My writing a work in progress
my heart worn upon my sleeve
my spirit dances and dives
I look up at the sky in wonder
the world remains beautiful.
- 19th Feb 2008
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Bee
Once upon a time there was a giant bee who injected its sting into a ripe plum. The plum erupted at once, its juices a mild lava. It had fallen from a tree on a day when koalas were being burnt high in the gum trees above. That was the day the temperature hit 50C. People had walked through the main town earlier that day, 44 degrees at 9am, wiping their brows with saturated sleeves, their brains frying underneath the weathered layer of skin on their foreheads. They had been the lucky ones, they had survived until now. The bee, sensing danger, flew above the fire level, watching the inhabitants' lives swept aside in a raging blaze of hatred, the devil had come to play. Later on the bee surveyed the aftermath; everything charcoaled. On closer inspection it saw the plum still there, squirting its dark, hot juices into the air. Flooded by its own insides gushing back down, it slowly caved in. The bee zeroed in for a taste.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Reptiles & Magicians
Reptiles & magicians
Play the snake
Game fingers click
Magic flies
Across the floor
Wildly snapped up
Hungry lizard.
© Daniel Lewis Jan 1999
Play the snake
Game fingers click
Magic flies
Across the floor
Wildly snapped up
Hungry lizard.
© Daniel Lewis Jan 1999
Deep Stone
O deep stone
Entrap me in your languid breadth
Close over my eyes a warm, starry cloak
A drifting boat, sidling away
From the diminishing day
A red wine swirl
A reality like bruised fruit
In its darkening bloom
The shudder of the turning world
Stops you
And your heart cries
And memories jab at you
Snatches of your elusive past.
© Daniel Lewis late 2006
Entrap me in your languid breadth
Close over my eyes a warm, starry cloak
A drifting boat, sidling away
From the diminishing day
A red wine swirl
A reality like bruised fruit
In its darkening bloom
The shudder of the turning world
Stops you
And your heart cries
And memories jab at you
Snatches of your elusive past.
© Daniel Lewis late 2006
The Throes Of Pain
I awake under an angered sky
Broken up grey & smokey
Lightning crackles
Thunder roars
The rippled waves slap
Upon the shell scattered sand
I look around the vast deserted beach
In the deep night darkness
when a plank of wood
at the end of a bulky arm
smashes into my face
I crash into the sand once more
Falling into an abyss
flames engulf me
& my charcoaled, blistered face
is staring into that of the Devil's
and the pain in my head subsides
as the Devil greedily sucks out
My inner soul.
© Daniel Lewis 2001
Broken up grey & smokey
Lightning crackles
Thunder roars
The rippled waves slap
Upon the shell scattered sand
I look around the vast deserted beach
In the deep night darkness
when a plank of wood
at the end of a bulky arm
smashes into my face
I crash into the sand once more
Falling into an abyss
flames engulf me
& my charcoaled, blistered face
is staring into that of the Devil's
and the pain in my head subsides
as the Devil greedily sucks out
My inner soul.
© Daniel Lewis 2001
Ecky
Ecky! Gie us a fookin' ecky!
No chance.
Ah've the money.
You're not getting one.
But ah'm fookin' desperate.
That's why you're not getting one.
Whae do ye think ye are, Mister fookin' Moral Highground?
No. You're just not getting one.
No chance.
Ah've the money.
You're not getting one.
But ah'm fookin' desperate.
That's why you're not getting one.
Whae do ye think ye are, Mister fookin' Moral Highground?
No. You're just not getting one.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Bide
The local church chimed twelve times and the child in Will Shaddock resurfaced as he stepped out of parents’ newsagents and into the main street of his home town. When he was a child, he’d watch his father do the same thing, like clockwork, each Sunday. Always a cross-check of his watch against the first chime, and an exclamation that it was ‘the real time’ as he closed shop for the day.
Will turned the lock and surveyed the area. Flannelette-wearing churchgoers, old people setting out on afternoon walks, a stray dog. The town was silent-heavy, dying. He looked up at the sky. It was overcast: a thin, pale layer of sunlight trying to sneak through. A proper Sunday.
His listless gaze was broken upon hearing the click of boots on the pavement. He turned around and saw Angela walking toward him. A faded denim jacket partially covered a light blue cotton dress that clung to her body; an effervescent smile on her face. Excitement rippled through him as he accepted her kiss. She was early.
“How was your morning, darl?” Angela asked.
“Same old,” he said. He searched the recesses of his brain for a sharp afterthought but nothing came.
“Always the same, huh?”
“Yep. Always the same.”
“Ah well, not to worry, let’s do some exploring... Let’s go to the river, somewhere you’ve never been...”
She ruffled his hair and winked: “Where we can do our own thing.”
They held hands walking toward his station wagon. Will reflected on how strange it felt to be allowing someone into his world; having his little routine impeded. It felt good. Angela’s hand rested on his left leg as they took off. Shadows lengthened as the sunlight glowed and expanded. A strange calm permeated Will’s body. He took his sunglasses out of the driver door console, put them on and smiled.
Angela was looking out the window, her eyes darting around in every direction. Every few seconds Will would look across at her. Tall and curvy, the multi-coloured bandanna in her hair, bronzed skin, her face faintly freckled. Her face lit up when she smiled, which was so often it prompted Will to think she knew something that no-one else did.
* * *
A few weeks before she had walked into the newsagent. Having purchased a copy of Living Now magazine, she introduced herself. She told him she had moved from the city to write; of her fascination with the Murray River; that she was intrigued by the seclusion of the area. Will, realising she wanted a conversation and not the standard small talk to which he was accustomed, nervously pieced a few sentences together. Of course he’d show her around.
At the pub that same night she told Will of her strong belief in fate; that there was a reason he stayed in the town when so many of his peers had moved on. Will didn't know about any of that, but as she placed her hands over his, he felt a warm sense of life easing its way back into his psyche.
* * *
Will turned onto a dirt back road he knew went toward the river. On either side there were towering, ancient river gums and dense scrub from where the occasional galah or wild cockatoo would fly.
