narrator MAGAZINE

ISS

N: 1839-4

06X

AUD $9.95

Quarterly

showcase of

your region’s

creative

writing talent.

Central Tablelands

This issue featuring contributions from: Rebecca Wilson, Paul Phillips, DJ Peters, JE Doherty, and more ...

Spring 2011

Welcome!

To all our new readers, contributors and sponsors, congratulations on being part of Narrator Magazine!

You‟re probably asking right now—what is it, and why?

In short, Narrator Magazine is a forum for people to display their creative writing—short stories,

poems and essays.

What Narrator aims to do is encourage people to write by providing a place for them to display their

writing. There are plenty of exhibitions and competitions for visual artists to display their work, but it

is becoming increasingly difficult for aspiring writers to hone their skills in an open forum.

By providing Narrator as a free online publication available from various sites, writers can email the

links to their friends, relatives and writing associates and spread the word more quickly. By providing

a limited number of printed copies, those who choose to read the print version can do so, and those

who appear in the magazine have the opportunity to purchase something to keep for posterity—and

their grandchildren!

And why are we doing this? Because more and more people seem to want to write, but the old

publishing model isn‟t working anymore. While the new digital technologies such as iPad and Kindle

make it easier for you to get your word out there, it is also becoming harder to be heard. By

aggregating short stories from a variety of people in one issue, we are helping introduce as many

people as possible to an audience. Your short story or poem collection or new novel might not get a

second look if you published it without a following, but if someone sees one or more of your items in

an issue of Narrator, and then sees that you‟ve also released a book of short stories or poems, or a

novel, then they might be more inclined to purchase that item if they‟re already familiar with some of

your work.

So Narrator is a ladder—with rungs at various levels of the game. As we aggregate materials from

contributors and get a feel for what they do and who their audience might be, we are already in touch

with them to help them take that next step toward publishing their first book or anthology.

And if you‟d like to be a contributor to Narrator, here are some tips to help you „make the cut‟:

Does your item fall into one of these categories: short story, poem or essay? We don‟t accept

articles or promotional items and we also discourage memoirs which are simple re-telling of

stories. Narrator is about creative writing—making people think, stirring their emotions, whether

you want them to laugh, cry, or simply fume! So if you wish to write a memoir, will it do this,

and can you write it with some creativity, not just a re-telling of an incident in your life?

Is your piece less than 5,000 words?

Have you proofread your piece?

Have you used single quote marks, single spacing between sentences and the word „and‟ instead

of an ampersand (&)?

Have you had someone else proofread your piece? This is very important—we don‟t edit your

items. They‟re your work and we are presenting your work, not what we think it should be. So

it‟s up to you to make it the best it can be.

Does it have a beginning, a middle and an end? Generally speaking, unless it‟s a poem, it will

need some form of structure for the reader to make sense of it.

These points won‟t guarantee submission, but they will certainly help.

Central Tablelands

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing, Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779

MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher‟s Business Support Pty Ltd ABN 48 126 885 309

www.moshpitpublishing.com.au www.narratormagazine.com.au

A few words from the

publisher ...

Welcome to the first

edition of Narrator

Magazine, Central

Tablelands!

It‟s certainly exciting being able to spread our wings beyond

the Blue Mountains and we hope that this

is the start of a bigger, wider audience for

both Narrator and for your writing.

If you‟re only just finding out about Narrator now, then you may like to join

us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/

narratormagazine and read more about

how it all works on our website at

www.narratormagazine.com.au/

The main aim of Narrator is to help provide an outlet for creative writing, and

to help people develop their creative

writing skills by competing with each

other.

Cash prizes are awarded for the best three entries ($200, $100 and $50) as judged

by our „secret judge‟, who is revealed in

the following issue, along with the winners and their entries. We also have a

$50 People‟s Choice award.

In time, we hope to bring you a „best of

the best‟ issue, where we bring the best

entries from both Blue Mountains and Central Tablelands issues for the prior

year.

So start writing—get those fingers on the

keyboard and think about sharing all

those poems, essays and short stories that have been swirling around in your head

over the years!

And if you belong to a writing group, or

take classes in creative writing, or know

someone who does, please make sure you let them know about Narrator—the more

contributors, the better the quality of the

reading, and the better it will be for

everyone.

So that‟s it from me for this inaugural

Central Tablelands issue. Time for you to start turning the pages and see what your

fellow residents have contributed!

Jenny Mosher September 2011

Caricature:

Jenny Mosher‟s caricature (above) by Blue

Mountains artist Todd Sharp. For more info,

visit toddasharp.com.

Welcome to the First Edition of

Narrator MAGAZINE CENTRAL TABLELANDS

Poetry

Stories

Cover: „Trapped‟ by Aida Pottinger

I am interested in exploring images which

arrest the eye, and creating drawings and

paintings that are arrived at spontaneously. I

work from life and landscape and also use

inspirational photographs and drawings of

people and landscapes, and manufactured,

made and built objects as a jumping off point. I like to push the source material to capture an

atmosphere or mood visually echoing

memories and emotions. My work emerges out

of a memory I may be working on and is a

subconscious recognition of how the earth

gives birth, nurtures, sustains and eventually

reclaims the life on it.

Please visit me at:

http://theambiguityofhorizon.blogspot.com/

Please note that as contributors are aged 18 and over, some contributions contain language

and concepts that may be considered offensive.

2 Nasma

3 Questions

4 Always the Children

6 Treasures

9 The Portrait

10 The Waiting Photograph

11 Bidding War

12 Re-Kindled Love

16 The Dancing Suit

18 The Eyes Have It

22 Public Performance

23 Why?

24 Drifter‟s Ridge

26 The Little Tear

27 The Journey

I was very, very excited. I had promised

my friend Nasma that I would „drop in

for a visit‟ now that she had returned

home to Lebanon and now I was here. As

we flew in to land at the airport, I saw for the first time the Mount Lebanon Range

that rises high and suddenly from the

coast. The number and density that made

up Beirut were startling to me as I viewed

the city, nestling in the coastal plain, from

the sky. Making my way with the rest of

the passengers, from the plane to the

tarmac and onto the bus that took us to

the bullet-ridden shack of an airport, I

had to stop myself from staring at the

soldiers with very big guns who were

standing or strolling about the place.

So why was I here? Back in Australia in

1994, I had completed a Volunteer Home

Tutor certificate course run by the NSW

Adult Migrant English Service (AMES).

AMES had set up the program because it had identified that the free English

tutoring available to Australian migrants

precluded people (predominantly women)

who were housebound, were mothering

young children or unable to travel to get

to the classes.

I joined 25 other potential tutors and we

were given as much guidance and

encouragement and as many teaching tips

as possible. My first student was Nasma.

With no experience or idea of what to

expect (I reckoned that as a trained and

experienced actor I could always „act‟ my

way through any sticky moments. I felt

my few years as a mime artist would

really come in handy).I threw myself into

the unknown world of trying to teach

English conversation skills.

My first lesson, I remember was pretty

nerve racking for Nasma and myself.

Based on the typical student profile I was

expecting a 20 year old married woman,

not long in Australia and pregnant with her first child. I had brought along simple

anatomy and physiology illustrations on

pregnancy and birth written in both

English and Arabic that I found in the

AMES library—I had thought myself to

be sensitively and thoughtfully prepared.

I don‟t know what Nasma was expecting

but I do recall she kept apologising for

not being able to speak English.

Nasma had led me into the small salon at

the front of the house in the working class

industrial suburb of Botany where she

lived with her husband. Her small son,

Ali was nearly one and her husband or jowsik, Majed was running a Lebanese

take away food shop in Kings Cross. The

house was always full of people, and as

we progressed with our classes I realised

most of them were family members. Our

classes were always interrupted. It

seemed Nasma was the only one able to

answer some particular question, pass on

information, take a phone call or soothe

Ali like only a mother can. Nasma

seemed to organise everyone and keep

the extended family in motion. She was bright, funny, beautiful and intelligent.

Also, I think the rest of the family liked

to interrupt to check me out. Who was

this morrshd?

Majed‟s parents Abu and Em Ali arrived in Australia with their eight children in

1975, following their eldest daughter who

had migrated here in the early seventies.

The family left Lebanon at a time of

escalating violence with the outbreak of

civil war.

Keesing‟s Contemporary Archives has

this entry for August 18-24 1975, the year

the Nasrallah‟s came to Australia.

„Serious fighting occurred in Beirut from

mid-April 1975 between militia of the

right wing, predominantly Christian

Phalanges Party (Kataeb) and Palestinian

guerrilla groups based in Lebanon,

causing the resignation of M. Rashid

Solh‟s Government on 15 May. The crisis

was regarded as the most serious since

the 1958 civil war, it being estimated by Lebanese sources that up to early July

2300 people were killed in the fighting

and over 16,000 injured. Throughout the

remainder of the 20th Century Lebanon

experienced extreme political turmoil.

There was ongoing fighting between

militia including Christian Phalanges‟,

Shiite Muslims, Sunni Muslims and

members of the Druze community, the

Iranian backed Hezbollah, the Palestinian

Liberation Organisation (PLO) and the various military including Israeli Armed

Forces (IAF), the Israeli backed South

Lebanese Army SLA) and the Syrian

Army. The fighting led to the deployment

of the UN Interim Forces in Lebanon

(UNIFIL) and the Multinational Forces

(MNF), civilian oppression and countless

deaths. I knew Majed‟s family were

Sunni Muslim‟s and not part of any militia group or involved in militia

fighting but one of the sons had been

picked up on the street, „detained‟ and

tortured by Christian militia. So the

family got out.

Thomas Friedman, an American Jew who had lived in Lebanon for many years and

loved the place and the people, describes

in detail the politics and violence of this

1975 civil war period in his 1989 book

From Beirut to Jerusalem—One Man’s

Middle Eastern Odyssey.

I read this book with fascination but the

life Nasma used to tell me about during

our late night chats was a very different

one of happy domestic scenes and family

fun. We got to know and like each other

despite the lack of a common language

and we spent lots of time hanging out,

eating, looking after babies and chatting

at her home. I learned about her family

who were still in Lebanon and who had

lived through the war—her mother Layla, father Abu Habib (younger brother to

Majid‟s Father) and her seven brothers

and sisters—Ali, Souad, Hussein, Rudda,

Widian and Khoudda. Nasma was the

oldest at 22. I too had seven brothers and

sisters. We decided that her Muslim

upbringing and my Catholic one had lots

of similarities. Religion was a major force

in how our families were structured and

how we behaved. Both our fathers were

the „head of the household‟ (actually her

father was the head of four households, having taken four wives). The sons were

feted and the daughters expected to be

chaste, modest and hardworking in the

home. Muslim girls took the scarf and

similarly I could remember when lace

mantillas were still worn in church. A

seed of friendship was sown. I loved

hearing about her family intrigue and

drama and Nasma looked forward to the

news of my life „outside‟.

Three years and another baby later (for

Nasma) I had kept my word and was

mounting the stairs to her apartment in

Torl just a couple of kilometres north of

Nabatieh (the scene of some of the worst

2

Nasma Christine Sweeney

Moorilda

Download the Spring edition and past issues of narratorMAGAZINE for your iPad or

eReader FREE from Smashwords.com

3

The look that‟s buried behind your eyes as you tell me who is right.

As if you know what has happened‟s wrong, though still putting up a fight.

Resisting tears I gulp my pride and start off with a plea.

We‟re going round in circles here—don‟t you know your hurting me?

I don‟t look ashamed, embarrassed, upset as you spit out words of hate.

And looking back on generations I can‟t help but think … is this my fate?

What have I done so badly?

Your exterior is so tough.

Every time I‟ve apologised … isn‟t this enough?

You tell me all the time about how you never cry, yet behind the yelling, screaming are you breaking down inside?

I‟ll smile yesterday‟s thoughts away as if they didn‟t matter.

Though piece by piece as I laugh away everything begins to shatter.

I try to make some sense of it; it‟s hard to let it be.

Is this making me stronger for things I‟m yet to see?

I know that you‟re aware yourself, like many have said is true.

Why are we making each other bleed?

Open your eyes; I‟m just like you … m

Questions Alexandra Nagy

Bathurst

fighting in South Lebanon).

I had read the Lonely Planet Guide to

Lebanon and had prepared a list of places

I wanted to visit and things we would do

together. These plans for the main part

were abandoned in the wake of what was

to follow. The first week, every member

of the extended family visited (they

visited each other incessantly anyway) to

meet „Nasma‟s friend from Australia‟.

The following weeks held weddings,

cooking, family visits, changing babies‟

nappies, cooking, late night chats (this

time with fresh Lebanese ice cream),

shopping at the souk, cleaning, swapping

each other‟s clothes, cooking, washing,

cleaning and most of all getting to know her family. I was not destined for any

tourist spots (well, we did visit some, but

that is another story) or souvenir

shopping. Mine was an odyssey of the

interior, domestic life.

Nasma‟s mother Layla, and her family

took to me immediately. Layla was a

Christian and felt we had a bond because

of this—whether it was the reason or not,

I felt the same. I could see this person

was where Nasma got a lot of her

personality and warmth from, her fantastic cooking skills and her

generosity. Towards the end of my visit

Layla said, „Why don‟t you stay here—I

will look after you. You are welcome in

my house as one of my daughters.‟ For

me this was the one statement that made

me howl inside. Without words she had

known I wanted what she was offering. I

wanted to say „yes.‟

I returned to Lebanon a year or so later in

1998 (this time with my own car and

itinerary), met more new babies and

attended more weddings and shall go

again. For me the friendship I have

forged with Nasma, a woman from a

place very different from mine, with a life

very different to mine and from a country

that is very different to mine is to be

treasured.

After a rare moment of disagreement,

raised voices and stand-offs, Nasma and I

were sitting in silence. I looked at her and

said „Well I have to say, your English is

very good.‟ She replied „I have a good

teacher.‟ m

4 PARIS Portingale Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog OUT NOW

Paperback: $24.95 + p&h ePub and PDF: $6.99

from the MoshShop www.themoshshop.com.au www.artandthedrugaddictsdog.com

I make the coffee strong though I know

sleep will be hard to find even after the

long drive home. The station is quiet

except for occasional buzz of the radio and

the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard. I pull the last of the paperwork from the printer,

hurriedly scrawling my name at the bottom

of the page. After a quick glance, I toss it

into the filing tray for morning. I hesitate at

the door, and then return to check the

roster. Of late it has a habit of changing

almost magically from day to day.

I should have

walked out

when I had the chance.

The roster has

changed.

Tomorrow,

I‟m working

with the Ogre.

Now, not only

will sleep be

hard to find,

but waking

will be even

harder.

The Ogre is a

formidable

woman, a

sergeant who

before

coming here,

spent her

entire

working life lecturing school kids on stranger danger

and road safety. She had never faced an

angry man, never done a real day's police

work in her life and she isn't about to start

now.

When you greet the prospect of the next

day's work with genuine dread, you know

it‟s time for a change.

***

The house is dark but I don‟t turn on the

light. The familiar halls prove no obstacle.

