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Agreement

December 31, 2009 in A

By Jason Geary

What was his word worth? That’s what Hugo had to decide. He’d promised John not to touch it but his curiosity was assaulting him. It was relentless and wearing down his resolve. John would never have to know. Hugo was sure that he could open it without disturbing it in any significant way.

He blocked a sudden impulse to go for it and broke out in a sweat.

Hugo tried to find something else to do until John got home, but knew the futility of his objective. Hugo slumped. He knew he’d lost the battle as soon as the thought entered his head. Like a doomed man walking the plank he strode back to the box.

A last-ditch effort from somewhere behind his eyes. “No. Don’t do it, you’re betraying his trust.” Hugo silenced the thought with the creak of hinges as the box opened.

Inside was the gift. The perfect gift. The most thoughtful gift anyone had ever offered him.

He closed the box. A tear falling onto its top. Hugo heard the door and wiped the tear off the box.  John entered buoyant, full of life, ready to give his boyfriend the greatest gift he would ever receive.

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Surprise

December 31, 2009 in S

By Tim Redmond

Frank’s hat is a fine hat. A grey pork-pie lined with jade silk and a brim that sits just so; if Frank is ever in a just so mood. Alas, Frank’s head is a great, fat thing, not designed for hats at all, so his pork-pie looks like a grape perched on a watermelon. But no-one tells Frank this because Frank’s fists do his speaking and Frank’s fists like to argue.

Monica dreams of unicorns. Black unicorns with three horns. She never tells Frank of her dreams, for he would be surely drawn to the obvious fault.

“Uni means one” he would grunt. And his fists would twitch. So Monica lays beside him and dreams her dreams of hoof-beat and soft noses in curled silence.

Then the apocalypse happens.

Lieutenent Colonel Winston Baker of the 3rd Army, Arkansas Silo Squad turns a key and presses a button and his great metal bird takes flight. Some say he responds to a false incoming, that a twenty three cent fuse in the double blind routing system blows and ignites his array.  No matter. The birds do not care, each rumbling from the earth to the call of enemy kin till the sky is a lattice of warheads.

The missile that strikes Melbourne hits Flemington Racecourse. It is loaded to strike the Cerebus Naval base, some fifty two kilometers away, but there you go. Frank is at Flemington on this blue Spring’s day, pounding the rails as Carmody King drags its way to a penniless fourth. He is in the process of tearing his ticket to the air, cursing the cloudless sky, when it strikes. The blast blows his fine hat from his fat head, scorches the flesh from his fists, then, with a final flash, cremates him standing. Sixty thousand or so other souls at Flemington also vanish in this horrible moment, their bodies a puff of grey dust. Monica is there. She is watching a grey sterling that has fixed its nest in the corner of the stairs that lead to the Steward’s tower. How it dances from lip to lip, fussing and fidgeting. It makes her smile. She does not suffer.

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Blunt

December 30, 2009 in B

By Jason Geary

Elaine spent a small fortune on beauty products, a new scent every week. Vainly hoping that his head would finally turn.

It did not.

She would paint a picture of regret to her friends who were, quite frankly, sick of her whining about it.  While out after work one evening her friend Julia, in a desperate attempt to stop her from talking about him any longer walked straight up to him and said ”Elaine wants you to notice her. Everything she does, she does for you. She’s sitting right over there.”

He took it in without as much as a blink of an eyelid then dismissed Julia with a sly smile.

After Julia walked away, he threw a look in the direction that she was pointing.

Elaine?

Hmmmmm.

For the life of him he couldn’t figure out who she was talking about.

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Spot

December 30, 2009 in S

By Tim Redmond

It was impossibly smooth – the butt. Malt alabaster, rocking as his father walked, Benton clumping behind him through the midnight paddock, spotlight clutched to his chest. He could not take his eyes off it; how it curved out into the night. The barrel, long and slender, easing into the curve of the stock like a spear burrowing for a vein. The bolt and trigger plate glowing dimly beside his father’s gloved hand, curled in  easy grip as the rifle parted the bracken in a loping rise and fall.

Then he paused suddenly. Planted. Benny bumped his father’s hip and felt two fingers tap him in the chest then click upwards. He followed them, the spot rising with his gaze, and the paddock ahead lit up with orbs and darting fur. Rabbits.


