You are browsing the archive for 2010 February.

Unsaid

February 26, 2010 in U

By Rik Brown

A broken moment?

An opportunity glistens then evaporates.

Perfect words had formed to frame the frozen fragment.

But left unsaid, they drifted.

Lost in the ebb.

Her face, once porcelain perfect, showed cracks of contempt.

She continued to chip as his silence solidified.

Weighing them down as they waited.

Wishing that it didn’t have to build to such well-crafted deconstruction.

He floated briefly above them.

Watching the last gasp of his last grasp.

He was so close to holding on.

He dared to hope on the slippery slope.

But this moment was as broken as they were.

A

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Publicity

February 26, 2010 in P

By David Stewart

“She’ll talk to me I’m her publicist. Yes I’ll hold…. Madonna darling it’s Tristan,  I’m just calling back with the publicity ideas we fondled last time we had some face to face. It’s bad news I’m afraid I’ve spoken to the tabloids and they won’t give you front page for another adoption. The best they could offer was one of the early pages if there were good photos of you actually rescuing the child from a natural disaster. I could organize a fire in a village but is it worth it just to share half of page 7 with a Big Brother winner? …They do like the marriage idea but sadly Nelson Mandella said no. I know I thought it was a great match too but according to his people he’s not interested. And Oprah says she won’t consider going dyke at least until she’s dropped out of the top 100 rich list. …Religion? Well you’ve tried them all love. You’ve pretty much done the full set and besides it’s a dead end it really is. All the religions are seen as too old fashioned. Thanks to Dawkins athiests are just smug and annoying and nobody is going to put you on the front page for turning Agnostic. “Madonna unsure about God” is hardly a captivating headline. …You’ve done nude love, you really have. I don’t think there’s a person on the planet who hasn’t seen your tits and frankly after the display you put on at the Grammy’s after party there aren’t many people who would want a second viewing. No offence love. I do have another idea up my sleeve though, something new. …We announce that you’ve become a Publicity Addict! It’s brilliant, sex addiction is big right now and all we need to do is tweak the concept slightly. We buy a place somewhere remote, call it a Publicity Addict Rehab Centre and book you in. You can relax for a bit while we churn out stories about your “disease” and then you can come out and do the rounds of press and TV telling everyone about your heroic battle with Publicity addiction. And the great news is that you’ll be the first. Whenever anyone says they’re a Paddict, that’s my name for it, they’ll say “like Madonna”. You become a brand. I know it’s perfect. I’ll get everything set up right now. Bye my darling. Kisses.”

A

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Counting

February 25, 2010 in C

By Jason Geary

City lights shroud the stars and I lose count at four hundred and thirty-seven. I can tell you’re relieved.

You know I’ve gone much higher.

You sigh.

I ask “Why do put up with me?”

You look at me disappointed that I cannot answer my own question, and then you say. “You’re like quicksand and I’m in way too deep.”

You blink softly, as if to punctuate your statement then shift your gaze up to the glowing orange urban sky and begin to count.

a

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Conspiracy

February 25, 2010 in C

By David Stewart

Dude?

What?

Dude come over here. I’ve got something well heavy to lay on you brother.

What is it Brian?

I know the truth man. I know the truth.

What truth?

Some people are not what they seem. There are people, I think it’s about a third of the population but it could be more, and it even includes like, leaders and everything, these people right, are not who they say they are… they’re lizards!

Brian you’re a nut.

No man hear me out. They’re like lizards who have worked their way into our lives and are secretly controlling everything. Society as we know it is being run by reptile creatures.

Brian-

Reptiles man. Scaly skin and everything!

Brian-

And they walk among us. They could be anyone we know.

Brian! You’re a goanna!

What?

You’re a goanna Brian. I’m a goanna, you’re a goanna, we’re both goanas. We’re lizards Brian.

Woah! Dude you’re tripping me out. Are you saying you’re like a reptile?

We’re both reptiles Brian. We’re lizards. That’s our species, that’s what we are.

This is really heavy man, I just can’t believe what you’re laying on me.

Brian have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror?

No, never.

That’s because LIZARDS DON”T OWN MIRRORS! What did you have for breakfast Brian?

Flies. Flies are good.

Have you ever in your life eaten anything other than flies, bugs or insects?

Are beetles insects?

Yes.

Then no.

You’re a lizard.

Why didn’t anyone tell me this earlier?

We kind of assumed you knew. You have a blue tongue that’s twice the length of your head, wasn’t that a giveaway?

Well I did think it was kind of weird.

Are you trying to tell me you thought you were a human being controlled by lizards?

Well yeah. It just seemed like a good theory.

Brian we live in a zoo. We’re in the reptile enclosure. You’re a goanna, I’m a goanna and everyone we’ve ever met has been a goanna. Now shut up I’m trying to get some sleep.

Dude!

What?

Dude I’ve got another theory.

What now?