A soft warm glow peeks beneath the back

room's door. The hinges sigh as I creep

inside. It‟s strange how such a boisterous

child can ware such an angel‟s face in

sleep. I brush aside a wisp of hair and

gently touch my lips to his brow.

„Sleep well little one.‟

Clare is standing at the door when I turn.

Through the net of shadows I can see her

tired smile.

„I love you,‟ she whispers, kissing my

cheek before returning to bed.

The room is dark enough that it doesn‟t

matter if my eyes are open or not. I stare at

the ceiling through closed lids, waiting for

sleep to come.

***

„What have I told you about leaving the

kitchen in a mess?‟ The Ogre waves her

arm at the unwashed coffee cups in the

sink. „And the filing is supposed to be done

before you go home.‟

„I knew I was back this morning.‟ I push

past her into the sanctuary of the male

locker room.

Last night, I had a premonition today was

going to be bad. So far nothing has

happened to change my mind. Quick shifts

are a drain at the best of times but with a

forty five minute drive home and back …

That leaves only five and a half hours to squeeze in some sleep before you are back

on the job.

Rap Rap RAP! „We've got a job.‟

I splash water on my face. Technically, we

don‟t even start for another fifteen minutes.

Why am I always right? This is definitely

going to be a bad day.

The ambulance pulls into the driveway just

ahead of the patrol car. I curse my luck.

With a dead'n this early in the shift and no

way known-to-man to prise the Ogre's note

book from her pocket, it looks like I‟m in

for a busy day.

As soon as I walk through the door I know.

This is no ordinary

deceased.

The mother is crooning to

her baby, eyes red

rimmed and as lifeless as

the child.

Why is it always the

children? I ask myself. I

look hopefully at the Ogre but she stands as

emotionless as ever. I

fumble with my pocket

and take out my note

book, trying to swallow

down the lump in my

throat.

It is hard to offer comfort

to someone when you are

facing your own worst nightmare. I have never

been overly religious but

each night since my baby

was born, I offer up the

same simple prayer.

‘I do not ask for much.

Just see my baby safe tonight.'

As the ambulance officer moves to take the

child, I touch her hair and her mother's

hand.

„I am truly sorry. If there is anything I can

do ...‟ What more can you say?

She howls animal-like, all wild eyes, leaning away and pulling the baby tight

against her chest, sobbing kisses onto the

tiny cold face. „My baby … my baby …

Don‟t take my baby …‟

The Ogre taps her watch.

I talk softly, touching her hand, sharing

some of the pain. „I‟ll take care of her.‟ I

Always the Children JE Doherty

Eglinton

pry her fingers loose. „I promise‟

Her arms fall away and she sinks back into

the chair like she is deflating.

If they‟re already dead, the ambos usually

hit the road with a smug, „Sorry guys, job

for the contractors.‟ I am surprised when

they take the baby from me and gently

wrap her against the cold and carry her out

to the ambulance.

I sit in the car, hand trembling on the

steering wheel. „Sergeant? Can you do the

PM tomorrow?‟

„It's your job.‟

„I would really prefer someone else to do

it.‟ I am pleading now.

„You are doing it, and that is the end of the

matter.‟

***

„Come to bed Tony,‟ Clare whispers from

the door.

„I'll be in soon.‟

„You said that hours ago.‟ She watches me

stare into the cot but returns to her bed

when I make no reply.

The rocking chair presses hard into my

back but my head nods forward in a half

doze. I snap awake, straining to hear my

Jamie's quiet breathing, one hand seeking

the comforting warmth of his body.

I wake stiff and cramped, trying to rub the

twinge from my neck. The slight rise and

fall of Jamie's chest makes me smile. The

electric jug rumbles in the kitchen and I

can hear Clare humming quietly as she

waits for the water to boil. I push myself

out of the rocking chair and shuffle into the

hall.

Clare frowns as I walk into the kitchen. „You should have come to bed. Your eyes

look haunted.‟

Sleep wasn't going to change that.

Clare loves my eyes; she tells me they are

my most striking feature, clear grey-blue,

bright like diamonds. Diamond eyes, she

would say. I can see it hurts her to see my

fear.

***

The room basks in fluorescent brightness.

White tile walls reflect chrome and shining

steel. The bench and slab table are buffed

to a mirror shine. Rows of refrigerated

lockers line the wall through the double

plastic doors. The smell of formalin is heady, almost nauseating but it can‟t mask

the stench of the dead.

Ted Greige, the orderly, is balding and

stooped, more suited to a torture chamber

than this sterile antiseptic room. Although

it is very clichéd, he is known to the police

as Eigor. That he enjoys his work is plain.

There is always an eager glint in Eigor‟s

eye. After a slurp of coffee and a bite from

a sandwich slathered in red jam, he smiles.

„Slept in,‟ he apologises tossing his

breakfast on the bench.

The refrigerator door opens with a hiss and

he carries the plastic wrapped bundle to the

table. Eigor unzips the over sized body bag

and places the child on the table. She looks

so small and pale, like a porcelain christening doll. Her blue tinged lips are

curled in a pout of sleep.

But it‟s not sleep.

After another slurp of coffee, Eigor lays

out the tools of his trade. They gleam

bright like the room.

The Government Medical Officer sweeps

through the plastic doors, absently leafing

through his paperwork.

„Occurrence pad ... P.79A Coroner's

report ... identification statement ... All

seems in order.‟ He looks up. „Ah,

Constable ...‟ he asks brightly, noticing me

for the first time. „Is this …‟ He rifles

through the papers again. „…Catherine

Norris?‟

I look at the child and draw a deep breath. I

touch her icy hair again. „Yes.‟

„Ok Ted, lets get started.‟ The GMO looks

long at the child then moves to a large

whiteboard and begins to write.

External and General

Appearances: Female child of

stated age. Very cyanosed lips,

fingernails, soles of feet, and

palms. Post mortem lividity

fixed to back, upper half of

abdominal wall and anterior

chest wall. Head

circumference ...

Doctor Stanton wields his tape measure

like a builder, cold and business like.

Eigor moves to the child. His scalpel traces

a thin red line from the hollow of her throat

to her pubic bone.

The wet tearing sound pulls strings in my

stomach, but I‟m frozen. I can‟t even look

away. I feel the colour draining from my

face and grip the bench for support.

„Doc, you hear about that footy player?‟

„Which one?‟

„The one up for rape.‟ With clean, deft

strokes, Eigor flays back her skin to expose

the ribs.

„Must have missed that one.‟

„Yeah, apparently she was all for it till he

stuck it up her backwards.‟ He works with

a professional, grisly ease. „Split her open.

That‟s when she cried rape.‟ Eigor picks up

a small set of bone cutters, still too large

for the work they have to do.

Snap goes the first rib.

I squeeze shut moist eyes. This is not the

child, only the cloak she wore, I whisper to

myself.

Snap. Snap. It’s not the child.

Snap.

But all I see is the child. Like my Jamie.

Snap.

Small and helpless.

Snap.

I promised to look after her.

At that moment I realise I could kill them

both, Eigor and the doctor, but I know if I

let go of the bench my legs won‟t hold me. Still, I can‟t keep my eyes shut, can‟t look

away, and that frightens me most of all.

Eigor pries out the rib cage and sets it aside

to reveal the child's inner most secrets.

Heart: No congenital

abnormality. Heart valves and

muscle normal.

Aorta & Branches: Normal.

Lungs & Air Passages: No

foreign body in air passages.

No fractured ribs. Lungs

cyanosed. Otherwise normal ...

As the doctor sorts and dissects the tiny

organs, Eigor turns his attention to her head, slicing the scalpel around her hair

line. My eyes are drawn to the baby's face,

the only part that is still the child. I clench

my jaw against a nausea that threatens to

choke me. As I stare, it is no longer the

face of Catherine Norris. It‟s my boy, my

Jamie.

When Eigor peels the baby's face back to

expose the skull, I stagger from the room. It‟s all I can take. I shut my eyes to the

horror but that death's-head mask is burnt

into my brain. Nothing can scour it clean. I

clutch the basin, retching as the sound of

the bone saw echoes from the other room.

***

When I walk in the rear door, Clare's worry

is evident. She is holding Jamie. I walk towards them but I stop. I have to look

away. I can‟t face my own son without

seeing that raw, death's-head mask. If Clare

thought my eyes were haunted this

morning, what does she see now?

They feel empty. Cold. m

5

6

„Where d'ya hide the suitcases?‟ Her back

is rubbing gently on the gritty clay and

bits of rock are falling with the

movement. His jeans are down and her

legs are wrapped around his hips. „I told you already,‟ he says into her neck, „you

don't need to know.‟ A loud thud bangs

the ground above their heads. Twice.

Three times. They look up to the edge of

the steep creek bed, above the exposed

tree roots and pieces of corrugated iron

that hold the bank together. Roo. Just a

roo. They pull away from each other. A

large canvas bag sits at the foot of an old

peach tree that has grown in the middle of

the creek bed. She picks the bag up and

throws it over her shoulder and it hits her side softly. „Did you put the key back?‟

They both scramble to the top of the bank

but he moves quickly, so she can't see his

face.

„Did you put the bloody key

back?‟ She wants him to turn

around and look at her.

„I couldn't remember exactly where

it was s'posed to go.‟

„What?‟ He stops and turns to look at

her, both of them angry with each

other, for different reasons. He puts

his face down to hers. Her voice is

quivering and her face is red as she asks

him slowly, „So, exactly where did you

put it, Jonno?‟

„Shit! Jenna, we don't have time for this

now. The job's done and we need to meet

that guy in half an hour. Where's the

goddamn 'cruiser? And give me the

keys.‟

She pulls the keys from the back pocket

of her jeans. Her brown crusty hands

slam the keys into his as she cuts him with daggers from her eyes. „It's up near

the old sale yards, like you friggin' told

me.‟

Silence. They walk separately, angrily, up

the red road. Dust is picking up in the

wind at the back of his heels and it blows

back towards her as she storms behind

him. He starts the car. The sun's

reflection off the clay is alive with pink

and purple that radiates indigo mist, they squint their eyes and lower their visors.

He swings the 4WD around, stopping

suddenly for the Eastern Greys that are

heading to the empty grassy space that

sits in the middle of the old mining town.

They pass the pub and head out on the

only road that takes anyone in or out.

He thinks carefully about where he put

the key. 'They won't be onto me until at

least next Tuesday anyway. Tom and Gail

said they were definitely outta town 'til

next Tuesday. And they won't go up to

the cottage for a while, not 'til the next

boofhead artist comes in anyway. They

will notice the missing paintings though,

it's just a matter of time.'

He looks sideways at Jenna and continues

to think. 'We meet the guy, get the

suitcases and make the deal.

After that we're free.

We'll be

outta town

before anyone

notices a thing.' He lights a

cigarette with one hand while the other

holds the vehicle to the left as the sharp

corner swoops and a sea of yellow and

black arrows points the way around the tight bend at the top of the crest. And

what about Tony? He'd better keep his

end of the deal and keep his mouth shut.

„So, how did it go?‟ Jenna is calmer now,

but not relaxed by any means. „Did you

get the bloody paintings or not?‟

„Yes. They're in the suitcases.‟

„Did anyone see you?‟

„Would I be here driving the friggin' car

if they had? For God's sake Jenna. I got

the key, I got the paintings, they're in the

suitcases and we're nearly at Sofala, so

relax.‟

They swing to the left in a hurry and he

accelerates up the hill that looks down on

the small village. He swerves off the road

and behind the trees a red Mercedes waits

with a pale, thin man at the wheel. Jonno

walks over to the passenger seat and

jumps in. They talk for a while and Jonno

comes back to Jenna and whispers,

„You've gotta get in the car with him.‟

„What?'„

„Get in the car with him, now.‟

„What the hell is going on Jonno?‟

„Jenna, just get in the car so I can go get

the suitcases.‟

„No. I'm coming with you.‟ The man in

the car beeps the horn.

„Jenna, what you don't know can't hurt

you. Get in his car. And don't tell him a

bloody thing.‟

She walks over and thumps herself into

the leather seat. They nod at each other.

Jonno drives quickly back onto the road

and continues until he reaches a dirt

track. He follows it until he has to stop to

move the branches and rocks that he'd

used to deter any visitors. He makes his

way through the scrub, dodging trees in

his Landcruiser until he reaches a small cleared area. Out of the car, he walks

behind large rocks at the base of a hill,

to an old mine shaft where he shuffles

down the ladder. At the bottom, he uses

his torch to recover the stashed suitcases.

He pulls them up to the surface one by

one, sweating. He chucks them in the

back of the vehicle, under a blanket.

Jenna is leaning on the Mercedes,

smoking a cigarette as Jonno pulls in swiftly, streaming light across her face

from the high beams. Jenna walks over to

him, her heart is racing. Jonno simply

tells her to get into the driver's seat and

keep the car running.

Jonno shows the man the contents of the

suitcases and waits for the money. The

driver indicates over his shoulder, where

a small box sits on the back seat. „Put the paintings there and take the box.‟ Jonno

grabs the lid off and counts the cash.

„You do realise what scandal will

eventuate when they discover these have

disappeared, don't you?‟

„What are you talking about?‟

„These paintings are very well known,

Treasures Rebecca Wilson

Hill End

young man. They are considered national

treasures, my friend. There will be a lot

of heat on this, so lay low and don't do

anything 'unusual', or they'll be onto you.

I am offloading these this afternoon and washing my hands of the whole thing,

you never saw me ... okay? Stick to the

deal.‟

Jonno tips the cash into the canvas bag

and throws it behind him. He swings the

suitcases onto the seat. The driver

watches Jonno in the mirror, his hands on

the steering wheel, poised to exit, fast.

Jonno doesn't close the back door. The

driver turns his head away from the mirror to see for himself what this man is

up to. Before he can speak, silver cuffs

have encircled his wrists and he is locked

to the wheel. The pale man struggles and

yells. „What the hell do you think you are

doing? What's wrong with you,

boy? The deal is done! You want

to keep those paintings and try to

sell them again to someone else?

You are a fool. Someone will find

me here and I will tell the police every detail I know about you,

you little cretin.‟

„Don't worry grandpa, I just need

to buy a little time. My mate will

be along shortly to unlock you.

Just don't over react and

everything will be fine.‟ Jonno turns the

radio on for the driver and closes the

door, walking to his car with the money

and the paintings. „Drive woman, drive!‟

***

Back in the old mining town, Tom and

Gail have arrived early. Gail gets the dog

some food while Tom talks to the guy

from Sydney. She hasn't met him before.

„Why was Tom so insistent that he invite

this horrid man, “Roland”? We weren't supposed to come back here until next

Tuesday. And that bloody BMW that he

adores!'‟

„Something to drink, gentlemen?‟ She

pours them both a beer and says she

needs to unpack and freshen up.

The men stay at the table.

„So what do you think you can get for

them?‟ Tom asks.