Nearing a bend they saw a small navy blue sign ahead of a turnoff that led onto a rough track. Angela sat upright, peering forward.
“Let’s check it out.”
Will looked at the wordless sign, uncertain.
“I bet ya it’s a dead end.”
“Could be,” Angela said, now leaning into Will’s space, “but it could be paradise, too.”
Will couldn’t help smiling. “Okay then.”
A few minutes after the turnoff their path was blocked by a rotting wooden log which had been placed in the crude indentations of two thick stumps that sat on either side, suspending it about one metre off the ground. Shrubbery filled the space underneath.
Angela jumped out and walked over to the log and scanned the area.
“The track continues,” she called back to Will still sitting in the car.
She took a closer look at the log. A dank, musty smell; termite-ridden.
“I reckon this is about to crumble,” she said to Will, who was now walking over. “We could probably move it, or break it.”
Will was unsure. He was sure there’d be a reason for the blockade. Nevertheless, as soon as Angela’s boot sunk into the wood he joined in. After very little exertion it gave way. They tossed its remnants to the side of the road and drove onward into the bush.
Will drove cautiously, yet feeling safe with Angela in the car. Angela's feet tapped to the rhythm of the car radio and her body wriggled as the the scrub became less dense. Hundreds of identically tall, slender, ash-coloured trees lined either side of the track. There was no green anywhere; even the shrubbery and weeds at the foot of the trees were in grey-scale.
The gaps between the trees eventually started to open up; they could see the stumps of chopped trees. They had arrived at a clearing on the river. An open area with gum trees that seemed to arch over either side. A hand-made wooden table with seats. They got out. The ground was soft underfoot with lush cooch grass that spread along to the ridged river bank. There was a ten-metre drop down a honeycomb-crumbling red rock cliff face to the water where thick reeds tangled amid a variety of flotsam.
Angela eyes danced. “We've found it.”
They sit down on the grass. Angela procured a three-skin joint from her bag, and immediately lit up; exhaling coolly as Will sat watching her like a puppy dog. They smoke and hold each other, a light wind coating them as the afternoon drifts away silently.
After a time, Will kissed the top of Angela’s jawline, inadvertently blowing in her ear. Angela moaned softly and looked at Will curiously, hauling herself up. She took hold of his hand, leading him toward the car. Removing her jacket she climbed into the back of the vehicle onto Will's flimsy mattress, removing her underwear in the same motion. Will lay by her side, holding her face between his hands and kissing her as she unbuckled the belt on his jeans. Saliva quickly found its way through desert-dry tongues as they began to take great mouthfuls of each other; the smell of sex filling the car as their frazzled minds, released of inhibition, chased a common goal. And as they held each other in the dying throes of intimacy, she reached out and wrote ‘I love you’ on the steamed-up glass.
* * *
Will lay there regaining himself as Angela stepped out of the car. After a few minutes he sat up and watched as she danced on the grass. Her dress was sticking to her skin with sweat: the nipples of her breasts, released from their bra, were taut against the thin material. The first strums of Jeff Buckley's Lilac Wine sounded. He slipped into the front seat to turn the radio up. Angela’s head bobbed from side to side as her body writhed; her hips swaying and long legs moving to the rest of her body's groove. As the last strains of Jeff’s falsetto faded Angela's movements slowed and he reached down to turn the radio off. It was then he heard a crack in the air like that of a large whip. He looked up and saw Angela, hobbling backwards toward the edge of the riverbank, a red patch soaking through her dress. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open as she continued to sway backwards, as if in slow motion, toppling over the bank.
As Will's shaky hand reached for the door handle, he heard another loud crack and then the glass of the right-side backseat window shattered. He looked out frantically, and noticed movement in the bushes to the right of the car and a figure emerging. Instinctively he turned the ignition and floored the accelerator just as his rearview mirror shattered. In a cloud of dust he grabbed the steering wheel and controlled it enough to turn the vehicle around. He drove blindly along the hazardous tracks. The car's suspension took a battering as he cannoned into steeply rising juts in the road. His periphery vision was a swirl of grey and green. He arrived back on the dirt road; flicked open his mobile phone. No coverage. Fuck.
He'd have to drive back into town.
What will I do when I get there?Frantic thoughts flew at him, each one erasing the one that preceded it. He drove along for a few more minutes then finally pulled over, his heart thrashing in his chest, his mouth dry. He dialled 000.
“Please state your emergency,” a woman said sharply.
His tongue felt like it had been dipped in gravel; he couldn't bring himself to speak. Shaking all over, he cancelled the call.
What the fuck am I going to do. This is off the Richter scale for me!
You need to ring the police, ring 000, ring someone!
What are you going to say, though? You were in a secluded spot and someone shot your girlfriend? Someone? Whoever the fuck this guy was, he won't be sticking around.
Evidence? His gun? They'll suspect you. You know what the legal system is like.
And you, ya fuckin' coward. Your girlfriend is there. Lying face down in the river. How are you gonna live with yourself?
He sat there, his head in his hands. A ute pulled over behind him. His Uncle Ben stepped out.
Will took a long, shaky swig of his water bottle as Ben approached.
Maybe if we both go back we can... but I'm risking his life... he'll know something's --
“G'day Will, what you up to?”
You could tell him, he'd help in some --
“Nothing, just pulled over to change a CD.”
You toss... that's you done forever.
His uncle leaned in. “Everything okay?”
Will breathed in; exhaling quietly. “Yeah... how you going?”
Ben held his gaze on Will as he spoke, his eyebrows slightly arched. “Not bad mate. Just heading back from your brother's actually. Had to drop off some tools. His tractor's had it.”
Will nodded, all the while looking at his dashboard.
“He tells me you've got a new lady in your life?”
Fuck.
“Yeah... Ang... She's cool.”
“She sounds it. Bring her around for tea one night, okay?”
Will looked up at Ben. His heart felt dead in his chest. He forced a smile.
“Okay.”
Ben smiled back, and put out his hand.Will responded limply.
“You sure you're okay?” Ben asked. “You look like you've dropped twenty bob.”
“I'm fine.”
