below. He walks close behind her, his breath short, hands running through his damp hair. As she flicks the light on, she turns to watch him sit heavily, hands now rubbing his face as he realizes - he should not be here. "What you need," she murmurs across the silent room, "is a cup of tea." She smiles as she turns away from him, and with a slight shake of her head rolls her eyes at the idiocy of the situation. Of them. His relieved sigh carries on the cool breeze, as she walks away to be a friend.

~ ~ ~

Composting Grief

By Meg McNaught

The garden is an escape. So an old friend, now wearing the cloak of widowhood around her thin shoulders, informs me. I smile secretly. I picture the quiet contemplation of trees. The dependability of cycles. The resilience of natives. I try to understand the need within my friend to surround herself with this energy of growth, this reliability of life. Has she noticed the irony, I wonder? Has she looked beyond the flowering buds and the aromatic shrubs? Past prolific fruit trees and confident annuals? For this very place that offers her solace and reassurance, fosters the constancy of death.

Decaying reminders of this constancy are held within the compost heap situated on the fringes of her garden. Like my grieving widow friend, the heap is slightly outcast, as though the garden society doesn’t want to be reminded of its own mortality. Of life’s fatality. In the heap is thrown a sad soggy banana peel, dripping with fermentation. Added to it, the bitterness of a lemon, turning sour. The angry stench of a forgotten potato. The powdery fragility of a mouldy piece of bread. From the garden is tossed a crackle of dried leaves, edges jagged with memories of a youthful green. The hollow laughter of a once cheerful pansy. A thorn pruned from a stoic rose.

The heap is then topped off with the normalcy of grass clippings.

These ingredients concoct together in a composting introduction to widowhood. At first the layers of grief are clearly defined: sadness, anger, pain. But the widow’s cloak and its unrelenting seams hold fast; much like the tarp covering our compost heap. Donned with thick garden gloves, our widow cannot untie the cloak or even dislodge it. Resignedly she accepts the weight of the cloak and the protection it sometimes offers from windy well-wishers and sunny dispositions.

As time passes, grief settles. Our composting widow may have once been a raw pile of emotion, but now she’s feeling more together. Fortified with her rawness and stronger for the potency of sorrow and emptiness, the decaying stench is not quite so offensive, laughter not quite as hysterical. A blending of ingredients occurs, resulting in a smoother, richer product.

Except then, out of nowhere erupts a summer storm. Clouds of memories clash with lightning bolts of reality. Under the flapping tarp the compost heap is churned. Exposed and vulnerable to elements beyond her control, our widow is in a state. New layers mix with those already partially broken down, resulting in a prickliness unexpected at this point in the composting process. Uprooted, my friend wishes the garden was more receptive to irritating itchiness and more tolerating of turbulence. Further adjustment is necessary. The heap is topped with leaves that have gathered like steadfast friends in a shaded corner behind the garden shed. Some thoroughly dried herbs, a potion saved for desperate times only, are added with hopes of sedating the unease.

Eventually life stabilizes, but not as before. Our widow’s ingredients, in different stages of decomposition, have hybridized in a way she could not have foreseen. Usually unpredictability in the garden is relished, like discovering a flowering orchid hidden amongst the rocks. But when an unexpected rendition of ‘their favourite song’ is performed by a choir of butcher birds, an unsettling wave flutters through her system. She seeks the dependable periwinkle bloom of an agapanthus, now as familiar to her as the memory of her dead husband’s arms. The rocks in her garden retain her wall of resolve.

Later, underneath the jacaranda tree, my friend flicks her cloak over her shoulder and takes a moment to reflect on how decomposing grief has changed her life. The sorrow and pain have matured. Filtering layers have yielded a more refined product. Life’s necessities are all that is left in the rich dark soil, still moistened by infrequent tears, fragrant in the way of goodness. Grief has connected her again with life’s essentials. Re-introduced her to parts of herself marriage had melded. In this newly blended soil of life, tears, bitterness and fragility have been transformed.

This refinement is now herself.

It is as if grief has awoken an awareness within her layers. Strength, determination and passion are available to her once again. Sometimes she even feels joy. Yes joy.