The guys who open up the cage and dump in a bunch of flies. I don’t think they’re really lizards. I think they might be human! We’re being controlled by humans!

Piss off Brian.

a

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Ultimatum

February 24, 2010 in U

By Jason Geary

“Ain’t no such thing as a good man out here. Ain’t nothin’ but degrees of bad… Same person that rescues a man from a burnin’ house is just likely to shoot him in the back for his boots. It’s why I ride alone… Don’t trust nobody… Can’t. It’s a mistake I made once before an’ I don’t plan on doin’ it again… Now, don’t go protestin’. Makes ya sound weak. You can’t follow me boy. I won’t have it….  I like you. I do… An’ we did good things here you and me. Things we’ll be remembered for. So you ride that wagon. You find yourself a woman. Settle down. Show her what it’s like to be treated proper… Hey, I said no protestin’!… Good…  You know where I’m goin’ there ain’t no coming back. You follow me; you’re as good as dead…  And that I can’t live with… So walk away… Go… You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, I ain’t the type to shoot a man in the back.”

a

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Might

February 23, 2010 in M

By David Stewart

Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s popular saying “The pen is mightier than the sword” was validated during the latter half of the 20th century after Lazlo Biro patented the ball-point pen. The veracity of the bon-mot can be proven in graph form if the rise of the disposable biro is charted against the decline in the popularity of sword-carrying amongst the general population. Early in the 21st century however the expression was struck from popular records thanks to Ernst Gruber, a German technology blogger and fantasy-film enthusiast. Gruber entered into a heated discussion with poet and luddite Hans Flisk over the general value to society of those who used twitter. What began as a genial if pointed discussion soon turned to verbal abuse before weapons were drawn. Flisk produced a four-colour bic and was reportedly astonished when Gruber brandished a large broadsword. Witnesses later recalled Flisk quoting Bulwer-Lytton’s famous saying although they noted he did so from behind a nearby pillar. The satirist apparently set out to prove the validity of his arguement and the power of his biro, by penning a scathing piece of prose called “Twits who tweet”. Gruber’s sword however was no ordinary weapon. He had adapted the handle with a keypad, screen and wi-fi which in effect turned it into a combination weapon/blackberry. He had christined it the Broadband Sword and before Flisk could proofread his composition, Guber had twittered his 12,000 followers with 140 characters of vitriol about his opponent’s sexuality. After a moment of inspiration, Flisk penned a haiku which the person he showed it to described as: “Probably funny but essentially illegible”. Gruber meanwhile had updated his blog with a hastilly typed post called “Satirist doesn’t materrist” which was immediatly hyperlinked by his network of friends all around the world. Experts believe Flisk’s next move would have been to use his considerable artistic skills to sketch a caricature of his opponent, most likely lampooning the latter’s noticeable overbite. Sadly this can only ever be speculation as Gruber’s final act of the conflict was to sever Flisk’s hands at the wrist and beat him with the flat of his sword as he bled to death. Devotees of the work of Flisk gather annually to mourn his loss and always gain a small measure of satisfaction from the knowledge that as he left, Gruber slipped on Flisk’s biro and fractured his pelvis.

A

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Anniversary

February 22, 2010 in A

By Jason Geary

Lester closed the door on the porter who was waiting at the threshold for a tip. He couldn’t afford a tip; the aged pension didn’t offer him such luxuries.  He’d eaten nothing but noodles with veggies for four weeks just so he could afford to be here tonight.

In its day The Plaza Hotel was unsurpassed, that’s why he’d chosen it for their wedding night. However, Lester and the Plaza had aged horribly, time had not been kind to either of them. The hotel extension had turned this once grand room into a standard room, though the fixtures were in the same place.  When he closed his eyes he could see the room as it once was. Grand.

Lester placed his bag on the floor, opened it and removed a woman’s sweater. It was knitted with the softest wool, aqua blue and was unmistakably made in the 1950’s.  The only thing that mattered to Lester that it still smelled like Emily. He placed it to his face and drew a deep breath. Right away he swept back through time to holding her in his arms, on this very spot, his chin resting on her shoulder his nose nestled into the nape of her neck. Not a care in the world, resting perfectly together.

Resting. Damn.

That ruined the moment.

He cursed himself. He was back in the hotel room again. Alone. He should’ve known better than to be taken away so quickly. She was becoming harder and harder to recall, even more difficult to hang onto for any length of time.

Lester fell onto the bed and looked at the roof. The cornices and ceiling rose were still the same, albeit chipped and mouldy. He focused on them and sniffed his wife’s sweater again. They seemed to colour themselves with gold leaf, just how he remembered them. He let his head roll to the side and saw the beautiful wife lying by his side. “Happy anniversary, Les.” She said.

“It will be.” Lester smiled.