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Rest

December 29, 2009 in R

By Jason Geary

The old man sleeping opposite me on the train looks like death. Mouth hung low, top lip stretched thin across over sized false teeth. He is sucking in gulps of air as if on some invisible respirator. Perfectly syncopated, you could set your watch by it. His fingers are woven together in his lap, like a boney freckled basket. He looks every bit his age. Which, at a guess, would be in his eighties.  As he sleeps I wonder about the life he’s left in his wake.  Did he have a moment of romantic heroism? Did he feel moments of absolute joy?  How many little deaths has he survived? How many tiny murders has he committed? What has it taken for him to be sitting here asleep so delicately in front of me?

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Fit

December 29, 2009 in F

By Tim Redmond

Jack can’t run. Doesn’t have the fitness. When the rest of us have finished our laps of the oval, he’s still trudging on his third, head down, hands on  hips, kicking the mud.  Sometimes in games, when his fitness fails, the elbows come out.  At boundary throw ins, he’ll hover behind the pack and swing just as the ball hits fingers. In the flurry of mud and teeth, he’s skipping out back, holding his cheek, pointing. Jack gives away free kicks, he gets dragged, but he never gets reported. He bears the scorn of his team-mates and thrashings of the coach, but Jack wins the tiny battles we always seem to lose.

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Elf

December 25, 2009 in E

By Jason Geary

Santa held a sawn-off shotgun at the end of his out stretched arm. The elf looking back up the barrel quivered with fear.

“… Eat the fucking shortbread!” said Santa.

“But I can’t eat anymore. I’ll vomit. Again.” said the Elf through tears.

“Keep it down Dickweed, you’ll wake the fuckin’ kids. Now eat the shortbread or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

There was a horrible pause.

“But I’ll…”

BANG. Both barrels.

Screams came from the bedrooms. Shit. The family was awake.  Santa yelled orders to the other Elfs; “Take care of the family. Make ‘em forget this ever happened. John? You have fairy dust? Good. Use it. Gustav, clean up this fucking mess. Next time get me an elf that can eat all of this shit. I got a reputation to look after. You think I can eat plate after plate of cookies and carrots? Fuck me. Right who’s riding shotgun now?”

A nervous looking Elf stepped forward, “I am, Santa.”

“Right then, you better be fuckin’ hungry. We got all of Europe to do yet.”

“I’ll do my best Santa.”

Santa cracked his Shotgun dumped the spent shells on the floor and chambered two fresh ones; “You want to keep your head, your best better be good enough.”

.

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Contort

December 24, 2009 in C

By Jason Geary

Rachel met Kristy on the train three days ago and they’d been inseparable since. London had been good to them though they had been a little too splashy with their money. Paris would have to be done on a budget. The idea of saving a few pennies was appealing. The practicality of it was another thing.

“Are you sure this is a double bed?”  The bed was small, in fact, Rachel was sure it was narrower than most single beds she had slept in.

”Yeah, it’s a double. That’s what I booked. The rooms are small here. Don’t worry. It’s a Paris thing. Top and tails?” She was still drunk; her spirits buoyed by the attention of a local man who’d bought her drinks all night.

”Sure.” Replied Rachel, trying to hide her nerves.

Rachel went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She returned to find Kristy passed out on the bed. It was only when she crawled into bed that the horrid reality became clear. Kristy was splayed out at odd angles and impossible to move. Rachel looked to the floor; maybe she could sleep there. On closer inspection, she wished she hadn’t looked at the carpet at all. She snuggled down and turned her back away from Kristy. She came to rest in a position that resembled an advanced yoga pose. She exhaled and closed her eyes. Tired, she drifted toward sleep.

Calm settled in the room.

Kristy shifted with a murmur and drove her knee deeper into the small of Rachel’s back, forcing a whimper from Rachel, the only sign that she was still awake.

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Air

December 23, 2009 in A

By Jason Geary

The lunar module nestled softly into the dust of the moon’s surface. Inside Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong prepared their suits, ready to walk on the surface. Aldrin would be the first down, they had decided months ago, back at the training centre in Houston. Neil drew the short straw; Buzz Aldrin would be the first man on the moon.

Simple.

Neil turned his back to Buzz and so he could perform the final checks. Buzz tugged at fittings and secured hoses.  He checked Neil’s fail-safes were intact. A tug here, a tap there, and the process was complete. They turned in unison. It was Neil’s turn to run through the checklist for Buzz.  He gripped the oxygen hose and yanked it clear out of the back of the helmet. Buzz’s face turned blue. His eyes were suddenly bulbous with the instant decompression.  His face distorted in pain. The backup supply kicked in, sealing the hole and gradually re pressurising his suit. It was a minute before he could speak.