„The problem is being able to get rid of

them. They are very well known, much

harder to offload.‟

„If that's the case why the hell did I bring

you here?‟

„Now, now, Tom. I didn't say impossible,

just a more limited market, my dear. And

besides, I need to see them before

anything can happen. You know how it

works.‟

„Let's go there now.‟

„Gail!‟ he calls out, „we'll be back in a

while, I'm taking Roland to the cottage.‟

No reply.

At the cottage, Tom picks up the rock

near the concrete path. Not there.

„Strange.‟ He picks up the next rock.

„There.‟ Relief. „Jenna must have moved

the key.‟

The men make their way to the front door

of the cottage with walls that whisper

stories of art history. Through the old

kitchen and small hallway, into the

lounge. „Holy shit, I don't believe it!‟ He

runs from room to room, looking at the

empty walls.

„My dear Tom, someone has beaten you

to it!‟ Roland laughs arrogantly. „I

suppose I shall just have to enjoy your

hospitality for the evening and then be on

my way,‟ he says as Tom falls into the

closest seat.

„This is disastrous!‟

„I'll make my way back to tell your wife. Best that I'm not here when the police

arrive.‟

***

Gail sits on the couch in the cottage,

holding her husband's hand while the

constable asks a lot of questions. „Who

has access to the cottage?‟ The policeman tries to sound like he knows what he is

doing.

Tom wonders to himself. Jenna? „Jenna

knows where the key is, she cleans here

every time an artist has finished their

residency. But she's so sweet. Couldn't be

her. She wouldn't know how to sell them

anyway? No ... What was the name of

that artist who stayed here last June,

Gail? That man, the sculptor. You know the one that was screwing all those young

wannabes?‟

„Oh … Jeffrey?! Don't be ridiculous,

Tom! I think your jealousy is twisting

your mind! Darling, who else knew

where the key was?‟ Gail asks her

husband.

„Really it's down to Jenna and any of the artists that have stayed here. But Jenna? I

doubt it.‟

„Let's get her on the phone, get her over

here, in case she saw anything

suspicious.‟

„No answer.‟ Gail sighs. „Try the pub, she

might be up there.‟ She dials and chats,

hangs up. „No, Cara hasn't seen her since

yesterday morning.‟

„Where the hell is she then? Try her

mother's,‟ he snaps at his wife.

Again she makes a call. „Rosie hasn't

seen her tonight. Tom, that's not good.

That's very unusual for her. I'm a bit

worried now.‟

***

Jenna drives flat out down the hill

again. „Pull over. I'm gonna drive.‟

Jonno gets in and heads the vehicle

back to the small town from which

they came.

„What the hell are you doing?‟

„Okay Jenna, here's the plan. We

can drop these paintings back. No

one will know they were ever taken

and we can piss off and have a

good life for a while. Start somewhere

new. If we head back now, we haven't

really done anything wrong. Kind of ...‟

Jenna sits silently. „You've stuffed it all

up. It's not what we planned, Jonno. We

planned to sell them and skip. That guy

will track us down or give us up to the

cops and we'll be screwed.‟

„Jenna, if we go back now, put the

paintings back up, no one will know.

Tom and Gail won't be back yet. We can

take this cash, it's heaps of money and we can disappear. What's that guy gonna say

to the police? “Sir, they took the money I

was using to buy stolen paintings?”‟

Jenna sighs and silently nods her head.

***

The young constable of the town is quite

excited by the case. „Things like this just

don't happen „round here. This is a big case. This could be promotion material.‟

The policeman bids goodnight to Tom

and Gail. He gets in his car and drives out

of town but slowly heads off the road and

lowers his lights. He can see Tom and

Gail's place from where he is placed. He

will wait and watch.

The ambitious policeman sees the couple

make their way up the drive and head into

the house. „Who is the third person at the

7

„You've stuffed it all up. It's not

what we planned, Jonno. We planned to sell them and skip.

That guy will track us down or

give us up to the cops and we'll

be screwed.‟

8

table through the window?‟ He calls in

the vehicle plates. „Dodgy. Roland

Fischer. Never convicted but well known

for “handling” things people need to “get

rid of”. Surely that is too obvious, to call me in before he has even left with the

goods. Possible, but so risky.‟ The

constable decides to stake the house out

for the night. „These snobs from Sydney

won't take the Mickey out of me. A bust

like this could be very good for my

career, very good.‟

***

The town is covered in a blanket of black,

there is no moon. At the cottage, in the

dark, Jenna can‟t find the key.‟ It‟s

bloody gone Jonno, where the hell did

you put it?‟

„Under that bloody rock is where I put it

… shit! We‟ll have to break in.‟ Standing

in the darkness he holds his jacket over

the window and cracks it with a shifter. The glass makes high pitched clinks and

he puts his hand through the window to

open the lock. He jumps through the

window and asks Jenna to pass the

suitcases. „Shit! I don‟t remember where

any of these go, do you?‟

„God, Jonno, you and your bloody ideas!

Let me in, you‟ll have to turn the lights

on so we can figure this mess out.‟

„No Jenna, someone will notice.‟

„Jonno, how the hell am I gonna put them

back up in the dark?‟

„Ok, but just a lamp!‟ They light a small

lamp in the corner of the room and

unpack the „treasures‟.

***

The constable outside Tom and Gail‟s is

snoring in the driver‟s seat. Tom creeps

slowly around to the back of the vehicle

and puts nails into the tyres. Well and

truly drunk by now, Tom is outraged that

the policeman has been watching him.

„Son … bitch. Treat me .... criminal,

bastard … teach him ...‟

After committing his deed of revenge,

Tom walks alone, stumbling over rocks

and bumping into fences, lost in the dark,

towards the cottage. Sobbing to himself,

grieving over the money he intended to

make, to get him out if the trouble he‟s in.

Bouncing through the back fence, he

thinks he sees a light. And now a shadow,

two shadows, moving in the cottage.

„What the hell is this?‟ He shuffles

drunkenly to the verandah and tries to see

through the window, not too close, he‟s

having trouble staying upright. He can‟t

make out who it is but decides that he must act quickly. But do what? Run back

to the policeman whose vehicle is now

defunct? „Shit! What have I done?‟ As he

stands in the cold, panicking, he can hear

footsteps. He flops down just below the

verandah and watches a man come

around the corner to the window. The

man has a balaclava over his head and he

stands very close to the window, calling

out someone‟s name. Tom‟s not sure

what he said.

From inside the dimly lit cottage Jonno

exclaims, „Shit! Tony! What the hell are

you doing here?‟

„That goddamn guy you left in the car is

dead.‟

„What?‟

„You heard me, man, dead.‟

„How did you find me?‟

„Your car is across the road, idiot!‟

„Awright, smardarse ...‟

„Man, I went to uncuff him just like you

asked. You musta gave „im a heart attack.

I‟m not dealin‟ with that on me own.‟

„So where is he?‟

„In his car, mate, where d‟ya reckon?‟

„Jesus Christ!‟

Tom is terrified. He must get help. He is

moving as quickly as he can but he is like

a blind kangaroo, knocking into things,

grunting and puffing. His head is swirling

with alcohol and fear. Back to the

sleeping constable he tries to find his

way. Tom can‟t see. His pulse is

galloping, he thinks his heart will explode. He trips on rocks and his jacket

gets caught on fence wire. He struggles,

he‟s rushing. He pulls himself out of his

jacket and it hangs, lonely on the wire,

ripped and abandoned. He feels that he

has gone off course, he can‟t get his

bearings. He falls over and stays down.

Tom is crawling now, so he can feel his

way across the gravel, dirt and rocks.

***

Jenna, Jonno and Tony speed away from

the cottage. The pictures are up on the

walls. „Maybe not how they were, but

close enough.‟ Jenna thinks. They pull up

at the red Mercedes. The two men pull

and push the driver into the passenger‟s

seat and Jonno takes the wheel. Jenna

follows behind.

Out through the winding roads and along

steep cliff edges they weave their way.

They pull over at a clearing where the

road ahead has a sheer drop that no

vehicle could return from. The body is

strapped back into the driver‟s seat, a

heavy rock is placed on the accelerator.

Jonno turns the key, releasing the brake

as fast as he can and jumping away from

the vehicle. The three of them watch as the car flies off the edge of the road and

plummets through the air. They watch it

destroy itself against the rocks until it

ignites and booms.

***

The sleeping constable is nowhere to be

found as Tom, on hands and knees, feels the earth disappear from underneath him.

The missing ground is a shaft. He sails

and bounces from edge to edge, too fast

to even utter a whimper. The rock floor

greets his body and the last air from his

lungs is pushed with force and exits from

the back of his throat with a grunting

gush.

***

Gail is desperately worried about Tom.

Lying in their bed, she knows he was

drunk when he left but he should‟ve been

back by now. Looking out the window

she can see part of the police vehicle

from behind the trees. „He is still there,

for goodness sake! What on earth does

that young upstart think?‟

***

Jenna and Jonno drop Tony back to his

car. „Not a bloody word mate, to anyone,

or we are all in deep shit.‟

Jonno stares into Tony's eyes, Tony looks

down, echoing his words, „… deep

shit ...‟

Jenna is at the wheel. „Jonno, let's get the

hell outta here. C'mon, let's go.‟

Jonno hands Tony a big wad of cash,

„Tony, not a word mate.‟

He nods. „Not a word, Jonno. Not a

word.‟ m

Rebecca Wilson Hill End

Join us on Facebook for regular updates:

www.facebook.com/narratormagazine

9

I started visiting the elderly at Springvale

Lodge. An article in my local paper stated

its desperate need for volunteers and as

my only child had just started at school I

was at a loose end. At thirty I was also beginning to feel that I wanted to

contribute to my community in some

way.

At first I worked with several other

volunteers and we ran craft sessions and

played cards with the residents. Most

seemed to enjoy our activities and I had a

good time also. Most of the residents I

came in contact with had physical

difficulties moving around but mentally they were as sharp as ever. Each of the

residents seemed to have a particular

favourite among the volunteers, but I kept

my distance. I didn‟t think it was a good

idea to get attached. After all they were

old and some were sick. Often we‟d come

in to find one had died. I didn‟t need or

want the grief of becoming too close to

any one there.

Then a new patient named Helen entered

Springvale. I met her on my next visit.

The nurse had advised me that the woman

had dementia, my first encounter with

such a condition. Her family had cared

for her for a couple of years but it had got

to the stage she needed medical care.

I saw Helen every week. Usually she just

sat and stared into space; she didn‟t join

our craft groups or play cards. Her communication was limited, usually an

occasional vague murmur that made little

sense. The nurses had to watch her

constantly; she wandered off to the

gardens sometimes and couldn't

remember how to get back. They fed her

because she forgot to eat. Helen didn‟t

appear to notice anything people did for

her, a fact which I found disturbing.

Her family came to visit regularly I was

told. I never saw them as they came on

weekends when I could not come in. She

didn‟t even recognise them according to

the nurses. To me, she was a pathetic

woman. Being thirty and healthy, I didn‟t

even bother with the fact that she might

once have been different. I kept my

distance and just involved myself with

the practicalities.

One day however she took me to her

room. She had never allowed any

volunteers in there before, so I felt odd.

She handed me a portrait. It was of an

elegantly dressed old woman seated in a

comfy chair. She wore a tweed skirt, soft

white sweater and knitted vest. The face

was lined but full of character, the hands

gnarled with age. In her eyes was the

alertness, the brightness of a much

younger person.

I looked at Helen and then at the portrait.

It was her—only a few years ago, no

more. The faded blue eyes of the

dementia sufferer stared into mine.

Behind the blankness I sensed her trying

to reach back, to tell me something. It

was too hard for her and she replaced the

portrait on the bedside table.

Over the next week the portrait kept

popping into my head. The woman had a

past life; I needed to find out more about

her. I arranged to visit Helen on the

weekend, when I knew family would be

there. The nurses introduced me to Anne,

Helen‟s niece.

After chatting for a while in Helen‟s

room, I mentioned the portrait and how

Helen had shown it to me. Anne picked it up from the bedside table and sighed

softly.

„Aunt Helen had this done a few years

ago; she was eighty and wanted it for her

birthday. It used to sit in her lounge room

until she had to move out.‟

„There must be something about it—she

tried to tell me, but the fog‟s too much,‟ I

told Anne.

„She was so alert then, such a wonderful

person, full of go. Eighty was the last

birthday before dementia set in.‟

„It‟s a beautiful likeness, showed me a

side of Helen I didn‟t even think of, a

past.‟

„Aunt has a past all right—a life of

tragedy and happiness, of great warmth.

In the War she was a nurse and worked

near the front lines. She saw horrendous

things. She married a pilot—the love of

her life—he was shot down and killed.‟ Anne‟s eyes misted over. „You‟d think

that‟d knock most people off their feet

but she stayed and finished her job. After

the War she nursed all over the world, in

countries where she felt she was needed

most—Africa, India. With the poorest

people.‟

„You‟d never know to look at her now,‟ I

said, patting Helen‟s hand. She sat on the

bed gazing fixedly out the window,

appearing to pay no attention to us at all.

„Aunt retired when she was sixty and

came home.‟

„Did she ever marry again?‟

Anne shook her head, „No, after she lost Peter I think no one ever measured up.

She had her nieces and nephews, her

sister and brother, friends. And when she

came home she took an active interest in

her town. Charity work, stacks of

volunteer stuff. She was a caring,

unselfish person, warm.‟

It was difficult to imagine the Aunt Helen

Anne had known when all I could see

was the vague lost soul of dementia.

„She‟s only eighty three,‟ was my

comment.

„Yes, she had a terrific eightieth birthday,

cake, party, the lot. The portrait was

done, probably her only self-indulgence

in her whole life. It was my, so

wonderful, Aunt Helen. Over the next

year her mind slipped. She forgot simple things, didn‟t eat. It got to the stage she

came to live with me. She and I had

always been close and I had the time to

care for her. But it got worse; she was a

danger to herself so we had to arrange for

her to come to Springvale. I felt so

awful.‟

„I‟m not sure she understands much of

what‟s around her anyway,‟ I comforted

Anne.

Become a contributor to narratorMAGAZINE and

win cash prizes! Contributions for Summer 2011 edition close 31 October!

Go to narratormagazine.com.au/submit.php to contribute your short story, poem or essay.

The Portrait Vickie Walker

Orange

10

The photo hangs in the big old hall

In pride of place on the northern wall

A wedding group from days of yore

Stand resplendent near a door.

The bride is smiling, proudly beaming

The groom looks worried, nerves are telling.

The bridesmaids happy, pretty maids

The groomsmen cheerful, likely knaves.

Dresses flowing, flowers trailing

Morning suits with tails regaling

In the thirties it must be

For clothes like these we never see.

A story strange I now must tell

About the bride who fell unwell

She passed away not long ago

Leaving family full of woe.

But strangest thing her daughter told

A mystery will now unfold

A puzzling thing, a scary tale

The smiling bride is looking pale.

Each day she fades a little more

The others stay same as before

Must she go from us completely

Body, soul and photo neatly?

Her daughter tells me every day

Her image seems to fade away

Whatever can be causing it?

With normal sense it does not fit.

I think it‟s sad that go she must

But to a place that‟s good I trust

Will she come back to see us all?