Fuck’s sake.He swallowed hard, clearing his throat, and called out to his uncle, who had started walking away: “Say G'day to Aunt Janet and Bryce for me, can you?”
Ben swiveled, the gravel crunching under his feet.
“Will do. He turned thirteen last week. Makes me feel old... Look after yourself, hey?”
Yep. That’s what I do.
Ben waved as he passed Will, hitting his horn. Will watched, tears warming his face as Ben's panting kelpie looked back at him, its tail wagging in the cool wind as the sun, paling to a mauve horizon, began its descent.
* * *
Will continued to sit there on the side of the road, nausea swimming through his body.
A dark, menacing shadow in the scrub, biding his time.
A bushman who knows the area inside and out.
A madman with a finger on the trigger.
Her grey, bloated head bobbing in the brown water…He opened the car door and vomited. Bile stuck in his throat and his lungs scorched. He drank from his near-empty water bottle. Took a deep breath, trying hard to unscramble himself. Exhaled. Nothing there.
He shook his head violently; screaming, punching the dashboard.
* * *
An hour passed and he now had Angela’s handbag in his hands, burying his face in it, breathing in her scent. Fresh tears streamed down his face, popping each spittle bubble that emerged from his mouth.
The dusk was settling in.
It was only in the diminishing light that Will reasoned with himself that he needed to make a move. He should go back. He needed to go back. She might not be dead. He could still save her and fuck the consequences.
You should have died there and then, anyway.Then, just as quickly, this flicker of bravado was doused by the realisation he didn’t have a torch, that he wouldn’t see his attacker, and a fear that kept rapping at his heart: it was utter madness to be going back in there.
And yet, how would he sleep, if he waited until the morning?
He started his car as the last strains of light disappeared. Headlights cruised past him. Will hesitated. Was that the first car to pass him since Ben pulled over?
How many potential witnesses were there?
He pulled on to the road, still with no clear plan. His fear drove the car onward, back towards the highway, and to town.
Will considered his options: he couldn’t go home, his mother would sense something was up; couldn’t book into one of the town’s motels as locals didn’t do that. And then, the question would be asked: why did Will, a local, choose to stay in a motel on the very night his girlfriend went missing?
He was nearing the outskirts of town. He could still call into the police station and explain in detail what happened.
I really should do that.To his left he could make out his cousin Craig’s farmhouse.
Maybe he has a gun. I could go back now.
He pulled in, drove his car around the back of the property, hidden from the highway.
Craig wasn’t home. He searched for a spare key. Under the backdoor mat. Electricity box. Mailbox. The outside toilet. There it was, dangling on a hook. He went inside the house, and went straight into Craig’s room. He looked under his bed, upturned his clothes drawers, rummaged through the cupboard. In the kitchen cupboard he found a torch and went out to the back shed. It was padlocked. He kicked the door down, its ruffled tin landing on a cultivator, making a racket that made him even more jumpy.
The light of the torch exposed machinery parts, tools, motorbikes, fishing rods, nets, cover girl calenders. Boxes splitting at the sides with hoarded items sat under a large work bench. And, after his eyes flashed over the shed’s entire contents once, he noticed on the second look an old slug gun nestled amongst two large tool kits. He picked it up and looked at it. He knew nothing of guns; didn’t even know how to tell if one was loaded. He walked outside, and fired into the open acreage, reeling on impact as the shot filled the air and the smell of gun powder hit his nostrils.
He walked back inside and sat down on the couch, placing the gun down next to him. Under the coffee table he noticed a tin with stickers of prickly green leaves all over it. He opened it, uncovering a large mound of grass. He shakily rolled a joint; walked back outside to light up. Thick smoke plunged into his lungs as he stared up at the star-filled night sky. He exhaled slowly. In the darkness he thought he could see shapes forming in front of his eyes. The cold night air didn’t stop the sleep tugging from at his eyelids.
He went into the kitchen and drained a glass of water and then sat back down on the couch. His head drooped forward awkwardly before he allowed it to fall back on the armrest. A deep sleep enveloped him.
* * *
The condensation dripping from the wagon’s exhaust pipe resembled that of a child's nose in winter. Fumes gushed out, evaporating in the air, mixing with the slowly lifting fog, giving form to the new day. Will was wide awake as he swerved the wagon to avoid a pothole. There was no turning back now. It was slow going though, even with his high beams visibility wasn’t great: a few metres in front at best. He felt like a kitten entering a German shephard’s lair. His pulse thumped in his wrist. He wound down the window as he approached the clearing: one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gun. He rested the rifle on the half-wound as his eyes darted in every direction in front of him.
He pulled up and turned off the ignition, keeping the lights on. Holding the gun tightly he stepped out, looking around anxiously. The area seemed untouched, as if the previous day’s events hadn’t happened.
Maybe it was all a dream.
He approached the river bank with a churning dread in his chest. Taking a deep breath he looked down over the edge and saw Angela looking back up at him, her eyes and mouth open. Her body bobbed in the rippling water amid the reeds that held her in place. He sighed a sickening sigh.
My poor Angel.Behind him he heard a twig snap. Will turned around and opened fire but the sound of shotgun was already in his ears and his stomach felt like it was on fire and then a cold blast of air shot through his gullet as he fell, on his side, into the water. The impact of his fall dislodged Angela’s body, turning her body toward his, and, as his eyes closed over, he again held her face in his hands.
* * *
Over the river bank, the Murray glistened; its calming waters only broken by the sporadic ripple of a jumping carp. And the kookaburras, camouflaged in the brown-green trees, laughed in groups.
Will turned the lock and surveyed the area. Flannelette-wearing churchgoers, old people setting out on afternoon walks, a stray dog. The town was silent-heavy, dying. He looked up at the sky. It was overcast: a thin, pale layer of sunlight trying to sneak through. A proper Sunday.
His listless gaze was broken upon hearing the click of boots on the pavement. He turned around and saw Angela walking toward him. A faded denim jacket partially covered a light blue cotton dress that clung to her body; an effervescent smile on her face. Excitement rippled through him as he accepted her kiss. She was early.
“How was your morning, darl?” Angela asked.
“Same old,” he said. He searched the recesses of his brain for a sharp afterthought but nothing came.