“What happened?” Gasped Buzz.

“Faulty seal…” Replied Neil.

A heavy pause.

“You can’t go out there on your back up supply. You’ll have to stay here.”

“But…”

“We’ve only got a three minute window. The world is watching. You know we can’t keep miss the window.”

Neil placed a hand on Buzz’s shoulder.

“I’ll have to go.”

“But, I can attach the back up oxygen…”

“Buzz. No time. I’ll have to go,” Neil said proudly. “Plus, I got a killer line.” And with that he opened the door and stepped down the ladder.

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Headliner

December 22, 2009 in H

By Jason Geary

She sat in her dressing room. Looking into the mirror back past herself at the off cream brick wall that imposed close behind. Staring at the even surface she counted the black dots burned into her retina by the lights that surrounded her mirror.

12.

She flicked her attention back to her make up, it was caked on thick, and it had to be. There was a knock on the door. “Five minutes Miss Collis.” She didn’t respond, she just sat back in her seat and sighed. Seven long seconds then another more tentative knock “Miss Collis? Five minutes till curtain.”

“Yes. Thank you John.”

She looked into the mirror a final time and barely recognized herself. Time to go be who they wanted her to be. She opened the door to muted applause of backstage competition winners. She offered a smile and a quip. They loved her more for the attention. Flash bulbs burst to life. She added 5 more dark spots to the tally on her retina. She was tired. She had to work so hard at being her light-hearted self. For all this attention, she knew that after the performance had finished and the applause died down she’d be in her luxury inner city apartment eating chocolate. Alone.

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Abyss

December 21, 2009 in A

By Jason Geary

Leanne knew the sleep over would backfire. She didn’t really want to invite half of the girls anyway. The popular set had gotten wind of the event and basically invited themselves.  Leanne was powerless to stop it, just as she was powerless to stop the momentum of enthusiastic “yeses” to the suggestion of ‘Truth or Dare’.  Jane, with a calculated tone from underneath her popular girl grin, said; “Leanne should go first.  It’s her party…” Leanne just smiled not wanting to back down.

“Truth of Dare?” sneered Jane.

Leanne struggled to keep the smile on her face. She had a secret that, should it ever come to light, would fuel ridicule for the rest of her days. “Dare.” She said not wanting to risk the truth. Jane smirked. “I dare you to let Francine touch your bellybutton.”

SHE KNEW.

They all did. Leanne’s smile disappeared; ”No! It’s too dangerous.”

“You said ‘Dare’. Do you want me to think of a punishment?” Reluctantly Leanne pulled up her top.  Everybody in the room gasped. Her bellybutton had no bottom; it just fell away into infinite blackness. Francine reached out and touched the rim. As she did she let out a scream, which echoed inside Leanne for the next fifteen minutes.

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Trinity

December 19, 2009 in T

By Jason Geary


This was the first moment.

He was surprised by the vibrancy of their smiles. Each smile distinct in the way it communicated the obvious joy of having their arms wrapped around each other. This was the first moment he can recall where he realized just how glad he was that they’d stopped him and asked him to take their picture.

Then he asked the obvious question, something he chided himself for the very moment the words passes his lips. “Are the three of you sisters?” Two of the three smiled brighter as they said “Yes.” The other rolled her eyes, not in a dismissive way, in a way that suggested she’d heard that question too many times this week. The subtly of her reaction was not lost on him. “I’m sorry, you must get that a lot.” She softened a little embarrassed he’d noticed her momentary lapse. “No, it’s okay.” She offered. He shifted his eyes to the screen of their camera. “Bunch up.” He said. The sisters pushed together close, almost completely masking the picturesque Italian building in the background. He held the camera at arm’s length, trying to get the framing just right.

This was the second moment.

Within the tiny boarders of the camera screen sat an image of perfect happiness. He pushed the button and captured it for them in pixels for prosperity. “Got it.” He said and handed the camera back. The sisters put their heads together to look at the screen. Snug.

This was the third moment.

In dumbfounded awe he looked at them looking at themselves. Absorbed by the unqualified warmth of their faces as they saw the moment he’d captured. He blinked; though this time he made a conscious effort to hold his lids shut for a moment longer. Behind his eyelids he was trying to record that moment, submit it memory, that perfect unguarded moment of warmth he’d been privileged to be a part of. A voice forced his eyes open. “Thank you.” They said, with polite smiles again. “No problem. Have a nice day.” He replied and he walked on his way. He didn’t look back. He just closed his eyes. And there, already fading into the shadows of memory was the image of a faultless trio he hoped he’d be able to carry for the rest of the day.