The photo waits upon the wall. m

The Waiting Photograph Jill Baggett

Mudgee

„I don‟t know,‟ the reply came rather

sadly. „She doesn‟t recognise me

anymore. Maybe there is something from

the past—she did show you the portrait.

Maybe she was trying to show you

something.‟

„Maybe,‟ I said. I went home that day

with some compassion in my heart for

Helen.

Over the next months I spent a lot of time

with Helen. She didn‟t change, never

spoke much or indicated she knew me.

The portrait remained in her room. I often

glanced at it to remind myself of the

person who used to be.

I began to care for this woman and felt useless to help her. Medical science

couldn‟t lift the fog from her mind—what

could I do? I sat with her, talked, rubbed

her hands, made her eat and drink. Such

small things. She didn‟t seem happy or

sad so I wasn‟t sure if I was doing

anything to comfort her. But I kept

visiting.

Anne phoned me one night at home.

Helen had died that afternoon in her

sleep. In her hands they had found the

portrait, clasped to her chest.

I wept. I wept for the woman who, maybe at her last, remembered something of who

she had been. I wept for myself, for I had

lost a precious gift, a woman who had

taught me never to take people at face

value. m

Vickie Walker

Orange

Bidding War Alexandra Nagy

Bathurst

I sit up on the metal bars, my number in my hand.

Watching the lines enter the pens.

Some are silent.

Some demand.

Lines littered with pasts forgotten.

Potential thrown away.

Mindfulness disregarded here in this place that loyalty‟s frayed.

Sunken spirits haunt the bars.

The cages holding in,

The faded thoughts of humanity.

The goodness from within.

People drift and not a glance,

The frightened and confused;

Hide away in agony,

Until what they think—we prove.

Numbed in preparation for the unsightly of affairs.

Looking back at others.

Shaking with despair.

The naive they curl up to the hungry.

The tormented run walls scared.

The brighter follow all the eyes,

Hoping to be spared.

The innocent stand bunched together,

The first time on these tracks.

And the older walk in silence.

Hoping never to come back.

With one hand in my pocket,

Stroking greens and reds and gold‟s.

Wishing I could tell them all, something they haven‟t many times been told.

The ruckus starts, the bidding flows.

The subtlety of nods.

I sit up on the metal bars.

Impossibly playing God. m

11

It was a hectic Christmas and New Year

period in the James‟ house. Mandy, a

forty-five year old mother of three, had

played host to the family gathering with

her husband Barry, a forty-eight year old computer technician at a genealogy

research lab in the city.

When the extended family had gone

home, only Mandy, Barry and their

youngest daughter Anna were left. It was

finally time for Anna to pack up and head

off to Uni. Anna had received excellent

results and was heading down the coast to

study Marine Biology.

Mandy drove down to the uni campus

with her daughter to find accommodation

before „O-Week‟. It was a pleasant three

hour drive along the coast.

Anna found suitable accommodation in a

large dorm. She had a single room with a

bed, a desk and a small fridge. She would

have to share cooking facilities, but that

was no different to living at home.

The last weeks of the summer holidays

were disappearing quickly. Mandy

dreaded the thought of her little baby girl

going off into the big bad world. Her

children were her whole life. She warned

Anna about the dangers out there, as she

helped her to pack her bags.

Mandy slumped down onto the bed after

zipping up Anna‟s last bag.

„What am I going to do?‟ she asked

rhetorically.

„What do you mean?‟ Anna enquired of

her mother.

„What am I going to do with my time?‟

Mandy rubbed her forehead as she

thought aloud. „Your father‟s off at work

or out in his shed all the time. The others

all have lives of their own! You‟re

leaving now!‟ She waved her hands in

exasperation, „I‟ll just be left with the

house!‟ She sounded downtrodden and

disappointed.

„Why don‟t you get a job like you used to

have? You said you loved working at the

research lab before you had us!‟

Mandy thought about it for two seconds

before deciding to do it.

Anna left that afternoon. Mandy was in

tears, but looking forward to finding a

new life for herself. She was proud of her

children and all of their accomplishments.

When Mandy told Barry later that night

about going back to work he said that

there was a lab assistant‟s job where he

worked that she would be perfect for.

They could go to work together.

Mandy woke early Monday morning to

prepare for the phone call that would

change her whole life. Barry had a quick

breakfast with her and wished her good luck before giving her a quick peck on

the cheek and heading off to the train

station down the road to go to work.

Mandy picked up the receiver and placed

it to her ear, dialled the number to the

genealogy research lab were Barry

worked. It rang once before she began to

wonder if she was doing the right thing or

if she would even get the job.

It rang a second time. Mandy‟s heart

began to beat faster. This is what she had

decided to do. It would be a new

challenge in her life. She had to do it.

The phone rang a third time. Mandy had

just changed her mind and was about to

give up, she began to move the receiver

from her ear when a woman‟s voice could

be heard.

„GeneTech Genealogy Research

Laboratory, Sydney administration. How

can I help you?‟ The woman‟s voice

woke Mandy from her daze and she

brought the receiver back to her ear.

„Ah. Hi … umm … my name is Mandy

and I was told you have a lab assistant‟s position available,‟ Mandy almost choked

as her throat was so dry. She couldn‟t

believe how unconfident she felt. It was

like her very first job interview. A

disaster.

„I‟ll put you through to Human

Resources. Please hold.‟ Music played as

she waited.

Mandy emailed her resume through to the

Human Resources Co-ordinator before

lunch. It took her most of the morning to

type it up as all of her qualifications were

more than twenty years old and she

hadn‟t had to have one since she left

work all those years ago.

She sat down on the couch to watch the midday movie with a tuna salad sandwich

for lunch. Before the movie finished the

phone rang. It was the administration

women‟s voice from the lab.

„Hi. Mandy?‟

„Speaking.‟

„George at Human Resources was

wondering if you would be available for

an interview this week?‟ Mandy finished

the conversation by saying that she‟d be

there by four pm.

She hung up the phone and went to her

walk-in robe in her bedroom. She looked

at herself in the full length mirror. She

didn‟t know what to wear. In the end,

after several outfit changes, she was wearing almost the same outfit she started

with. Mandy slipped on her shoes and

grabbed her purse as she walked out the

door.

Barry arrived home that evening to see

Mandy sitting on the veranda sipping

some wine. There was a second glass

waiting.

„Care to join me?‟ She motioned towards

the other glass.

„How‟d you go?‟ Barry asked as he sat

down.

„Excellent. I‟m celebrating! I start on

Monday of next week.‟

„That‟s excellent. Congratulations!‟ He

was very pleased for her.

A week into the job Mandy received a

call from the retirement village where her

father lived. He had had a stroke and was

taken to the hospital. She organised to

have a few days off work to visit him.

A nurse led Mandy down the corridor and

into the palliative care ward where her

father was resting. He turned his head as

she entered the room and mumbled her

name. She dropped her bags and gave

him a big hug.

„Are you alright?‟ she enquired of her

father.

„Not so good dear,‟ he managed to

DJ Peters

Bathurst Re-Kindled Love

12 Up to date and down to

earth advice for love, life, home, work and school. Coming soon!

13

mumble back. The nurse had informed

Mandy that he was resting, but not to

expect too much as he had had another

stroke since arriving at the hospital. They

didn‟t expect him to last the week out.

Mandy offered to make her father more

comfortable as he was unable to move

anything on his right side. His speech was

getting worse. Mandy was his only child

and his wife, Mandy‟s mother, had

passed away a few years before.

„There‟s

somethin‟ I ‟ave ta tell

you.‟ Mandy

leaned in

closer, as she

held his left

hand, to hear

more clearly.

„Don‟t want

you to get

upset, but it‟s

about your mother!‟ He

struggled with

every word,

almost in

tears.

„It‟s alright

Dad. You just

rest and get

better.‟

„I ain‟t

getting‟ any better!‟ He tried to yell at

her.

„Yes you are Dad,‟ she tried to reassure

herself more than him.

„Doesn‟t matter anymore. And besides

I‟m ready to be with your mother again. Just listen to what I‟ve got to say. It‟s

important. We should have told you years

ago.‟

„Told me what?‟

„About your real mother!‟

„What are you talking about Dad. Mum‟s

dead!‟ She scowled.

„I know, but your mother and I couldn‟t

fall pregnant. Your mother‟s ovaries

didn‟t produce eggs the doctor said.‟

„But … What are you saying Dad?‟

„Your mother‟s best friend Amanda

donated an egg and you were conceived

in a Petri dish. Not much fun for me I‟m

telling you! Don‟t get me wrong, the egg

was implanted into your mother‟s womb

and she carried you to full term without

any complications. And we had you. Our

little angel,‟ he paused to catch his breath.

„Didn‟t you ever wonder where you got

your name from?‟

„Well I thought I was just named after

Aunty Amanda, like Mum said.‟ The penny dropped when she realised who her

aunty was.

„Amanda and your mother were best

friends from high school and when she

heard about our problem conceiving she

offered her eggs. Your mother was so

excited and Amanda always wanted

children, but could never find the right

man.‟

„You‟re joking aren‟t you Dad?‟ She

queried.

„I‟m afraid not,‟ he informed her, „Your

Aunty Amanda lived nearby and your

mother and her hung out all the time.‟ He

coughed and caught his breath. „But I‟m afraid Amanda disappeared after a falling

out with your mother, over an abusive

boyfriend. She left with him when you

were about five years old and we never

heard from her again.‟

Mandy just sat there stunned, trying to

take it all in. Her father took a deep

breath and closed his eyes for a rest.

Later that day Mandy was talking with

her father‟s doctor after he had seen him

for a check-up.

„So will he get any better?‟ Mandy asked

the doctor. She needed to know.

„I‟m afraid it doesn‟t look good. We‟ve

given him some pethidine and made him

as comfortable as we can. He‟s not responding to any stimuli on his right side

and he is losing feeling in his left leg.

We‟ve done all we can do for him. It‟s

just a matter of time now. I‟m sorry.

We‟ll make him as comfortable as we

can,‟ the doctor consoled her, with a pat

on the shoulder that didn‟t make her feel

any better. Her father was dying.

Wiping the tears from her eyes Mandy

needed to know how long her father had

left. The doctor said, „He might last the

week out or he could just stop breathing

and go to sleep at any time.‟ The doctor

tried to sound like he cared, but came off

a little blunt.

Mandy stayed with her father,

she held his

hand and talked

to him until his

chest stopped

moving later

that night. She

stood up and

touched his

face, gave him a

goodbye kiss and pressed the

buzzer for a

nurse.

The next

morning Mandy

organised the

funeral details

and called her

family.

After the grave

side service everybody gathered at his

local bowling club for drinks and stories.

All of Mandy and Barry‟s children

brought their families to celebrate the life

of their grandfather, who was half Irish.

So that entailed many stories and a lot of

drinking to the man‟s life.

Back at home Mandy told Barry what her

father had told her about her „egg

mother‟.

„So you don‟t know her last name. You

don‟t know where she lives. How are you

going to find her? That is if you want to

find her! Do you?‟

„I think I‟d like to know more about her.

So, yes!‟ she said as she nodded her head.

„Where do you start?‟ Barry asked.

Mandy thought about it for a minute

before asking for Barry‟s help.

„All we need to do is use the government

DNA database at the lab to search for a female with the first name of “Amanda”

that has some genetic similarities to me.‟

„So we match up your DNA with the

database. That‟s brilliant!‟

„I‟ll need you to figure out the technical

side of it Barry. I‟ll take a sample from

myself first thing Monday morning. Do

you think it will work?‟

„Of course it will work. As long as we get

permission from the lab or we just don‟t

tell them. We could run the comparisons

at night after knock-off.‟

„Excellent Barry. Thank you very much!‟

She gave him a big hug and a long kiss,

something they hadn‟t done in a very

long time.

They woke up early the next morning,

had breakfast together and went up to

their room to get ready for work. Barry

was in the shower first. Mandy walked in

on him and dropped her robe to

the floor.

„Mind if I join you?‟ She said

with a smile on her face. Mandy

hadn‟t felt this good about her

life in years.

Startled at first, Barry opened

the shower door.

„Come on in. Although there‟s

not as much room in here as

there was twenty years ago!‟

Barry replied.

After their long steamy shower

together they dressed for work

and walked hand in hand to the train

station, like a couple of school kids in

love for the first time.

„I had a few ideas on how to set up the

search to run after hours last night. I‟ll

program it during my lunch break. If you

can get your DNA breakdown file to me

by five pm we can let it go over night.‟

„Wonderful Barry!‟ She squeezed his

hand, „I can‟t wait for the results.‟

„There‟s a chance that she‟s not on the

database. Like you she may have never

given blood, or had major surgery in a

hospital, or been arrested. And even if she has she may not have used her real

name,‟ Barry was an optimist, but always

looked at the facts.

„I know, but I‟d like to think that my egg

mother is an honest person. Who knows

she might even live close by.‟

„She might live on the other side of the

world by now and we only have access to Australian DNA records. Without federal

approval and months of paper work, oh,

and a very good reason, the search will

end with the Australian database.‟

„We‟ll cross that bridge if we get to it.

Ok?‟

„Ok. Fingers crossed then.‟

„I love you Barry!‟ Mandy was beginning

to remember why she fell in love with

him in the first place. Barry was a kind,

caring and thoughtful person who was

dedicated to his family as well as his

work.

Mandy ran her sample through the

analyser first thing after arriving at work.

The process had been simplified in the

last couple of years using the latest

technology developed by GeneTech‟s

American Research and Development

department. Mandy was able to download her DNA breakdown file to her husband‟s

removable USB thumb drive and take it

to him to be compared to the database.

She got the file to him during her

afternoon break at four o‟clock.

„Here it is!‟ She handed the thumb drive

over, hopeful that this would work. The

desire to find out who she really was, was

becoming stronger.

„How did you go?‟ she asked Barry of his

programming.

„All under control. I‟ve set it up to start a

half hour after knock-off and it will stop

an hour before anyone comes in

tomorrow.‟

„So we just have to wait till the morning

then?‟ Mandy was excited, but anxious at

the same time.

„Not really. I‟ve also programmed it to

email the results, if any, to my work

account and I‟ll set up the computer at

home to check it automatically.‟

„You‟re brilliant Barry! I love you so

much.‟ She held his cheeks in her hands

and gave him a powerful kiss. A

colleague walked in and disrupted them.

„I‟ll see you at knock-off time!‟ She told

him as she headed for his office door.

The remainder of the afternoon dragged

on and Mandy couldn‟t concentrate on

her work for checking the clock and

daydreaming all the time. Eventually the

clock rolled around to five thirty. Mandy

had finished everything she felt like

doing fifteen minutes ago and was just continually re-tidying her work space.

She walked straight back to Barry‟s

office.

„Are we ready?‟ She asked him,

implying the database search and

not just being ready to leave

work.

„Good to go!‟ Barry had finished

early too and was just waiting for

knock-off time and Mandy.