“Always the same, huh?”
“Yep. Always the same.”
“Ah well, not to worry, let’s do some exploring... Let’s go to the river, somewhere you’ve never been...”
She ruffled his hair and winked: “Where we can do our own thing.”
They held hands walking toward his station wagon. Will reflected on how strange it felt to be allowing someone into his world; having his little routine impeded. It felt good. Angela’s hand rested on his left leg as they took off. Shadows lengthened as the sunlight glowed and expanded. A strange calm permeated Will’s body. He took his sunglasses out of the driver door console, put them on and smiled.
Angela was looking out the window, her eyes darting around in every direction. Every few seconds Will would look across at her. Tall and curvy, the multi-coloured bandanna in her hair, bronzed skin, her face faintly freckled. Her face lit up when she smiled, which was so often it prompted Will to think she knew something that no-one else did.
* * *
A few weeks before she had walked into the newsagent. Having purchased a copy of Living Now magazine, she introduced herself. She told him she had moved from the city to write; of her fascination with the Murray River; that she was intrigued by the seclusion of the area. Will, realising she wanted a conversation and not the standard small talk to which he was accustomed, nervously pieced a few sentences together. Of course he’d show her around.
At the pub that same night she told Will of her strong belief in fate; that there was a reason he stayed in the town when so many of his peers had moved on. Will didn't know about any of that, but as she placed her hands over his, he felt a warm sense of life easing its way back into his psyche.
* * *
Will turned onto a dirt back road he knew went toward the river. On either side there were towering, ancient river gums and dense scrub from where the occasional galah or wild cockatoo would fly.
Nearing a bend they saw a small navy blue sign ahead of a turnoff that led onto a rough track. Angela sat upright, peering forward.
“Let’s check it out.”
Will looked at the wordless sign, uncertain.
“I bet ya it’s a dead end.”
“Could be,” Angela said, now leaning into Will’s space, “but it could be paradise, too.”
Will couldn’t help smiling. “Okay then.”
A few minutes after the turnoff their path was blocked by a rotting wooden log which had been placed in the crude indentations of two thick stumps that sat on either side, suspending it about one metre off the ground. Shrubbery filled the space underneath.
Angela jumped out and walked over to the log and scanned the area.
“The track continues,” she called back to Will still sitting in the car.
She took a closer look at the log. A dank, musty smell; termite-ridden.
“I reckon this is about to crumble,” she said to Will, who was now walking over. “We could probably move it, or break it.”
Will was unsure. He was sure there’d be a reason for the blockade. Nevertheless, as soon as Angela’s boot sunk into the wood he joined in. After very little exertion it gave way. They tossed its remnants to the side of the road and drove onward into the bush.
Will drove cautiously, yet feeling safe with Angela in the car. Angela's feet tapped to the rhythm of the car radio and her body wriggled as the the scrub became less dense. Hundreds of identically tall, slender, ash-coloured trees lined either side of the track. There was no green anywhere; even the shrubbery and weeds at the foot of the trees were in grey-scale.
The gaps between the trees eventually started to open up; they could see the stumps of chopped trees. They had arrived at a clearing on the river. An open area with gum trees that seemed to arch over either side. A hand-made wooden table with seats. They got out. The ground was soft underfoot with lush cooch grass that spread along to the ridged river bank. There was a ten-metre drop down a honeycomb-crumbling red rock cliff face to the water where thick reeds tangled amid a variety of flotsam.
Angela eyes danced. “We've found it.”
They sit down on the grass. Angela procured a three-skin joint from her bag, and immediately lit up; exhaling coolly as Will sat watching her like a puppy dog. They smoke and hold each other, a light wind coating them as the afternoon drifts away silently.
After a time, Will kissed the top of Angela’s jawline, inadvertently blowing in her ear. Angela moaned softly and looked at Will curiously, hauling herself up. She took hold of his hand, leading him toward the car. Removing her jacket she climbed into the back of the vehicle onto Will's flimsy mattress, removing her underwear in the same motion. Will lay by her side, holding her face between his hands and kissing her as she unbuckled the belt on his jeans. Saliva quickly found its way through desert-dry tongues as they began to take great mouthfuls of each other; the smell of sex filling the car as their frazzled minds, released of inhibition, chased a common goal. And as they held each other in the dying throes of intimacy, she reached out and wrote ‘I love you’ on the steamed-up glass.
* * *
Will lay there regaining himself as Angela stepped out of the car. After a few minutes he sat up and watched as she danced on the grass. Her dress was sticking to her skin with sweat: the nipples of her breasts, released from their bra, were taut against the thin material. The first strums of Jeff Buckley's Lilac Wine sounded. He slipped into the front seat to turn the radio up. Angela’s head bobbed from side to side as her body writhed; her hips swaying and long legs moving to the rest of her body's groove. As the last strains of Jeff’s falsetto faded Angela's movements slowed and he reached down to turn the radio off. It was then he heard a crack in the air like that of a large whip. He looked up and saw Angela, hobbling backwards toward the edge of the riverbank, a red patch soaking through her dress. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open as she continued to sway backwards, as if in slow motion, toppling over the bank.
As Will's shaky hand reached for the door handle, he heard another loud crack and then the glass of the right-side backseat window shattered. He looked out frantically, and noticed movement in the bushes to the right of the car and a figure emerging. Instinctively he turned the ignition and floored the accelerator just as his rearview mirror shattered. In a cloud of dust he grabbed the steering wheel and controlled it enough to turn the vehicle around. He drove blindly along the hazardous tracks. The car's suspension took a battering as he cannoned into steeply rising juts in the road. His periphery vision was a swirl of grey and green. He arrived back on the dirt road; flicked open his mobile phone. No coverage. Fuck.
He'd have to drive back into town.
What will I do when I get there?Frantic thoughts flew at him, each one erasing the one that preceded it. He drove along for a few more minutes then finally pulled over, his heart thrashing in his chest, his mouth dry. He dialled 000.
“Please state your emergency,” a woman said sharply.
His tongue felt like it had been dipped in gravel; he couldn't bring himself to speak. Shaking all over, he cancelled the call.