What happens next in this decomposing process? What does our widow do with the history of her pain, loneliness and sadness; life’s lessons condensed into a few metres of precious soil? From where I’m standing, in the partial shade of the frangipani, I watch my widowed friend scatter her seeds of wisdom. She is able to do this despite the cloak falling forward and getting in her way. It is less cumbersome now, the deep black has faded to a softer grey. She reaches out to an African daisy, seeking more light. She listens to a recently transplanted rose, struggling with rocky soil. Anything or anyone needing a boost benefits from my friend’s richly composted grief. This is the ironic part. The process of decay and decomposition has made for an opulent vintage. One with the ability to nurture and perpetuate the cycles of life in others.

I heard someone say you are never the same once you’ve grieved. Whether your first taste of grief was as a child when your dog died or as an adult like my cloaked widowed friend. Life is no longer viewed through untouched eyes; it is lived with a new knowing. This increased appreciation of life’s fragility deepens our sadness and amplifies our laughter. Composting our grief into a richer life for all.

~ ~ ~

THIS MOVING LIFE

by Edel Wignell 

 After moving house I am unusually alert. My senses constantly compare and contrast the old environment with the new. Malvern (Melbourne) is almost inner-suburban, totally different from the foothills of the Dandenong Ranges in the outer east where I live now.

  First I notice that it's cooler and fresher. If the temperature forecast for the city is 20 degrees, I mentally adjust to 18. Preferring cool weather, I feel my energy levels soar. Often there is a breeze which I welcome because, at last, I can breathe freely. No more environmental pollution! Goodbye to sore throats, anti-histamines and nasal inhalers!

  On early morning power-walks, I notice architecture and gardens. Malvern features Edwardian, Federation and other classic styles, set in well-established, manicured gardens in streets on a square grid.

  Outer suburbia sprawls on avenues, ways and boulevards: large houses on wide frontages of lawn with trees and a few shrubs. The garden beds may not be as resplendent, but there is room for two or three vehicles and a large boat.

  Walking east, I reach parkland bordered with grand houses overlooking three lakes. To the west is a golf course with a wild fringe, the scent of fox evoking memories of my childhood on a farm.

  Young families dominate the area. Children provide distractions and need chauffeuring. I see more children in a day than I used to see in a week - pushed in prams and toddling beside mothers.

  The undercover shopping centre is perfect in all weathers - much more comfortable than a shopping strip. It's conducive to browsing and taking a coffee break. Visible consumption rules! Young people eat and drink on the run. Elderlies sit for their refreshments, and observe. Injunctions ring out!

  'Come here, Harry!'

  'Put that back, Rebecca!'

  'Thomas! Hurry! Up!'

  In the school holidays a miniature golf course is set up and a play booth with photography entices mothers to bring their children to be immortalised on film.

  In the past I waited in a queue at the bank and the post office, but not for long. Here, the queues stretch out the door. In the first week, I waited at the bank's information counter, glancing often at my watch. A client left; my turn next. I sighed as I moved forward. A young woman behind me shuffled from foot to foot and muttered.

  I turned sympathetically. 'I've been here for a quarter of an hour.'

  'I've got a kindy pick-up!' Her voice was urgent and angry.

  Just then, the last client left and the bank officer looked up. I moved forward, but not quickly enough. The young woman darted ahead and took my place! I protested, but she ignored, persevering with her business.

  The bank officer glanced and said, 'I'm sorry, but I'm on my lunch hour.'

  Silenced by this logic, I waited with uncharacteristic meekness, reminding myself that, from time to time, the ruthlessness of motherhood should be celebrated.

  Our former suburb has many splendid restaurants, so, for months before we moved, we wondered and speculated. Where will we eat? Soon we discovered every kind of take-away establishment within walking distance, all hugely patronised by families.

  Close by is a variety of restaurants and clubs, and a high-class bistro in an enormous hotel. The hotel is surrounded by acres of car parking to service a huge poker machine area. From time to time, boxing and wrestling shows may be viewed in one of the function rooms. Why would anyone want to stay at home and tend a garden?

  The Dandenong Ranges and their culinary pleasures are now at our back door. It is easy to drop everything and slip away for lunch or afternoon tea in a leafy paradise.

  In the past travel was easy: 100 metres from my door was a tram to the Arts Centre, city, public library and university. Three tram stops away was a train station. Reading as I ride is one of my pleasures.

  On moving, how would I travel? As a patron of public transport, I couldn't imagine driving my car, except when I wanted to cut across suburbs. Soon I discovered an express bus to a train station, linking with an express train to the city. Even more time to read!

  For most people, moving house is a traumatic experience. It was, for us, too. But pleasure came afterwards with the waking of the senses to all things new.

~ ~ ~