On their way to the train station

Mandy suggested they have

dinner out at some fancy

restaurant. Barry thought that it

was a wonderful idea as they

hadn‟t eaten out together, alone,

in years. Mandy used her mobile phone to make reservations at a little

Chinese restaurant near their home. They

both loved to eat Chinese. Their first

official date together had been at a

Chinese restaurant followed by ten-pin

bowling.

During dinner Barry had asked if Mandy

felt like going to a movie or out bowling.

To which she replied, „I‟m too tired and

besides it‟s a school night,‟ reminding him that it was still only Monday and

they both had to be at work the next day.

Upon arrival at home Mandy went into

the kitchen.

„Do you want a cuppa?‟ she called out to

Barry.

„I‟d love one. Just need to go to the little

boy‟s room first,‟ he told her as he

walked upstairs.

Mandy finished the drinks and carried

them up to their room, placed them on the

tall-boy chest and began to undress for a

shower.

Barry walked in on his wife lying on their

14

Barry called Mandy to the

computer and opened the message. It was a plain text message,

supplying basic information. It

listed a name, blood type, Medicare card number and current address

and phone number. Mandy read

aloud over Barry‟s shoulder.

Affordable, no-fuss fast loading websites for small businesses. Build your website as your finances allow by choosing your

Pick ‘N Mix website components from The MoshShop. Custom Built Site Starter from $440

www.themoshshop.com.au Shopping carts and picture galleries extra. Annual renewal from $198

15

bed, partially covered by the sheet. She

seduced him with a curling finger, calling

him to her.

They both forgot about their, now cool,

drinks of tea on the tall-boy.

Mandy woke early the next morning and

prepared some scrambled eggs and toast

for breakfast. She carried a tray with

some juice and the eggs and toast up to

the bedroom where she gently began to

wake Barry.

„Morning sleepy head,‟ she whispered as

she shook him, „time to rise and shine.‟

Barry woke and immediately apologised

for not checking his email as he had

promised. Mandy assured him that it was

ok and that it was bound to take a couple

of days before they had any luck. They

enjoyed breakfast together, then she

kissed him. When she let him up for air, Barry grabbed her by the shoulders and

took several deep breaths.

„Sorry love!‟ he said. „I don‟t mean to be

a spoil sport, but I don‟t think I can do

this again. I‟m a bit out of practice, you

know!‟ He indicated his groin area with a

nod, „I think I might have to see a doctor

if you keep this up!‟

„That‟s alright. I just missed having you

all to myself. And with everything that‟s

happening I kind of feel young and sexy

again. Like a young Jane Fonda! How

about a long, hot and steamy shower

then?‟

Before going to work Barry checked his

email, there was nothing new. He would

have to check that his program was

working properly.

After a candle lit dinner on Wednesday

night Mandy and Barry sat down on the

lounge to watch a movie. The email they

had been hoping for arrived. It may have

been an error or the first of a possible few

matches, but the chances of there being

more, were slim.

Barry called Mandy to the computer and

opened the message. It was a plain text

message, supplying basic information. It

listed a name, blood type, Medicare card

number and current address and phone

number. Mandy read aloud over Barry‟s

shoulder.

„Amanda Anne Watkins. A positive.

Medicare card number 2522 54968 6. 34

Acacia Drive, Alice Springs, Northern Territory 0870, Australia. Ph. (08) 8956

7603.‟ They both made eye contact,

stunned.

„I‟ve found her!‟ She sighed, „You‟ve

found my egg mother for me. Thank you

Barry. I love you.‟ Mandy‟s eyes began

to swell with tears of joy. She rubbed

them, „Are you sure this is her?‟ she

asked Barry.

„I doubt there could be a better match.‟

„Amanda Anne Watkins.‟ She repeated

the name again. „That rings a bell.‟

„Well you did know her when you were

younger. Maybe your mum or dad used

her full name?‟

„No. No that‟s not it,‟ Mandy thought for

a moment, „Amanda Anne Watkins …

A.A. Watkins … I remember now! They

had an article on her in The Australian

Women‟s Weekly a few months ago.‟

„What? This Amanda? Your Amanda?‟

Barry questioned her.

Mandy ran down stairs to the coffee table

in the lounge room, where she pulled out

a pile of magazines, tossing some aside

until she found the right one. Amanda

was on the front cover, the caption read,

„Brilliant new Australian author A.A.

Watkins reveals the secret behind her

new best seller “The child I left behind”.‟

Mandy ran back upstairs with the

magazine to show Barry.

„I remember thinking how sad it was that

she left her daughter behind. I‟m that

daughter!‟ She opened the magazine to

the article, laying it on the table on top of

the keyboard for both of them to read.

„Her story sounds just like yours. It has to

be her,‟ Barry said after finishing the

article. „What do you want to do now?‟

„I guess I call her to see if she‟ll meet

me!‟ Mandy sat down on the edge of the

table, hands by her side. She turned her

torso to reach for the phone.

„Are you going to call her now?‟ Barry

asked. She nodded and began to dial the number. „Alice Springs is half an hour

behind us,‟ Barry reminded her, „so she

should be awake.‟

The phone began to ring.

„What am I going to say?‟ Mandy thought

aloud. After the third ring a woman‟s

voice answered.

„Hello.‟

„Hi ... umm ... Aunty Amanda?‟ Mandy

stammered and looked at Barry.

„Who is this?‟ the woman‟s voice on the

other end asked back.

„Sorry, I‟m looking for Amanda Watkins,

do I have the right number?‟

„Who wants to know?‟ the voice

demanded.

„Umm. My name is Mandy James. It used

to be Mandy McLean. I‟m looking for my

aunt.‟ The sound from the phone was

muffled as if the woman on the other end

was covering the mouth piece. Mandy could just make out the conversation on

the other end.

„AMANDA. There‟s a woman on the

phone asking for you. She says you‟re her

aunt, but you don‟t have any nieces. Do

you?‟

„I‟ll be there in a minute!‟

The woman removed her hand from the

mouth piece to reply.

„Just a minute. She‟s coming inside now.‟

„Thank you,‟ was all Mandy could say.

Amanda was indeed Mandy‟s aunt and „egg mother‟. They talked for nearly

twenty minutes about their lives before

Barry began to search for flights from

Sydney to Alice Springs on Saturday

morning with a return on Sunday

evening. Mandy agreed and asked

Amanda if they could visit her. Barry

booked the flights and left Mandy to chat.

When Mandy finished, she caught up with Barry on the lounge watching a Star

Trek DVD.

„Thank you. Thank you!‟ This was the

best day of her life. „Barry let‟s

celebrate!‟ Mandy grabbed the remote

from the lounge pressing pause on the

DVD and sat over his legs, like mounting

a horse saddle, grabbed his face and

kissed him.

After Mandy had fallen asleep, with her

head on his lap, Barry was unable to

move or close his eyes. He pressed play

again on his Star Trek DVD,

remembering to turn down the volume,

and set the TV sleep timer to turn off

after the end of the episode.

The next few days of work were a blur for Mandy and Barry. They were very

busy and always thinking about the trip to

Alice Springs. Their home life was great,

Barry even helped with some cleaning

around the house. This only helped to

increase Mandy‟s libido and Barry was

enjoying their re-kindled love as well.

After they got home on Friday evening

and finished packing their bags for the

trip, Mandy went out again to get some

DVDs and pizza.

Anna came home from uni late on Friday

night for a surprise visit with her parents.

The lights were all out, so Anna assumed

her parents had gone to bed. She opened

the front door very quietly and carried her

bags across the threshold, closing the

16

As Robert Benfield removed the lid of the

old cardboard box, the card slipped out

onto the bed covers.

Deceased Estate of Rupert Maxwell

$50.00

Robert didn‟t know why he was doing

this. He had two left feet. He loathed

dancing. As a matter of fact, he hated

socialising.

Beckett had

talked him around again.

How did he

always manage

it?

Robert glanced

at the seven

faces printed on

the sheet of

yellowing newspaper. They

were all raven

haired girls,

similarly

attractive, but

definitely not his

type. Blondes?

In a pinch. No,

Robert‟s tastes

ran more to the

classic Irish

beauty, flaming red hair and a

spattering of

freckles. The

mental image of Mary Willis made his

cheeks burn.

„Perfect,‟ he said, laying the newspaper

aside.

He fingered the suit lapel. Black tails complete with silk shirt—so white it

shone blue under the harsh fluorescent

lights of the New Haven apartment—a

silk bow tie, vest and tastefully chunky

cufflinks of onyx and gold. The suit had a

slight musty smell and an almost invisible

brown stain in the right sleeve of the coat

but it fit like it was tailor made. He

thought the tie would cause him some problems but to his surprise, as he looked

in the mirror, he couldn‟t find any fault

with the bow. Strange …

His confidence soared. At nine o‟clock

this morning, he was ready to call Beckett

and cancel but now, Robert couldn‟t stop

smiling.

He smoothed back his sandy hair at the

temples.

„To die for!‟

***

Beckett stopped in mid conversation as

Robert entered the hall. There was no

sign of his usual hesitance; all the

clumsiness was gone, replaced by a slow,

confident glide. His shoulders were

square, no customary slouch, his chin

high.

„Well, well,‟ said Beckett. „I hope you

don‟t change into a pumpkin at

midnight.‟

Robert spun about, trailing a toe, sliding

into a Fred

Astaire

pose. „Not a

chance, pal.‟

„Where on

earth did

that come

from?‟

„I have

absolutely

no idea.‟ Robert

didn‟t know

if Beckett

meant the

„pal‟ or the

dance move.

Either way,

the answer

was the

same.

The string

quartet took

the stage

and gave

their instruments a final cat-screech

tuning. For someone who hated dancing,

Robert couldn‟t wait to get on the dance

floor. He strode up to the first vacant girl

he could find.

„Would you care to dance?‟ He asked

with charm that surprised even himself.

„Why not.‟

The cello sighed a slow bass as they took

JE Doherty

Eglinton The Dancing Suit

door behind her. She spotted some

candles still burning on the mantle in the

lounge room. As she approached to blow

them out she noticed some items of her

parents clothing laying on the floor and the TV was on. Her parents were asleep,

tangled in a doona on the floor. The title

menu of an adult DVD „Desperate and

Dirty Housewives‟ was rolling on screen.

Embarrassed, but excited that her parents

were having fun, she crept out of the

lounge room blowing out the candles on

her way into the kitchen. Anna made

herself a snack and snuck up stairs to her

old room to go to sleep.

Mandy stirred to a noise in the house, she

thought it came from the kitchen. She

noticed that the candles were out, but

didn‟t hear any more noise. She spotted

one of Anna‟s bags near the front door,

turned to Barry who was still asleep and

whispered into his ear.

„We‟ve been busted,‟ she smiled.

Mandy reached for the remotes, turned

the DVD player and TV off, falling back to sleep instantly next to her husband

Barry, happy in the arms of the man she

loves. m

DJ Peters

Bathurst

17

the floor. The viola and violins joined as

Robert‟s hand slipped around the girl‟s

slightly pudgy waist. They almost skated

around the dancefloor; their steps were so

smooth, gliding between the other couples like phantoms. Pachabel‟s

‘Canon in D’ built toward a crescendo of

twirling satin on silk, ending in an

extravagant dip with the final fading note.

The girl was breathless but Robert

touched his lips to her hand and was off

to look for his next partner.

„Seriously,‟ Beckett said, „Rob‟s got it for

you, bad.‟

„He‟s never even spoken to me,‟ Mary

Willis replied.

„That‟s because he‟s shy.‟

„Yeah, right!‟

They both looked to the dance floor where Robert lorded with

yet another partner.

„Around you, at least.‟

„He hasn‟t stopped.‟ Mary

sighed.

„Well, he‟s usually shy. I don‟t

know what has gotten into him

tonight. He hates dancing.‟

When Robert saw Mary, a

flush spread across his cheeks and he

almost stumbled as he approached.

„Now, that‟s the Rob we‟ve come to

know and love,‟ Beckett drawled.

Robert‟s cheeks reddened even more. He

was slipping further into his customary,

insecure self. The cast of his eyes

dropped and his shoulders began to stoop.

„H … hi.‟

Mary‟s quirky smile brought Robert‟s head back up. Her teeth were slightly

crooked, but that small imperfection only

heightened her appeal. Robert couldn‟t

force his mouth to work.

„Told you he was shy,‟ Beckett laughed,

slapping Robert‟s back.

„Would you like to dance?‟ Mary finally

asked him.

At that, something clicked in Robert. He

bowed with a flourish of hands.

„It would be my pleasure, Mary.‟

„I thought you didn‟t like to dance?‟

Beckett joked.

„It‟s the suit,‟ Robert replied. „I can‟t

seem to stop.‟

He took Mary‟s arm with confidence.

There are green eyes, and there are green

eyes. Most were misty, more grey than

green. Clarity was the best word Robert

could find to describe Mary‟s eyes. They

were sharp, gem-bright and clear. Robert

was lost and he had never been happier.

They danced and the music played on.

Robert caught a flash of dark hair for the corner of his eye. Mary was talking but

he couldn‟t seem to focus on her words.

He turned as the dancers reeled about

him, his eyes following the girl with the

long black hair and white carnation

threaded above her left ear. His arm slid

away from Mary and the tide of dancing

swept them apart.

Something was nagging at the edge of his

mind, but everything dissolved, the

music, the crowd, Mary …

A ball of anger and desire welled up from

the pit of Robert‟s stomach. He cut

through the dance floor like a shark. His

face was serene, charming but a glint like

shattered ice, hard and sharp, edged his

eyes.

Mary stood with Beckett. They both looked on in disbelief as Robert and the

dark haired girl with the white carnation

and satin blue dress left the hall.

The girl was raven haired … similarly

attractive … And something inside

Robert burned.

***

Mrs Benford was

annoyed. She was

always telling Robert

to turn off his light

when he left the room.

He didn‟t pay the bills.

She saw the scattering

of clothes on the floor

and the box and papers

strewn over the bed. If it wasn‟t for her, her

son would be living in

a pig sty. She scooped up the clothes and

began stuffing the papers in the box.

One sheet caught her eye …

Another body found

When will the killer strike again?

Under the pictures of the seven dead

girls, the story detailed the atrocities they

were subjected to before they died.

Mrs Benford shivered as she closed the

lid on the box. m

BURNISHED: BURNSIDE LIFE STORIES

A Collection of life accounts from residents of

Burnside Children’s Homes, Sydney

Compiled by Kate Shayler

www.kateshayler.com www.moshpitpublishing.com.au

Beckett stopped in mid conversation as

Robert entered the hall. There was no sign of his usual hesitance; all the clumsiness

was gone, replaced by a slow, confident

glide. His shoulders were square, no

customary slouch, his chin high.

18

Strangers weren‟t new to the area—at

least Bobby Hammett didn‟t think so. He

had worked for the Sheriff‟s office for

over ten years (since he had finished

school) and had seen all sorts come through town. Peddlers, hawkers,

gypsies—yes sir, Bobby had seen just

about every type of itinerant traveller and

lonesome wanderer known to man; there

was that tall dude who blew through town

last year that Bobby still hadn‟t been able

to label—he was a strange one all right—

fancy suit, but no tie or shoes. If you had

tipped the guy upside-down you could

have used his long, stringy hair as a mop.