What the fuck am I going to do. This is off the Richter scale for me!
You need to ring the police, ring 000, ring someone!
What are you going to say, though? You were in a secluded spot and someone shot your girlfriend? Someone? Whoever the fuck this guy was, he won't be sticking around.
Evidence? His gun? They'll suspect you. You know what the legal system is like.
And you, ya fuckin' coward. Your girlfriend is there. Lying face down in the river. How are you gonna live with yourself?
He sat there, his head in his hands. A ute pulled over behind him. His Uncle Ben stepped out.
Will took a long, shaky swig of his water bottle as Ben approached.
Maybe if we both go back we can... but I'm risking his life... he'll know something's --
“G'day Will, what you up to?”
You could tell him, he'd help in some --
“Nothing, just pulled over to change a CD.”
You toss... that's you done forever.
His uncle leaned in. “Everything okay?”
Will breathed in; exhaling quietly. “Yeah... how you going?”
Ben held his gaze on Will as he spoke, his eyebrows slightly arched. “Not bad mate. Just heading back from your brother's actually. Had to drop off some tools. His tractor's had it.”
Will nodded, all the while looking at his dashboard.
“He tells me you've got a new lady in your life?”
Fuck.
“Yeah... Ang... She's cool.”
“She sounds it. Bring her around for tea one night, okay?”
Will looked up at Ben. His heart felt dead in his chest. He forced a smile.
“Okay.”
Ben smiled back, and put out his hand.Will responded limply.
“You sure you're okay?” Ben asked. “You look like you've dropped twenty bob.”
“I'm fine.”
Fuck’s sake.He swallowed hard, clearing his throat, and called out to his uncle, who had started walking away: “Say G'day to Aunt Janet and Bryce for me, can you?”
Ben swiveled, the gravel crunching under his feet.
“Will do. He turned thirteen last week. Makes me feel old... Look after yourself, hey?”
Yep. That’s what I do.
Ben waved as he passed Will, hitting his horn. Will watched, tears warming his face as Ben's panting kelpie looked back at him, its tail wagging in the cool wind as the sun, paling to a mauve horizon, began its descent.
* * *
Will continued to sit there on the side of the road, nausea swimming through his body.
A dark, menacing shadow in the scrub, biding his time.
A bushman who knows the area inside and out.
A madman with a finger on the trigger.
Her grey, bloated head bobbing in the brown water…He opened the car door and vomited. Bile stuck in his throat and his lungs scorched. He drank from his near-empty water bottle. Took a deep breath, trying hard to unscramble himself. Exhaled. Nothing there.
He shook his head violently; screaming, punching the dashboard.
* * *
An hour passed and he now had Angela’s handbag in his hands, burying his face in it, breathing in her scent. Fresh tears streamed down his face, popping each spittle bubble that emerged from his mouth.
The dusk was settling in.
It was only in the diminishing light that Will reasoned with himself that he needed to make a move. He should go back. He needed to go back. She might not be dead. He could still save her and fuck the consequences.
You should have died there and then, anyway.Then, just as quickly, this flicker of bravado was doused by the realisation he didn’t have a torch, that he wouldn’t see his attacker, and a fear that kept rapping at his heart: it was utter madness to be going back in there.
And yet, how would he sleep, if he waited until the morning?
He started his car as the last strains of light disappeared. Headlights cruised past him. Will hesitated. Was that the first car to pass him since Ben pulled over?
How many potential witnesses were there?
He pulled on to the road, still with no clear plan. His fear drove the car onward, back towards the highway, and to town.
Will considered his options: he couldn’t go home, his mother would sense something was up; couldn’t book into one of the town’s motels as locals didn’t do that. And then, the question would be asked: why did Will, a local, choose to stay in a motel on the very night his girlfriend went missing?
He was nearing the outskirts of town. He could still call into the police station and explain in detail what happened.
I really should do that.To his left he could make out his cousin Craig’s farmhouse.
Maybe he has a gun. I could go back now.
He pulled in, drove his car around the back of the property, hidden from the highway.
Craig wasn’t home. He searched for a spare key. Under the backdoor mat. Electricity box. Mailbox. The outside toilet. There it was, dangling on a hook. He went inside the house, and went straight into Craig’s room. He looked under his bed, upturned his clothes drawers, rummaged through the cupboard. In the kitchen cupboard he found a torch and went out to the back shed. It was padlocked. He kicked the door down, its ruffled tin landing on a cultivator, making a racket that made him even more jumpy.
The light of the torch exposed machinery parts, tools, motorbikes, fishing rods, nets, cover girl calenders. Boxes splitting at the sides with hoarded items sat under a large work bench. And, after his eyes flashed over the shed’s entire contents once, he noticed on the second look an old slug gun nestled amongst two large tool kits. He picked it up and looked at it. He knew nothing of guns; didn’t even know how to tell if one was loaded. He walked outside, and fired into the open acreage, reeling on impact as the shot filled the air and the smell of gun powder hit his nostrils.
He walked back inside and sat down on the couch, placing the gun down next to him. Under the coffee table he noticed a tin with stickers of prickly green leaves all over it. He opened it, uncovering a large mound of grass. He shakily rolled a joint; walked back outside to light up. Thick smoke plunged into his lungs as he stared up at the star-filled night sky. He exhaled slowly. In the darkness he thought he could see shapes forming in front of his eyes. The cold night air didn’t stop the sleep tugging from at his eyelids.
He went into the kitchen and drained a glass of water and then sat back down on the couch. His head drooped forward awkwardly before he allowed it to fall back on the armrest. A deep sleep enveloped him.
* * *
The condensation dripping from the wagon’s exhaust pipe resembled that of a child's nose in winter. Fumes gushed out, evaporating in the air, mixing with the slowly lifting fog, giving form to the new day. Will was wide awake as he swerved the wagon to avoid a pothole. There was no turning back now. It was slow going though, even with his high beams visibility wasn’t great: a few metres in front at best. He felt like a kitten entering a German shephard’s lair. His pulse thumped in his wrist. He wound down the window as he approached the clearing: one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gun. He rested the rifle on the half-wound as his eyes darted in every direction in front of him.