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Hold

December 18, 2009 in H

By Jason Geary

She pressed the blanket to her chest. It was not right. Too flat. She let it slink off her to the floor. She needed something more substantial. A couch cushion? No… too small.

She drifted from the lounge to the bedroom. The smell her lover’s perfume infused the room. If her heart could break any more, it would have at that smell. She lifted her lovers’ pillow to her face and drew a deep breath. This smelled more like her. More like the woman under the perfume.

It smelled true.

She sat on the bed and pulled the pillow to her. Tight. This was a little more complete, though far from whole. She began to cry, her tears turning the pillow cold. That is when she realized… She missed the warmth.

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Redemption

December 18, 2009 in R

By Jason Geary

She’d hesitated before agreeing to the second date. Charming as he was, he’d made somewhat of a fool of himself on their first date. She’d noticed he’d fill any pause longer than 5 seconds with some inane conversation trying to show another side to his personality. In short, he’d tried too hard to impress her. That was something that she normally despised. She liked him though; she was kind of attracted to his clumsy rough edges, and on this the second date, he had kept his nerves in check.

The park had submitted to the advances of spring and allowed its trees to blush. As they nestled into the plush grass he had made an absent minded comment, ‘Looks like the grass was hand sewn.’ She found her eyebrow had risen. She liked that he’d noticed such a thing, and liked it even more that he felt comfortable enough to give that thought voice. So relaxed now, the conversation flowed.

As the sun continued its slow crawl across the sky, the conversation ebbed and soon founds itself at low tide. This time however he didn’t fill the silences with talk. He just laid back and watched the cotton candy clouds drift on the breeze. She looked at him, then his hand. Impulsively she reached out and grabbed it. He looked at her but didn’t speak, He just smiled. Her faith in him had not been misplaced. They lay in the grass and watched the clouds. As she filled her lungs with a deep breath and on the ensuing sigh released this thought, ‘I knew long silences could be this beautiful.’

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Ajar

December 16, 2009 in A

By Jason Geary

Casually, she pushed the door closed behind her. The latch failed and the door swung open a fraction. She continued her conversation with him as she changed. She moved backwards and forwards past the door in search of the perfect outfit. Robert looked in fascination. Surprised by the rush of sensations. Answering her questions with yeses and no’s. He waited with anticipation for each crossing. Each time she was in a more complete state of undress. Robert knew he was wrong to look. He’d never harboured any sexual attraction toward her at all. But for all this logic he found he still couldn’t look away.

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Almanac

December 16, 2009 in A

By Jason Geary.

He signed off on the day.

5 glasses of water. 14 times to the fridge. 16kms in the car. 37 doorways passes through. 2 bowel movements. 1 ½ bowls of pasta. 1 chocolate bar. 6 hours at the computer. 5 hours in front of the telly. 8738 steps. 11 itches. 2 ATM visits. 1 gas bill payed. 13 conversations. 2 hugs. 7 hours sleep. 5 cups of coffee. 1 supermarket visit. 3 sprays of deodorant, 2 teeth brushings. 5 nose picks. 1 stubbed toe. 3 hours of sunshine. 1 orgasm. 2 incidents of road rage. 1 wish to be elsewhere.

Thus ended Thursday the 14th April in this Almanac of the ordinary man.

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Rose

December 16, 2009 in R

By Jason Geary.

I closed the front door behind me with an inadvertent slam. I heard a sigh from the lounge room, a forced ‘I want you to know I’m sighing’ sigh. I braced myself as I walked into the room. There she was sprawled over the couch as if dumped there by some higher power.

“I’m home.”

“I heard.” She said cold. No, indifferent.

I left it at that. I watched her as I put my bag down and shuffled my things onto the mantle. She was all wiry and prickly. None of the beauty I knew she possessed was on show, as if the last blossom of summer had fallen. I thought it best to complement her.

“I like your hair. Did you have it coloured?”

She tilted her head upwards slightly. Movement!

“No.”

“Well it looks like you’ve done something to it.”

She prodded her hair as if looking in a mirror. I marvel at her ability to conjure a reflection from empty space.

“Yeah? Really?”

“Yeah really.” I confirmed.

I left the room with a smirk on my face. I had done it. Added some fertilizer to the mix, in hope that one day I would see her blossom again.

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