And the stench—Bobby figured that

rolling around on the mounds of rubbish up in Belmont‟s dump for a week

wouldn‟t have come close to the odour

this guy had given off. Bobby had

laughed when his nephew had said that

even skunks would have turned tail and

run. That was one strange dude.

***

Dust devils danced around the legs of

startled horses and the gentle breeze

helped push them up the near-deserted

dirt strip that the locals called the Main

Road. Evan‟s Bluff was a small town—

even by Midwest standards—that

comprised a central road that contained

half a dozen not-so prosperous shops, a

telegraph station, the Sheriff‟s department

and a saloon (which is usually where you

found the officers from the Sheriff‟s

department.) A few hundred people called Evan‟s Bluff home—and many

other, not so nice, things—and those

families had lived here for generations,

most of them unsure of what lay out past

the giant cacti and the swirling dust.

Evan‟s Bluff wasn‟t exactly a hive of

entertainment or action—the most

exciting thing to happen in the town in

the last five years was the mass evacuation of the saloon when the beer

had dried up: old Cooper had plain

forgotten to order in the new barrels (so

he said) or he had been too drunk to get

the telegram off in time (which is what

the rest of the townsfolk said). Either

way, the regulars hooked up the wagons

and took a trip into Waterfall (a most

unfortunate name—hadn‟t seen rain there

in over two years) and loaded

themselves—and the wagons—up with

enough booze to last them another five

years.

It was into this town—this town—that

two strangers walked and the arrival of

two strangers in town was always going

to cause a stir of interest in these parts.

***

Those who saw them thought the man

and the boy were related (those who saw

them come in, anyway—Mrs Riddles

claimed that she was the first one to see

them but she works for the Sheriff—

make of that what you will). No one

could really say why—something about

their manner; the long effortless strides as they strolled down the sidewalk of High

Street side by side—like gunslingers

coming into town, revolvers at the ready.

They didn‟t carry revolvers, of course—

people would have noticed. No, they had

no weapons of any sort—at least none

that were immediately obvious. And

obvious they would have been—both of

them were wearing only old, torn denim shorts and dusty singlets, once white but

now a reddish-brown from the desert

sands. Worn leather boots covered their

feet with a hint of material poking out the

top that at one time might have been

socks. The older of the two carried a

knapsack over his shoulder—it, too, was

coated in dust and was wearing thin in

small patches around the bottom. It had

obviously done as much travelling as the

boots on their feet.

***

Most of the townspeople didn‟t

immediately notice the newcomers; they

were either in the saloon or in their own

homes when the strangers made their way

through the centre of town—it was left to

Deputy Sheriff Bobby Hammett to

approach them and strike up a conversation. Sheriff Longman had sent

him out to do the deed—he himself

hadn‟t seen the talk-of-the-town with his

own two eyes but he didn‟t trust strangers

and he reckoned if anyone was going to

get killed in town, it was better for it to be

a Deputy than himself.

Deputy Hammett stepped out from the

shade of the awning of Grant‟s saloon

where he had been enjoying a game of poker with the Newsome brothers (all

three of them—they were dumb as

horseshit but loaded with silver and cash)

and a quiet beer. He crossed over to the

Western Land Bank, nodding to Mrs

Turner who was trying to appear not in

the slightest bit interested (but the pencil

and writing pad on her lap said otherwise)

and he waited beside old Allan Banville‟s

Savings and Loan.

The Deputy eyed the two as they

approached him; the young boy didn‟t

seem to be of concern. However, Bobby

instantly felt the hair on the back of his

neck stand to attention when he examined

the older man—a massive slab of muscle,

bone and sinew, skin unblemished as you

would normally see on forearms that

would have been better served loading

lucerne and hay onto the back of wagons,

not swinging loosely by the sides of a

drifter. A waste of strength and muscle, Deputy Hammett thought to himself (not

that he was going to find out for sure just

how strong the guy was, nosiree.)

Hammett hitched his britches and tipped

his hat back to greet the strangers.

„Howdy, boys—what brings you two

fellas to town?‟ The sun chose that moment to hide itself behind some clouds

and a breeze picked up. Deputy Hammett

could have sworn he felt the temperature

drop in that split second. The clouds

cleared, the sun reappeared but Hammett

still felt the chill. „You boys got names?‟

Silence momentarily fell upon the street;

the usual chit-chat and everyday sounds

of a small town faded away, as if even the

birds and horses were waiting with baited breath on the answer. (Mrs Turner leaned

forward on her old cane chair—any

further and she would fall and wouldn‟t

that be embarrassing? Not to mention ill-

timed.)

„Yessir, Sheriff, we do have names ...‟

The man squinted, trying to read the

shiny silver badge that sat slightly off-

kilter on Hammett‟s worn-for-the-second-day-in-a-row shirt. „Sorry, Deputy

Sheriff.‟

Hammett cringed at the emphasis and

didn‟t like what the stranger was

implying.

„My name is Watson, and the boy‟s name

is Parsons. We be looking for a certain

somebody, Deputy, and we would sure appreciate it if you just stepped aside and

let us pass.‟

Hammett could feel the stares of the

townspeople on him. He could also feel

the weight of expectation (get them out of

town, we don’t need strangers here, get

them out) bearing down on his shoulders.

Worse still, he could feel the eyes of the

The Eyes Have It Paul Phillips

Lithgow

strangers boring into his head, could

almost feel the tendrils of something

foreign searching through his head;

pulling at his thoughts and raiding his

memory. He shook his head in an effort to clear his mind—he was partially

successful.

„See here, boys, we have a problem. I

can‟t just let you be running loose in

town, getting into other people‟s

business, and hurting folk. That just

wouldn‟t do.‟

The older man swept his arms in a wide circle. „Nobody here needs to get hurt but

I promise you, Deputy, if you don‟t get

out of my way by the time I get to ten, the

only thing you will be stopping is the

worms from going hungry.‟

For a time, Deputy Hammett looked like

one of the Newsome brothers: slack

jawed, eyes wide in disbelief. A few moments later, wits collected, he stepped

toward the pair, chest out. He wasn‟t

going to be spoken to like that.

„Now, listen here fella, no need for that

tone. Was just doing my job.‟ A horse

whinnied behind him. He jumped like he

had been stuck with a cattle prod. „Who is

it that you be looking for? Maybe I can

help?‟

The youth had been silent for the duration

but now found his voice; deeper than you

would expect from one so young. „We

come for my pappy, Billy Parsons.‟

Hammett had almost forgotten the

presence of the younger boy—he had

been completely aiming his attention at

the man before him. He glanced at the

boy, who was crouched down, seemingly

tormenting the ants that were criss-crossing the dirt road. The boy—Parsons,

the man had said—had the brim of his hat

pulled down over his face as he played.

He slowly raised his head, tilted back his

hat and his eyes searched and settled on

the Deputy‟s. Hammett felt ice crawl up

his spine as the boy‟s face came fully into

view. Beneath the dirt, dust and grime

that caked the young Parson boy‟s face,

Hammett could see the ridges of an ugly red scar, just under his left eye and only

recently healed. His breath hitched at the

sight of it—and then he felt like his chest

would explode when he saw the black

cavity that was his eye socket, sans eye.

***

Hammett choked back his revulsion (and

obvious questions). „Son, you are a tad too late. We hung that bastard up good

and proper three weeks ago, come

Wednesday. He‟s deader than a dead

thing.‟

The two newcomers remained unmoved.

The older man spat phlegm at the feet of

the Deputy.

„He ain‟t dead—at least not how you

think he is.‟

The Deputy started laughing, he couldn‟t

help it. He was holding his sides for fear

they would split and all that beer he had

spent good money on would leak out the

gaps.

„What are you talking about? I saw him—

swinging from a branch like the

pendulum in that big clock down at the

carriage station that Mr. Burns keeps

polished real good—he says that ...‟

„Enough.‟ The man‟s voiced boomed

from his lips, shaking the ground (and

Deputy Hammett). „We have had enough

of this game. Either you move, or we

19

20

move you ourselves.‟

The Deputy shook his head and laughed

once more—albeit a quiet chuckle this time. „I keep telling you—he is dead. We

hung him. I even kicked his carcass into

the hole up at the cemetery.‟

The younger boy leaned in real close to

the Deputy—close enough for Hammett

to catch the scent of something horrible

on his breath. „You don‟t understand,

mister—you can‟t kill what is already

dead.‟

***

Mrs Turner watched the Deputy closely;

his hand strayed to his gun holster a few

times and she was sure as shit that he was

gonna pull that shiny pistol and blow

someone‟s head off right there in the

street. She wouldn‟t say it out loud—

there are appearances to be kept, after all—but Mrs Turner knew that if Deputy

Hammett pulled that pistol, there would

be a damn good reason for it and she, for

one, would applaud him for it.

***

„What exactly does that mean—already

dead?‟ Hammett looked from the Parsons

boy up to Watson, who stood with his arms folded across his chest. „What in the

hell is the boy talking about? That‟s crazy

talk, right there.‟

Watson gestured for Hammett to sit

down, right there in the middle of the

road. The Deputy took a few looks

around to make sure he wasn‟t in any

danger of being trampled by horses or be

the victim of some other unfortunate

accident while his ass was gathering dirt. When all seemed fine and dandy (as fine

and dandy as sitting in the middle of a

dirt road can be), he made himself

comfortable.

„Now, Deputy, there are a few things that

I am going to tell you that may sound as

loony as a bat flyin‟ ass-up and shitting

on its own head, but they are true. Show

me the proper respect—as a man of the badge—and let me finish my tale before

you start peppering me with questions.

Does that sound fair to you?‟

Hammett shifted his backside on the hard

road. He had sat down directly in a wheel

rut from the carriages that passed through

bringing dry goods from Breakers Point

off to the north. When he was sure he was

comfortable again, he nodded for Watson

to continue.

„Alright, this could take a some time ...‟

***

Sheriff Longman couldn‟t believe what

he was seeing—his Deputy was sitting,

cross-legged, in the middle of the road. I

don‟t remember that in law enforcement

classes, Longman thought. Just wait until

you are finished out there, Deputy—you

and your lunchtime drinking—you are

going to be finished alright.

***

„If I am going to tell you this story, I best

be beginning at the start—seems like as

good a place as any to go from.‟ A

crooked grin spread across the old man‟s

face. „It ain‟t a pretty story, it ain‟t no

lullaby. Sure hope you don‟t have a

squeamish stomach, Deputy.‟

Hammett smiled thinly. „I‟ll be okay—I

have seen plenty in my time, mister. Just

tell the story.‟

„As you wish ...‟

***

The three of them sat in a rough semi-

circle; Watson in the middle with his

hands placed in his lap, seemingly

undisturbed by the fact that at any

minute, they could all be trampled and

killed; the boy Parsons was still laying in

the dirt, chasing ants with his chipped and

bloody fingernails; and Deputy Hammett

sitting bolt upright, hands by his sides—a

study in concentration and attentiveness.

„To begin,‟ Watson started, „we have to

trace back old Billy Parsons to the night

that young boy there was conceived.‟

Watson reached into his knapsack and

removed a small container that Hammett

suspected was water, but wouldn‟t be

surprised if it was something just a little

stronger. „Old Billy was a drunkard—no doubts on that score. When he worked

over at the slaughterhouse in Jackson

County, they had to terminate his

employment due to the fact that he either

didn‟t get his fat lazy ass out of bed in

time or he was a mean bastard at work

when he needed a drink. Reports were

that he once took a guy out back and beat

the living daylights out of him and stuck

one of those big hooks through his

shoulder blades just because he was

talking about having a beer. The man was

a bastard, that‟s for damn sure.‟

Hammett started to speak but Watson

held up his hand. „You said you would let me tell the tale. Be a good fellow and just

keep your questions to the end.‟

The Deputy nodded and gestured for him

to continue.

„One night, Billy rolled in the front door,

absolutely off his trolley. He had finished

work early and got straight into the ales,

went home and, well, no really nice way to say it so I will just tell you the truth—

he raped his wife and gave her a good old

fashioned beating while he was at it.

From the stories I hear, Mrs Parsons

stumbled into Doc Carpenter‟s in a rough

state; her face was a bloody mess, her

clothes were ripped and covered in her

own blood and she had a limp that she

never got over before she died … it‟s all

part of the story. Just wait.‟

A strong breeze picked up and blew down

the road and all three of them covered

their noses and mouths until the wind

died down again. Hammett noticed for

the first time some large black

thunderheads off in the distance. They

had appeared suddenly and seemed to be

moving fast. Watson cleared his throat to

get the Deputy‟s attention again before

continuing.

„Anyway, a few men got together and

chased the bastard out of town when he

did that. They threatened to kill him—and

from what I understand, it was no idle

threat. One of the men was Billy‟s

brother-in-law and he didn‟t like what

had happened to his sister—didn‟t like it

one little bit and he swore that if he ever

got his hands on Billy that he couldn‟t

promise that he wouldn‟t do something

stupid.‟

The younger Parsons looked up at the

mention of his uncle and a distant smile

flashed across his lips before he put his

head back down and continued his torture

tactics on Evan‟s Bluff‟s insect

population.

„No one heard from him again—sure, there were rumours from distant towns of

similar occurrences throughout Jackson

County but he never showed his face

again in town—until a few months ago,‟

he pointed at the boy, „until he did that.‟

Watson stopped talking and the echo of

his final words hung between them like a

Have you been published in Narrator? Tell your friends!

www.facebook.com/narratormagazine

foul odour. Hammett stole a look over his

shoulder to look at the Parsons kid to find

him staring straight back at him (as well

as he could with no eyes). The Deputy

closed his eyes and took a few breaths

before looking back to Watson again.

„Billy found out about the kid somehow

and came back to town to look for him

and his mother. Reports vary on just how

drunk he was but there was no doubting

his intentions. He killed three men in the

saloon who had overheard his plans and

tried to intervene—stabbed ‟em right

through their bellies, numerous times if

the stories are to be believed. Then marched right on up to the house, kicked

the door clean off of its hinges and

charged into the house like a wounded

bull. He found her in the kitchen—she

was putting some water on to boil for her

evening tea—and he just sliced her from

ear to ear. No talk, no bullshit—just

killed her where she stood.‟

„What about the boy? What happened to him?‟ The Deputy couldn‟t help

himself—he was so caught up in the story

that he couldn‟t keep quiet. Watson

smiled at him—it was a warm smile but

contained traces of agony, like the story

was being told for the first time and

Watson was watching it play out all over

again. Hammett figured that this wasn‟t

the first time that the old man was

reliving the events but he could see just

how much it pained him in the telling.

„I was getting to that, Deputy.‟ Watson

leaned over and put his hand around the

boy‟s shoulder—it was a tender touch

and the boy flinched at first, and then

leaned in towards the makeshift embrace.

„Billy had flipped out—his brain was

floating around his head and he wasn‟t

thinking right. He kicked open the rest of the doors in the house and found the boy

huddled under the bed, sobbing silently

and chest heaving as he struggled with

fear of his father and his fear of dying.