He pulled up and turned off the ignition, keeping the lights on. Holding the gun tightly he stepped out, looking around anxiously. The area seemed untouched, as if the previous day’s events hadn’t happened.
Maybe it was all a dream.
He approached the river bank with a churning dread in his chest. Taking a deep breath he looked down over the edge and saw Angela looking back up at him, her eyes and mouth open. Her body bobbed in the rippling water amid the reeds that held her in place. He sighed a sickening sigh.
My poor Angel.Behind him he heard a twig snap. Will turned around and opened fire but the sound of shotgun was already in his ears and his stomach felt like it was on fire and then a cold blast of air shot through his gullet as he fell, on his side, into the water. The impact of his fall dislodged Angela’s body, turning her body toward his, and, as his eyes closed over, he again held her face in his hands.
* * *
Over the river bank, the Murray glistened; its calming waters only broken by the sporadic ripple of a jumping carp. And the kookaburras, camouflaged in the brown-green trees, laughed in groups.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
You Are at a Pub Someplace
You are at a pub someplace, and there's one guy on the stage with a guitar, his voice angelic, and you've come to this gig on a sort of whim, someone recommended him to you a little while ago. this guy plays the pub circuit a bit, and he takes you to another place, you feel the love, the heart, in his music, and the crowd seem hushed throughout, and you're a little stoned, a little languid, and then you look across at the guy next to you, just an average-looking bloke, a shadow of facial hair on his jawline, a tear trickling down his face as he watches the guy on stage sing his heart out, and you feel a tear warm your cheek as the singer howls the finish to his song, slashing his arm across the front of his guitar, his voice fading into the microphone as his mouth covers it whole. The crowd claps their hands above their heads and the guy next to you rubs his eye and drinks from his tumbler.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Clown
The young man, having taken his time getting out of his seat and on to the detachable stage, placed one hand on his mother's coffin while the other clutched some scribbled notes. He took a deep breath and surveyed the large crowd standing in front of him. His wife sat in the front, rubbing her inflated stomach, their baby now three days' overdue. He took a deep breath; cleared his throat.
My mother… a deceptive person to the very end. I never knew she had so many friends…
Laughter throughout the crowd.
It’s been amazing these past few days, the amount of people who have commented on how amazing she was, how much she accomplished, how much she meant to people. Many of these people say she was like a friend to them, even though they barely knew her. I guess this is the ultimate compliment. To Rick and I she was just ‘Mum’. Loving and wise; nearly always happy. I say nearly because there were a few occasions I recall when everything wasn’t so rosy in the world of Rosemary, or Rose, as she preferred to be called. Although I'm sure some of you know her by another name...
More laughter.
She lived through making others, especially her own children, happy. Always trying to get the best out of people. And I believe the ‘unhappiness’ to which I just referred, is more a reflection on this, rather what most of usually relate to this emotion.
When Rick and I were kids she was often at work, and we’d have to amuse ourselves each afternoon after school until she arrived home. She worked as a local librarian, and there were often days when she got home looking tired. Sometimes we’d leave a mess in the kitchen, which defied one of the few rules she had for us.
‘Clean up after yourselves in the kitchen,’ she’d say. ‘You can leave your bedroom how you want it, but I need everything clear to assemble my nightly culinary masterpiece’. She would ‘tsk’ a few times before grabbing each of us by our school shirt collars and saying, ‘four hands make light of work’.
There'd be a smirk at the side of her mouth but a flash in her eyes that proved she meant it.
She was always bringing home cookbooks. Thai, French, African. You name it; she’d cook up a storm each night. She said it was therapeutic. She was always using what we thought were big words, and demanded that each time she used one that we ask its meaning. Then once she’d explained it, she’d ask us to use it in a sentence. This would always happen amid the flurry of pots and pans and the sprinkling of herbs and generous portioning of various sauces into mixing bowls; steam rising from boiling water, sweat beads on her forehead that she’d wipe with a frilly, flowery sleeve and a smile on her face when we’d use the word in the right context. If we got it wrong the cooking process would be halted until we got it right. Then, when satisfied we understood, she’d go back to her manic cooking show. We’d forget about not having a television as we watched her cooking. It was like having the Iron Chef in our house each night, with a dash of Mad Professor thrown in for good measure.
We didn’t particularly love the meals but we loved watching her. Sometimes she wore one of her many colourful bandannas around her head while she cooked. She said she felt more comfortable wearing them, and that she’d tried, without success, to convince the head librarian that it was okay to wear one of these to work. In addition to the cookery books she’d always be bringing home books for us to read. After she’d cooked and we’d eaten and cleaned up, we’d retreat to the lounge room, where she would read us stories of all genres. She’d mix it up as much as she did her cooking. Roald Dahl one week, something scary the next; realms of literary fiction – with all the swear words intact. She even spent one long summer month reading us Gone with the Wind, although she usually saved this for our more restless nights.
This routine changed somewhat in our teenage years. While we’d still get our story whenever we wanted, we’d spend more evenings socialising and therefore away from the house, which Mum encouraged. ‘Be free as a bird’, she’d say. ‘Learn from your friends, then repay them with the knowledge you gain.’
Somewhere around this time she took over the children’s reading class at the library. I believe this brought the best out of her, a welcome relief from the stuffiness of book shelves and dealing with the public and book suppliers. She’d come home and tell us how she’d have thirty or so little people in fits of laughter as she acted out stories. I lost count the amount of people who would comment on her shows whenever I bumped into them on the street.
I remember going along one afternoon to see what all the fuss was about. As I approached the building I could hear the high-pitched laughter of the children, somewhat harmonised by the deep laughter of adults. Once inside I realised this wasn’t just any small gig. There were at least one hundred children, hailing from several different schools in the district, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the library. They were all looking up with eager, giddy smiles on their faces. Behind them there were twenty or so adults watching on, their faces wide-eyed with joy. I kept looking over at one middle-aged guy in a truckie singlet, thinking he didn’t belong here, watching how his beer belly wobbled as he almost keeled over with laughter at Mum acting out an embellished version of the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. She kept true to the story enough to keep the kids amused but threw in the odd mischievous comment to keep the big kids entertained. Extra frilly night cap and all, she said she hadn’t shaved in weeks in order to give realism to the wolf’s character.
That was an extra special day for the crowd as she gave an encore performance. In a story she wrote herself, she played a luckless clown who ends up in cahoots with the gingerbread man, trying to rob a lolly shop. The clown kept messing up the heist because of its clumsiness. It was zany and ridiculous, and utterly engrossing. She had assumed the character of the clown with such ease that it seemed like she’d been doing it all her life. The other staff members looked on, some bearded, some bespectacled, some clad in cardigan and flared pant, sipping cups of tea and watching on in awe as one of their own had seemingly found their calling.
That night she had an air of excitement about her that I’d never seen. She was giving up the librarian life, she said, and would become a clown. In no time at all she was at clown school. She wanted to become what she called a clown doctor, and help put some smiles on the faces at the Children’s Hospital. Soon she was a must-have at kids’ parties and, on occasion, dinner parties. The circus wanted a piece of her. She was always at it, juggling socks when putting away clothing, and staying in character around the house.
One night when I was around 16 or 17, I had a mate over and, being the silly teenagers we were, we stayed in my room smoking pot all night. As the sun came up my friend was in dire need of some nourishment so I told him there’d be chips and chocolate in the kitchen cupboard. A minute or so later he came back empty-handed with a freaked out look on his face, saying ‘I just saw a clown in the kitchen making toast’. I was too frazzled to explain, but laughed uncontrollably as I thought of how the scene wouldn’t be the most trusting for the senses for a stoned young man. Suffice to say he didn’t touch marijuana again after that night.
There was the time I went out with friends and didn’t get in until 8am. I was still a week away from my 18th birthday and Mum was angry, sitting there waiting for me in the kitchen in her dressing gown. She said: ‘That’s it; I’m putting my foot down now’. She stamped her feet but instead of a foot stomp I heard the slap of rubber on the floor. I looked down and saw a pair of huge, bulging, multi-coloured shoes and laughed. In fits of laughter, I told her I couldn’t take her seriously. She tried to keep up the façade of anger but just couldn’t, soon giving into cries of laughter as she pulled the big red clown nose out of her dressing gown pocket and honked it a few times. ‘It’s great being a clown,’ she said. ‘No-one takes you seriously, not least yourself’.
Then there was the day a few months ago that will forever stay with me. My newly-married wife Joanne and I visited her on a Sunday afternoon. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking herbal tea as she’d always done, dressed up as a clown in preparation for a house party. I noticed black mascara dripping down her white-painted cheeks. ‘I’m crying the tears of a clown’, she said, looking up at us as we walked in. Never one to hide her emotions, I knew something was up when she put her head in her hands. ‘Mum, what’s wrong’, I asked. She looked up, her eyes red and moist and her expression downcast. Trembling, she drew her tea cup to her lips and took a sip through large red lips. She placed the cup back down. It rattled on the saucer for a few seconds before all was still again. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. I grabbed her hand, feeling nauseous at my mother’s sudden fragility.
‘Mum?’
She bit her lip took a breath and then looked calm again. I kept hold of her hand. A million thoughts jostled with each other in my brain but none were even close to what came next.
‘I have a brain tumour. Non-treatable. Didn’t think this would be the way to go. Maybe I laughed too much in this life or something.’
Joanne started bawling. I tried to stay strong, to hear what mum would say next. But that was that. I embraced her, pulling her head into my chest. Her nose honked on impact. Joanne looked uncomfortable. Mum and I sniggered in unison. She looked up and stared hard into my eyes.
‘Just make sure you bury me like this, okay?’
Mum, we’ve stayed true to our word, just like you always did.
The young man looked up, his body and mind calm, rejuvenated. Most of the crowd had smiles on their faces even as they wiped the tears from their eyes. He looked over at his wife. She was looking anxious, rubbing her tummy a little more vigorously now. He knew it was time. He put an arm around Rick and together they tossed a bunch of roses on top of the coffin. Then he signaled to the cemetery workers and took his wife's hand, leading her away to their car.
My mother… a deceptive person to the very end. I never knew she had so many friends…
Laughter throughout the crowd.
It’s been amazing these past few days, the amount of people who have commented on how amazing she was, how much she accomplished, how much she meant to people. Many of these people say she was like a friend to them, even though they barely knew her. I guess this is the ultimate compliment. To Rick and I she was just ‘Mum’. Loving and wise; nearly always happy. I say nearly because there were a few occasions I recall when everything wasn’t so rosy in the world of Rosemary, or Rose, as she preferred to be called. Although I'm sure some of you know her by another name...
More laughter.
She lived through making others, especially her own children, happy. Always trying to get the best out of people. And I believe the ‘unhappiness’ to which I just referred, is more a reflection on this, rather what most of usually relate to this emotion.
When Rick and I were kids she was often at work, and we’d have to amuse ourselves each afternoon after school until she arrived home. She worked as a local librarian, and there were often days when she got home looking tired. Sometimes we’d leave a mess in the kitchen, which defied one of the few rules she had for us.
‘Clean up after yourselves in the kitchen,’ she’d say. ‘You can leave your bedroom how you want it, but I need everything clear to assemble my nightly culinary masterpiece’. She would ‘tsk’ a few times before grabbing each of us by our school shirt collars and saying, ‘four hands make light of work’.
There'd be a smirk at the side of her mouth but a flash in her eyes that proved she meant it.
She was always bringing home cookbooks. Thai, French, African. You name it; she’d cook up a storm each night. She said it was therapeutic. She was always using what we thought were big words, and demanded that each time she used one that we ask its meaning. Then once she’d explained it, she’d ask us to use it in a sentence. This would always happen amid the flurry of pots and pans and the sprinkling of herbs and generous portioning of various sauces into mixing bowls; steam rising from boiling water, sweat beads on her forehead that she’d wipe with a frilly, flowery sleeve and a smile on her face when we’d use the word in the right context. If we got it wrong the cooking process would be halted until we got it right. Then, when satisfied we understood, she’d go back to her manic cooking show. We’d forget about not having a television as we watched her cooking. It was like having the Iron Chef in our house each night, with a dash of Mad Professor thrown in for good measure.