Billy grabbed the boy‟s arm and dragged

him across the room. I saw what you did,

the boy said. Billy pulled the knife from

the waistband of his pants. You will never

have that problem again, boy, was the

reply.‟

***

The silence inside the Sheriff‟s office was

broken by the rear door slamming; the

wind had grown quite strong over the

last—well, Sheriff Longman didn‟t know

how long it had been. He had been

watching Hammett sitting out there in the

dirt; the occasional hand gesture being

the only clue that his Deputy was in fact

still breathing, so still was he sitting.

Once, Hammett had looked over his

shoulder towards the Sheriff‟s office (a

few small children were playing just

under the window and the sounds of their laughter may have caught the Deputy‟s

attention) and Longman had tried to get

his attention but to no avail—the Deputy

had turned back just as quickly. Alright,

this has gone on quite long enough, the

Sheriff concluded. Time to get out there

and put an end to this ridiculous scene

(what would the people be saying about

the Deputy in the morning?). A quick

glance up to the heavens gave Longman

even more reason to hurry—the clouds

were a-gathering and, if he were any judge, them looked like tornado clouds if

ever he had seen one. Time indeed to

clear the street and make sure that

everyone was home, safe and sound. This

could get ugly.

***

A mixture of fear and pity flooded Hammett‟s face as understanding took

hold. The boy‟s own father had disfigured

his son, leaving him to the fate of the

Gods. He look at the young boy, felt bile

rise once more in his throat, burning and

bubbling on the way up—just like that

volcano he had read about in the

newspaper the other morning—scared a

lot of people and did a shitload of

damage. He felt that this was gonna be

just a carbon copy of that.

A hand fell on his shoulder and made him

skitter forwards. He turned his face

upwards and felt the wind and dust

assault his face, slide down his throat and,

for a moment, he thought he was going to

choke. His eyes fell upon the Sheriff,

looming over him like a statue—a statue

that had spent a bit too much time at the

feed trough, but a statue nonetheless. The

Sheriff‟s rough hand grabbed the front of Hammett‟s shirt and hauled him to his

feet.

„What in the blue hell do you think you

are doing—sitting in the middle of the

road, waving your arms around like a

scarecrow in a tornado?‟

The glaze that had been in Hammett‟s

eyes slowly began to clear and the flicker

of recognition filled his whole face.

„Boss, I was listening to the story of those

two travellers. Did you know ...‟

„What travellers, Bobby?‟

Hammett spread his arms to show the

Sheriff who he was talking about and stopped in mid-gesture. There was

nobody there. Nobody sitting on the road.

Nobody, in fact, in the whole damn street.

Bobby rubbed his eyes roughly, like a

man just waking from sleep and trying to

rid his memory of a terrible nightmare.

He looked again and saw that nothing had changed. There was not a single person in

sight—other than his rather annoyed

looking boss who appeared to be ready to

throttle Bobby at any moment.

„Bobby, you have been sitting out here, in

the dirt, for the last two hours. Normally,

I wouldn‟t have given two craps but

seeing as that storm is just about to touch

down and wipe out everything that isn‟t

nailed down, I thought it best to come down here and get your ass somewhere

safe.‟

„But they were there … the boy who had

his eye taken out by his father—his very

own father—and the man who was

looking after him. They were searching

for the boy‟s father. They wanted

revenge, but we had hung him, Boss. It

was very ...‟

The Sheriff had heard enough. „Deputy, I

don‟t know if you have been drinking too

much or smoking a bit of the old wacky-

weed but there ain‟t been no-one there

since you sat down.‟ He shook his head

and a faint look of pity stole across the

Sheriff‟s face and was gone as quick as it

had appeared. „Son, why don‟t you git

inside, get your gear and head home and

look after your mother before that storm hits. In fact, take the rest of the week off

and have a break. You really look like

you could use it.‟

Before Bobby could reply, the Sheriff

nodded once more towards the office and

Hammett dusted off the seat of his pants

and headed inside.

***

Two small boys were sitting on the porch

of the Sheriff‟s office when Sheriff

Longman came out.

„You boys better start heading home

before the rain starts.‟ The boys made no

move—like they didn‟t hear him at all. „I

said you boys better ...‟ One of the boys lifted his head towards the Deputy

slowly. With a growing horror, Longman

saw two shadowy cavities … where the

boy‟s eyes had once been … and realised

that his Deputy‟s story had been true all

along.

„Hey, mister, you can‟t kill what is

already dead ...‟ m

Paul Phillips

Lithgow

21

Public Performance Jill Baggett

Mudgee

My experience with theatre started when

I was three years old and my mother took

me to see a film for the first time—

Bambi. I still remember my horror at the

huge screen throwing colour at me and culminating with Bambi‟s mother being

shot and killed. I still see the blood

oozing from her. It was the last image I

saw as I spent the rest of the afternoon

under the seat. My mother vowed she

would never take me to another film, a

vow she kept, which I still feel was

unreasonable of her.

We lived in a block of flats at Lavender

Bay in Sydney. Our upstairs neighbour,

Aunty Ethel to me, obviously thought my

artistic education was being neglected

and she took me to the Christmas

pantomime the following year. Miss Four

Years Old that I was I sat enthralled with

the story of Aladdin and his Magic Lamp

until the stage suddenly went black and then was lit brilliantly to reveal Aladdin‟s

wonderful cave being ransacked by the

evil robbers, who were intent on

capturing the youthful, and, in my mind,

all things good, hero and imprisoning

him. The ultimate horror was when the

genie magically appeared from the lamp,

amidst ear splitting crashes, bangs,

lightning bolts and, most terrifyingly,

blue and green smoke. A huge, half naked

man appeared, shouting maniacally, „Tell

me what you wish‟. My wish was to leave immediately and, finding Aunty Ethel

non-compliant, I started a loud wailing. I

later heard her telling my mother she

would not take me to another pantomime.

Should I add here I was an only and very

protected child?

Inevitably I was sent to school at four and

a half. One of my kindergarten classmates

was cast as a fairy child in a play „The

Bluebird of Happiness‟. My unwilling

self was dragged once again into a theatre. I remember my heart beating

frantically and butterflies vying for a

space in my stomach. But the production

this time was beautiful, the music

enthralling and I remember how the story

line absorbed me.

Other than an occasional nerve wracking

visit to a circus with my father, where I

always expected to see someone fall from

the trapeze, or be eaten by a lion, school

plays, boring black and white films,

symphony concerts with the occasional

light relief of Gilbert and Sullivan, and all

judged suitable by the nuns at the boarding school I attended, were the only

theatrical experiences I knew in the

coming years. I found books a much

more enjoyable escape and rarely had one

out of my hands and mind.

However, when I was 14 Dad took me to Sydney Stadium to see Buddy Holly, and

Paul Anka. A young Australian was to

open the show and change my view of

theatre forever. Johnny O‟Keefe exploded

into my life, running down the aisle and

leaping onto the stage in one bound. He

was dressed in orange velvet with leopard

skin trims and I saw how an audience of

thousands can be captivated by

personality, witty dialogue and backing

music. Most importantly that was the moment my female hormones burst into

life! I was hooked.

I began my nursing training at the Mater

Hospital at Crows Nest in 1960. To

attract an audience to their dress

rehearsals the Ensemble Theatre at Kirribilli and the Independent at North

Sydney sent free tickets to the nurses‟

home for all their shows. I revelled in

these performances, saw dozens of plays

and thought of the Theatre as a wondrous,

magical place that I could only ever look

on as an outsider.

I spent 1965 in Broken Hill, at that time a

dusty, man‟s town, to my mind the end of

the world, but it was also the venue for

the best play I have ever seen. They had a

very active Repertory Society and one of

their offerings that year was Ruth Park‟s

„The Harp In The South‟. I went and

watched it night after night and decided

then I wanted to be a playwright.

When Reg Livermore was at the height of

his popularity and entertaining Sydney

with his one-man extravaganzas, he had a

show at The Riverside Theatre at

Parramatta called „Big Sister‟.

By this time I was married and my

husband and I were looking forward to

travelling to Sydney for a night of

entertainment. A couple of days before

the big night my friend, Denise from

Epping, rang and I told her what we were

planning. „I‟ll come too,‟ she sounded

excited, „it doesn‟t matter if we‟re not

sitting together.‟

She rang me back soon after,

disappointment evident in her voice. „It‟s

been booked out for weeks, I can‟t get a

ticket,‟ she said. „They‟re going to ring if

there‟s any cancellations, but said they

didn‟t expect me to have any luck.‟

We decided she‟d come and have dinner

with us in Parramatta anyway. At least

we‟d have a chance to catch up.

So, we had a pleasant couple of hours

with her, then said our goodbyes and

walked with her to the bus stop. Her car

was out of action and being repaired at

the time. We waved the bus off and

carried on down to the theatre.

The theatre was indeed packed out. We

were excited and filled with expectation

of a great show. We fumbled our way to

our seats just as the lights began to dim

and vampy music filled the room. I was

aware the seat next to me was vacant and

thought it was nice we weren‟t the last of

the late arrivals. As the stage lights came

on someone sat in the empty seat and clasped my hand. Startled I pulled away

and turned to give the perpetrator a piece

of my mind. Instead I was confronted by

Denise‟s laughing face. „Can you believe

this?‟ she blurted out.

As it happened the bus had been blocked by the traffic jam outside the theatre. On

the spur of the moment Denise had

decided to get off and see if there were

any last minute cancellations. The ticket

seller told her there was one only. „That‟s

all I want,‟ she‟d said and bought it

thanking her lucky stars for such luck.

That piece of luck paled into

insignificance though when she‟d sat

down and realised the one cancellation in

a theatre holding 750 patrons happened to

be the seat next to me. What were the

chances against it happening? What were

the chances of the bus being stopped right

outside the theatre? What were the

chances of my usually level headed friend

making such a spur of the moment decision and hopping off the bus between

stops?

Broadcast TV

Web Videos

Training, Educational Video

Advertising

Events and Seminars

Internal Communication

Ph: 0401 349 218 www.tomtomproductions.com.au Katoomba

We will complete your vision from concept, through production, to delivery. 22

Just when everything seems to be alright,

and life is back on track ...

You think somebody loves you,

and then they take it back ...

That someone has invaded,

that space inside your heart ...

But now the pain is back again,

to tear all that apart ...

You wonder, Why? And doubts flood in,

you need to start to heal ...

Instead the walls are back to stay,

the pain is much too real ...

All you want is honesty,

instead of this deceit ...

Is there no one left who plays it straight,

you are tired of life‟s defeat ...

You wonder if you'll ever find,

a total love that stays ...

Or go through life, always alone,

to face another day ... m

At interval we told the man on the other

side of Denise what had happened. He

said his sister had been coming with him

but had been called interstate

unexpectedly that afternoon, leaving

Denise a very lucky ticket.

Twenty years or more later we went to

see a dinner show Reg had on at The

Clarendon at Katoomba. He was

mingling with people in the bar

afterwards and I told him the story. He was intrigued and said he was often

surprised at the stories people told him

about events that had been going on in

the audience during his shows. I said it

would have to be a good coincidence

story to match mine though.

He agreed.

Years passed, life passed, and then in

1993 I decided to do a creative writing

course. One of the assignments was

playwriting. What could I write a play

about, a mere mortal like me? There was

a ghost story that fascinated me about an

Egyptian mummy, supposedly shipped to America on the Titanic. I‟d written a

short story about her and was quite

pleased with it, so decided to try and turn

it into a play.

Once I started I was amazed to find the

set, the scenery and music, the lighting, the accents of the characters, the whole

production, leapt into my brain and I only

had to write down what I saw. This was

no doubt a legacy from the Ensemble and

Independent Theatre days. I wrote all

night and it was daylight when I finished,

thrilled with what I had written.

My tutor‟s assessment was „a good

effort‟. I was disappointed he didn‟t tell

me I had written a masterpiece. A month

or so later Newswrite Magazine

published an ad for a Sydney Theatre

company, TheatreSonge. They were

looking for short plays to include in 10x10 2002. What the heck I thought and

sent in „Lullaby For a Princess‟. Two

days later I received the most exciting

phone call of my life. Director, Jeremy

Johnson, rang to tell me he was including

my play in the next seasons‟

performances.

It didn‟t end there. I‟ve written five plays,

all of which have seen a stage.

Bambi was screened on the Disney

Channel earlier this year. I began to

watch it but turned it off before Bambi‟s mother was killed. Whoever decided it

was suitable viewing for children

anyway?m

23

Why? Cheryl Ianoco

Lithgow

It was meant to be the day of rest, but the

chestnut Arab gelding cantered along the

riverbank on a narrow track that the rider

obviously knew very well. He glanced at

the sun confident he would not be late.

As the river gurgled to the right the able

horseman took the path that veered left up

a steep rise and he gently pulled on the

reins and slowed his mount. He hoped

she would be there when he arrived. His

heart started pounding when he had the

traumatic thought that she might not be

able to make it to their secret rendezvous.

The more he thought of her the more

intense became his love and desire.

All his passion was for the present,

however he always had a nagging notion and worry of what the situation may be

like in six months time, which was the

limit of his future thoughts.

Great, she had made it, his mind

overflowed with joy and he became

transfixed with her flowing fair hair

and the narrow waist of his goddess. The sparkling eyes and the smile all

came towards as he imagined a

personification of heaven to be.

He dismounted trying to act composed

and tied the reins to the usual tree branch.

She floated towards him and they kissed

each other with deep affection until it was

time to relax and get their breath back.

„How is my princess?‟ he asked with a

smile on his face as he took her hand and

they walked into a shaded position

overlooking a section of the valley.

„My father believes I should marry,‟ she

remarked coyly, as she knew this news

would not be appreciated by her

paramour. He was resolute, with a

disappointed expression on his face, as he

thought of a rational response.

„You know I want to marry you, but not being of the landed gentry I don‟t have a

chance. This is a problem.‟ He stared

across the valley with a blank expression

on his face but his mind was racing like

the wheels of a steam train.

„We could elope, but it is not much fun

being married to a shearer who spends his

life going from shed to shed, and is rarely home,‟ he stated as he glanced across the

valley her father owned. He knew he

could not expect her to live on the wage

he could earn and almost bowed his head

in defeat.

„Father is very excited about the

mechanical shearing machines. He said

that at Dunlop they had just finished

shearing with all the wool taken off with

mechanical shears. The first shed in the

world,‟ she remarked to change the

subject.

„I‟ve just learnt to use the blades, now

I‟ve got to adjust to a new handpiece.‟

„It‟ll be easier won‟t it?‟

„I sure hope so, but that doesn‟t help our

position does it?‟

„I‟ll tell father I want to marry you and all

the potential son-in-laws are not wanted.‟

She smiled and the only man in her life

grinned and had to agree it was a good

idea but he was unsure of the result.

„He should agree to give us a block of

land to help us get started. My God he

has enough. That‟s the answer then.‟

David laughed to himself as their future

now appeared to have more hope in this

society bound by class. Without her

brothers he would eventually own the whole lot which appeared an unbelievable

idea. That is, if her father would accept

him.