We didn’t particularly love the meals but we loved watching her. Sometimes she wore one of her many colourful bandannas around her head while she cooked. She said she felt more comfortable wearing them, and that she’d tried, without success, to convince the head librarian that it was okay to wear one of these to work. In addition to the cookery books she’d always be bringing home books for us to read. After she’d cooked and we’d eaten and cleaned up, we’d retreat to the lounge room, where she would read us stories of all genres. She’d mix it up as much as she did her cooking. Roald Dahl one week, something scary the next; realms of literary fiction – with all the swear words intact. She even spent one long summer month reading us Gone with the Wind, although she usually saved this for our more restless nights.
This routine changed somewhat in our teenage years. While we’d still get our story whenever we wanted, we’d spend more evenings socialising and therefore away from the house, which Mum encouraged. ‘Be free as a bird’, she’d say. ‘Learn from your friends, then repay them with the knowledge you gain.’
Somewhere around this time she took over the children’s reading class at the library. I believe this brought the best out of her, a welcome relief from the stuffiness of book shelves and dealing with the public and book suppliers. She’d come home and tell us how she’d have thirty or so little people in fits of laughter as she acted out stories. I lost count the amount of people who would comment on her shows whenever I bumped into them on the street.
I remember going along one afternoon to see what all the fuss was about. As I approached the building I could hear the high-pitched laughter of the children, somewhat harmonised by the deep laughter of adults. Once inside I realised this wasn’t just any small gig. There were at least one hundred children, hailing from several different schools in the district, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the library. They were all looking up with eager, giddy smiles on their faces. Behind them there were twenty or so adults watching on, their faces wide-eyed with joy. I kept looking over at one middle-aged guy in a truckie singlet, thinking he didn’t belong here, watching how his beer belly wobbled as he almost keeled over with laughter at Mum acting out an embellished version of the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. She kept true to the story enough to keep the kids amused but threw in the odd mischievous comment to keep the big kids entertained. Extra frilly night cap and all, she said she hadn’t shaved in weeks in order to give realism to the wolf’s character.
That was an extra special day for the crowd as she gave an encore performance. In a story she wrote herself, she played a luckless clown who ends up in cahoots with the gingerbread man, trying to rob a lolly shop. The clown kept messing up the heist because of its clumsiness. It was zany and ridiculous, and utterly engrossing. She had assumed the character of the clown with such ease that it seemed like she’d been doing it all her life. The other staff members looked on, some bearded, some bespectacled, some clad in cardigan and flared pant, sipping cups of tea and watching on in awe as one of their own had seemingly found their calling.
That night she had an air of excitement about her that I’d never seen. She was giving up the librarian life, she said, and would become a clown. In no time at all she was at clown school. She wanted to become what she called a clown doctor, and help put some smiles on the faces at the Children’s Hospital. Soon she was a must-have at kids’ parties and, on occasion, dinner parties. The circus wanted a piece of her. She was always at it, juggling socks when putting away clothing, and staying in character around the house.
One night when I was around 16 or 17, I had a mate over and, being the silly teenagers we were, we stayed in my room smoking pot all night. As the sun came up my friend was in dire need of some nourishment so I told him there’d be chips and chocolate in the kitchen cupboard. A minute or so later he came back empty-handed with a freaked out look on his face, saying ‘I just saw a clown in the kitchen making toast’. I was too frazzled to explain, but laughed uncontrollably as I thought of how the scene wouldn’t be the most trusting for the senses for a stoned young man. Suffice to say he didn’t touch marijuana again after that night.
There was the time I went out with friends and didn’t get in until 8am. I was still a week away from my 18th birthday and Mum was angry, sitting there waiting for me in the kitchen in her dressing gown. She said: ‘That’s it; I’m putting my foot down now’. She stamped her feet but instead of a foot stomp I heard the slap of rubber on the floor. I looked down and saw a pair of huge, bulging, multi-coloured shoes and laughed. In fits of laughter, I told her I couldn’t take her seriously. She tried to keep up the façade of anger but just couldn’t, soon giving into cries of laughter as she pulled the big red clown nose out of her dressing gown pocket and honked it a few times. ‘It’s great being a clown,’ she said. ‘No-one takes you seriously, not least yourself’.
Then there was the day a few months ago that will forever stay with me. My newly-married wife Joanne and I visited her on a Sunday afternoon. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking herbal tea as she’d always done, dressed up as a clown in preparation for a house party. I noticed black mascara dripping down her white-painted cheeks. ‘I’m crying the tears of a clown’, she said, looking up at us as we walked in. Never one to hide her emotions, I knew something was up when she put her head in her hands. ‘Mum, what’s wrong’, I asked. She looked up, her eyes red and moist and her expression downcast. Trembling, she drew her tea cup to her lips and took a sip through large red lips. She placed the cup back down. It rattled on the saucer for a few seconds before all was still again. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. I grabbed her hand, feeling nauseous at my mother’s sudden fragility.
‘Mum?’
She bit her lip took a breath and then looked calm again. I kept hold of her hand. A million thoughts jostled with each other in my brain but none were even close to what came next.
‘I have a brain tumour. Non-treatable. Didn’t think this would be the way to go. Maybe I laughed too much in this life or something.’
Joanne started bawling. I tried to stay strong, to hear what mum would say next. But that was that. I embraced her, pulling her head into my chest. Her nose honked on impact. Joanne looked uncomfortable. Mum and I sniggered in unison. She looked up and stared hard into my eyes.
‘Just make sure you bury me like this, okay?’
Mum, we’ve stayed true to our word, just like you always did.
The young man looked up, his body and mind calm, rejuvenated. Most of the crowd had smiles on their faces even as they wiped the tears from their eyes. He looked over at his wife. She was looking anxious, rubbing her tummy a little more vigorously now. He knew it was time. He put an arm around Rick and together they tossed a bunch of roses on top of the coffin. Then he signaled to the cemetery workers and took his wife's hand, leading her away to their car.
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