After a couple of hours together she leapt

into her side saddle and galloped away

with her hair flowing in the breeze. Dave

walked his horse home knowing the future was becoming more secure. Two

or three thousand acres would make his

life easier and as he thought about it, it

was almost a fait accompli.

It had been an interesting week‟s work

with all his workmates talking about

mechanical shearing and how it would

affect their lives. Some were optimistic,

others thought it a flash in the pan.

On Saturday afternoon he decided to

mention his plans for the future with his

mother, however the response was not

what he had anticipated.

„You cannot marry Cynthia, that is totally

out of the question.‟

„Why?‟ queried Dave with surprise as he

assumed this rise in his social status

would be welcomed by his mother who

had had a hard life.

„I thought you were visiting one of the

girls in town on your Sunday excursions,

not going in the other direction.‟

„She is the most beautiful girl in the

district, probably in the world for all I

know,‟ skited Dave still not sure of his

mother‟s problem. This working class

environment she lived in had not stopped

her encouraging him to pursue whatever

goals he chose.

„Where do you meet her on your Sunday

jaunts?‟ asked his mother which came as

a surprise.

„Up on Drifter‟s Ridge,‟ he replied and

his mother laughed to herself before

becoming more serious.

„I went up there a fair bit about eighteen

years ago.‟ She paused for a moment,

„You and Cynthia share the same father!‟

she whispered in a subdued manner

hoping Dave would not despise her for

having told him his father had died in an

accident on the goldfields.

Dave slumped in his chair and realised

now how he had so much in common

with the love of his life.

„My God,‟ he mumbled and walked out

the door.

On Sunday he walked his horse up

towards Drifter‟s Ridge not sure what had

happened with Cynthia. She was there but

not bubbling with happiness. They

walked towards each other.

„Stop!‟ he screamed, „Don‟t move. A

snake!‟ They both stood motionless as the

killer slipped towards Cynthia. Dave

moved and attracted the snake‟s attention.

It struck his leg.

„Dave, oh Dave, you saved my life!‟ she

cried. „You‟re not dying are you?‟

„I‟m already dead,‟ he sighed. m

24

Drifter‟s Ridge Ross Stephenson

Molong

If you have a friend or loved one suffering from depression, trauma or anxiety, read CJ’s

story to grasp of how an ordinary person can be rendered helpless as a result of trauma.

Running Over a Chinaman by Blue Mountains author Julie Thredgold Jones

Ebook and limited first edition copies available at www.themoshshop.com.au

Dave slumped in his chair and realised now how he

had so much in common

with the love of his life.

Questions? Problems? Opinions?

We would love to hear your thoughts on Narrator—what you like, what you don't like, and how we can improve the

magazine.

So please, drop us a line on the Contact page of Narrator at www.narratormagazine.com.au/contact.html

Correspondence

Banner ads for page sponsorship are $55 each, including GST, for one

issue, or four ads for $176 ($44 each)

in four consecutive issues. Ads will

be run at the top of the left hand page or the bottom of the right hand page,

limit of one ad per page.

Limitations:

As this is a regional magazine,

businesses will need to be either

located in the Blue Mountains, or provide services to residents or other

businesses of the Blue Mountains,

before their ad will be accepted.

Ad format:

Banner ads to be delivered either in a

single jpeg which can be scaled to 3cm by 18cm, or else as jpeg images

of logos etc emailed through, along

with text and ideas for layout in Word

or Publisher if you have a layout in

mind.

All advertising requests will be

invoiced immediately with payment

due within 7 days. If payment is not

received, ads will not be run.

Please also provide the URL for your website—ads will be hyperlinked so

that PDF versions will provide

readers with direct „click through‟.

Inside back cover

The inside back page (nearly 10 times

the size of a banner space) is

available for $440 including GST.

A half inside back page is available

for $275.

A quarter inside back page is

available for $165.

Outside back cover

The outside back cover is available

for $770 including GST.

A half outside back cover is

available for $440.

A quarter outside back cover is

available for $275.

Advertising and Page Sponsorship

Image credits

Cover: „Trapped‟ by Aida Pottinger

Pg 1: Jenny Mosher by Todd Sharp

Pg 19: Bisbee, Arizona by Jenny Mosher

All other images purchased from iStockphoto.com

Each quarter, merit prizes are awarded to the three

pieces judged most worthy by our Guest Judge for

that issue.

First prize: $200

Second prize: $100

Third prize $50

Winners are announced in the following issue.

If you would like to sponsor a merit prize,

please contact Jenny Mosher at

narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au

Judging and Voting People‟s Choice

People’s Choice Prize

Don’t forget to vote for your favourite piece at:

www.narratormagazine.com/vote.php

Voting opens on 1 September 2011 and closes 31

October 2011.

People‟s Choice Prize is $50

If you would like to sponsor a People’s Choice prize,

please contact Jenny Mosher at

narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au

25

26 Ruth Withers

Uarbry The Little Tear

A little tear at play one day began to feel a

trembling.

It soon became a roiling, a boiling and a

dark‟ning;

A sad and heavy fright‟ning.

„Fear not,‟ her mother softly said, „it is the Host

a-calling.

All big tears must gather now, ready for the

leaving—

Must head toward the bright‟ning.‟

With scant goodbye she turned away, „You

cannot come,‟ a-whisp‟ring,

„Your turn will come to follow and you will join

the gath‟ring

And pass beyond the light‟ning.‟

The little tear, bewildered, sat and watched her

mother leaving—

With many others rushing, to obey the urgent

calling.

She felt her fears a-height‟ning.

And every day, for many days, returned that

awful trembling,

And every day more tears marched past to join

the silent gath‟ring,—

None smaller tears enlight‟ning.

The little tear, with little friends, gathered in the

dark‟ning,

Confused, afraid and watching; alone and

always wond‟ring—

What waits beyond the bright‟ning?

„Oh, Host,‟ they cried, „We‟re so few now and

full of dreadful fearing.

What lies beyond,—and must we all be gathered

for the leaving?‟

In answer came but tight‟ning.

The little tear spoke up at last. „Well, where‟s

the point in staying?

What‟s here for us to keep us here? There‟s

nothing but the dark‟ning,

The sadness and the fright‟ning.

„Tomorrow when the trembling comes, I too

shall join the marching.

What lies beyond cannot be worse than this

place is becoming.

I‟m going to the light‟ning.‟

„You cannot,‟ cried her little friends, „You must

await the calling.‟

„Who says I must? Who is here for doing any

telling?

Who comes to ease our fright‟ning?‟

The new day came and found the little tears all

sadly waiting,

But no big tears came marching by; there came

no dreadful trembling—

Yet nearer came the bright‟ning.

„I think I understand,‟ she said, „Our time, too,

is coming.

There isn‟t any trembling; no big tears left for

marching;

Yet still the ever tight‟ning.‟

Fearfully they waited, all close together

clinging.

Nearer to what lay beyond they felt themselves

a-drawing—

Ever nearer to the light‟ning.

One by one they passed beyond—never murmur

making.

One by one, „til only one—the little tear—was

waiting,

Her lonely fears still fighting.

„Little tear, be not afraid. Your journey is

beginning.‟

She passed beyond and found herself on narrow

ledge a-sitting—

Enveloped by a white‟ning.

„Brave little tear, you are the last. I‟ve no more

tears for shedding.

I beg you, take my message to the place where

you are going—

Far, far beyond the bright‟ning.‟

And so began the journey. m

26

27

The Journey

The little tear sat all alone upon her narrow

ledge.

She heard the message in a sigh and gave her

solemn pledge,

Then slowly she began to slide toward she

knew not what.

„Stay little tear. You need not go. Linger

here with me.

I‟ll take you in and keep you safe. I host the

Host, you see.‟

But the little tear continued, saying „Thank

you. I cannot.‟

The gentle Breeze came wafting by and

cooled her with a kiss.

„My brother the Wind could pick you up and

take you far from this.

He‟d carry you off to a garden and set you on

a flower.‟

„No,‟ said the tear; „I must go on.‟ „Why so?‟

said the mighty Sun.

„When I could lift you to the sky—to a world

of warmth and fun.‟

„Please,‟ cried the tear, „I must not stop, al-

though you have such power.‟

Then down she fell, and down, and down.

„Have a care,‟ growled a fly,

As she passed close by. „Leave her be,‟ said

a wandering butterfly;

And the grasses and weeds only nodded their

heads and wondered what they had seen.

Into the bosom of Mother Earth she fell

without a sound,

Then she gathered herself together again to

take a look around.

And the tiny children of Mother Earth asked

where she‟d lately been.

„Far I‟ve come and far must go, but I‟m so

small and weak.‟

„Our strong friends the rocks will help you

find that which you seek.‟

And she rode with them on an earthworm to

beg the rocks for aid.

„Good rocks, I must not fail my host.‟ „Then

you will not,‟ said they.

And she passed with ease from rock to rock,

„til on cool wood she lay,

Too weak to gather herself again, too tired

from the journey made.

„I‟ve a message for he within your walls,‟

she whispered to the wood,

„But I am spent and can‟t go on. Would you

be so good

As to ask of him the question that my host

bade me to ask?‟

„It will do no good,‟ replied the wood, „but

I‟m prepared to try.‟

„Then ask him, please, as I was asked, “Why,

why, why?”

Then I can dry in the knowledge that I have

carried out my task.‟

***

From the wood to the rocks to the tiny chil-

dren, through Mother Earth to the trees,

It murmured forth and was carried aloft by

the Wind and his sister, the Breeze.

It muttered and swirled from the flies to the

birds to the bright-winged butterfly.

Storm clouds gathered to hear, but the

mighty Sun just took himself away,

And the Host and her host, if they heard at

all, had nothing to say that day.

What reply could they give to the muttered

reproof—„No reply, no reply, no reply‟? m

Ruth Withers

Uarbry

with PARIS Portingale

Designed with the artist, rather than the humorist, in mind, this concept turns the usual

„best caption‟ process on its head.

Instead of captioning an existing cartoon, you‟ve been given the caption, and no image!

It‟s up to you to interpret the caption creatively and come up with an appropriate—or

completely bizarre!—cartoon.

Scan your cartoon, complete with caption, and email it to

narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au and we will print the best interpretation in the

next issue.

Rory knew the consequences of not swallowing every last

mouthful. There was no spitting out; he'd seen what

they'd done to Piggy Williams.

What

Narrator Magazine is a free online, quarterly, regional

magazine from MoshPit Publishing. It has been designed as a vehicle to provide an outlet for local writers and their short stories, poems and essays of less than 5,000 words.

When

The magazine is produced quarterly and as well as being

online, a limited number of copies are printed for sale.

It is generally available from the first week of each

season.

During the eight weeks following publication, readers are

encouraged to go online and vote for their favourite story, poem or essay as part of the ‘People’s Choice’ award. Only one vote per email address is allowed.

Prizes

Each quarter a secret guest judge is asked to review the

contributions and nominate those three they think most worthy. These three are then awarded small cash prizes of $200, $100 or $50, for first, second and third most worthy works and their ‘wins’ publicised in the next issue of Narrator.

The ‘secret judge’ will be someone with a literary or

writing background or interest and will be revealed in the following issue.

The People’s Choice prize is $50.

Other than the four prizes mentioned above, all

contributions are unpaid. The magazine is an opportunity for writers and artists to gain exposure for their previously unpublished works.

Winners’ names are published in the next issue and

awarded their prizes—$200, $100 and $50.

Copyright

All contributors (writers and artists) retain full copyright in

and ownership of their contributions.

Advertising

Advertisers must reside in or service the region.

The cost of the magazine is subsidised by advertising.

Each page is available for sponsorship, and a maximum of 10% of each content page is reserved for advertising. The remaining 90% of each page will be dedicated to content. Advertisers are ‘first come first serve’—the sooner an advertiser reserves and pays for space, the closer to the front of the magazine their ad will appear.

In the downloadable PDF and online versions, advertisers’

websites will be hyperlinked to their ads.

Opportunities for local artists

Local artists are invited to submit images to appear on the

cover. These will not be paid for.

Writing contributors may also submit an artwork (theirs or

another regional resident’s) to accompany their submission when published. The publisher reserves the right to print the submission without the accompanying artwork.

Restrictions

Contributions must be no more than 5,000 words each.

Contributors must reside in the region.

Advertisers must deliver goods or services to that region,

but may be located outside of it.

Contributors must be aged 18 or over.

The act of uploading a submission via the Narrator

website or in any other manner implies that the contributor is the owner of the work, that the submission is their original work, that it has never been published before, that they are a resident of the region and that they are 18 years of age or over.

For validation purposes, all writing and artistic contributors

must provide full contact details including home address. These details will be suppressed from publication.

All contributors may choose how to have their entry

credited, but will be required to offer a name and village/town e.g. Jenny, Hazelbrook or a pseudonym and village/town e.g. MoshPit, Hazelbrook.

Contributions will generally not be edited, save for a light

spelling, grammar and punctuation check.

The publisher retains the right to refuse publication of any

submission without explanation. Items deemed offensive or potentially offensive, or items deemed to be propaganda will not be published. No correspondence will be entered into.

After publication

With the establishment of other regional Narrator

magazines, a ‘best of the best’ will be published annually showcasing the overall winners. Winners have the right to refuse permission for their submission to be included in this compilation. There will be no payment for inclusion in the annual compilation.

How to submit

Upload your story, poem or essay in Word, .txt or other

MS Word-compatible format via the Submit pages at www.narratormagazine.com

You will be required to go through the Submit process for

each individual submission.

Prizes

Judged prizes will be awarded to the three entries (across all categories) as chosen by that quarter’s ‘secret judge’ as

follows:

1st prize—$200

2nd prize—$100

3rd prize—$50

People’s Choice voting will open on 1 September 2011 at

www.narratormagazine.com.au/vote.php

Voting will close on 31 October 2011.

Only one entry per email address allowed.

$50 will be awarded to the entry which receives the most votes.

Winners’ details will be published in the Summer issue due out

1 December 2011 and on the website at

www.narratormagazine.com.au

About ...

Get your Pick ’n Mix website components today at The MoshShop: www.themoshshop.com.au

New websites proudly brought to you by oshPit Publishing:

narrator

MAGAZINE

**NEW** from MoshPit Publishing: Affordable, no-fuss, fast-loading websites for small business:

Moksha Children Play Therapy

www.mokshachildren.com.au

Now even the very smallest business can have a fully customised website at an affordable price.

With our Site Starter, you get a single page site including domain name, one email address, a year's

hosting, unlimited traffic, and a design personalised to your taste (NO templates!) for just $440*.

And as your business grows, you can add a page here and there as you need it from just $110. Or add

other components such as a Facebook feed or a Google map—what you need, when you need it.

*(Annual renewal currently $198 pa)

Facebook Business Page Setup

$198

Lightbox Photo Gallery (each)

$99

Extra Email Addresses (each)

$11

Web Shop Items (each)

$5.50

Tom-Tom Productions

www.tomtomproductions.com.au