A

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Responsibility

February 22, 2010 in R

By David Stewart

Hi. Nice to meet you and welcome to the building. I’m Brian but don’t feel bad if you don’t remember. I know what it’s like on the first day, you meet so many new people and all the names just go in one ear and out the other. What do I do? Well I’m just a lowly payroll accountant I’m afraid and I’m also the Office Wanker. The Office Wanker. Didn’t your last office have a wanker? Oh. We decided a few years ago that the best way to deal with office politics was to have elections to the various office jobs and formalize what is normally a casual sort of social structure. Responsibility is one of our company’s key values so- Well as Office Wanker it’s my job to email  jokes about accountants, and I have to say inane things during staff meetings and if I see an amusing office prank on the internet I’m duty bound to make a half-arsed attempt to replicate it. Last week I saw this picture where someone had entirely filled a cubicle with balloons and so I spent an afternoon blowing up a packet of 24 party balloons and… yes, yes it is a bit pathetic, 24 isn’t many and a few popped anyway so it was more like 18 at the end but still… I wanted to be office stud but sadly I didn’t win the election. I didn’t even nominate for Office Wanker but someone else put my name up and I was the only candidate. If you want the job then elections are in August so… it’s an easy position and you can have my collection of hilarous office posters and the “You don’t have to be crazy to work here but it helps” T shirt which I have to wear on casual clothes days. Well think it over. I’d really like to run for the Office Drunk election because between you and me I find myself hitting the bottle pretty heavilly every lunch time. Well if you excuse me I have to go. I’m supposed to photocopy my bottom at least once a week, but I’ll be back later on because I have to invent an annoying nickname for you, it’s all part of the Responsibility.

A

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Science

February 18, 2010 in S

By Dave Stewart

When he woke up he found his hands tied behind his back, His feet bound tightly to the chair legs and the woman standing over him. She looked angry and was holding two notepads and a biro.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” she said. “I’ve written the word “bad” on one of these notepads and “good” on the other. I’m going to untie your hands and give you the bad pad and a biro. Then you’re going to write down everything that’s bad for you. Food, drink, exercises everything. Then write everything that’s good for you in the other pad.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Start with Eggs! Fucking eggs! Are they good or bad? I’m sick of you changing your mind all the time. Are eggs good for me or not?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a dietitian. I’m a physicist”

“You’re a scientist! You do science! The papers always say “Scientists say eggs are bad for you” and then they say “Scientists say eggs are good for you” Make up your fucking mind!”

“But scientists never say that. One branch of science releases a comprehensive study about one aspect of something and reaches a series of conclusions. The media then over simplify it and either turn it into an alarmist report or a feel-good one. That’s what they do.”

She broke down and started sobbing. “They’re either good or bad. I need to know.”

“Nothing is that simple. Cigarettes are a relaxant and expectorant. They’re excellent for stress relief it just happens they’re also fatal in large doses. They’re definitely bad but they’re also kind of good.”

“I need it to be simple. Like bananas. Bananas are good, that’s simple.”

“Why are banana’s good for you?”

She looked at him as if he was an idiot. “They’re a good source of potassium. Everyone knows that.”

“And what’s so great about potassium?”

“Well… it’s potassium… it’s good.”

“If you’ve got a kidney disease potassium can be fatal.”

“So… bananas are bad?” She howled a cry of anguish that echoed around the basement.

“No bananas are just bananas. Nature didn’t make them good or bad it just made them.”

“Four things!” She shouted suddenly. “Tell me four things that are definitely absolutely positively good for me! Just four things!”

He thought for a second. “Research, Avoiding oversimplification, understanding how the mainstream media works and releasing kidnapped physicists.”

A

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Program

February 17, 2010 in P

By Jason Geary

It has to be something in the software, a faulty program. I’ve owned a TX-180 robot in the past and it didn’t demonstrate such fascinating behaviour. Upon initiating the shutdown protocol on my old TX-180 it went limp. This TX-180 slumped in the same way though it’s fingertips clattered. Odd. I ran the protocol again with the same result – Complete shut down except for the fingers. The fingers are twitching, delicately pressing together; it is like watching a child dreaming. Maybe it is a cool down mechanism. I smile, this quirk only adds to the robot’s personality. I like it. I walk to the workshop exit, turn and take stock.

The robot is something to behold, far superior to the battered model it had replaced. This one is fire engine red with a domed head, front glassed, so you can see the actuators inside. The actuators are cleverly designed so they look like eyes beneath a visor. It gives me something to focus on when talking to it, making it seem more human. I must say it does work. The robot’s body is bulbous and round with an array of buttons on its chest; it is a retro design masterpiece. That is the appeal. The notable exceptions to the classic design are the modern arms and hands. They are shaped like those of a human skeleton made from carbon fibre and pistons. The robot’s fingertips are a rubber latex replica of mine, thus ensuring that the only fingerprints on any product I ship out of this workshop are my own. I switch off the lights and leave for the night.

Upon returning to the workshop this morning I find the reams of paper near my computer depleted and paper cranes of all sizes all over my equipment.  Set like an elaborate diorama. The TX-180 is sitting in the exact spot I left it; its fingers are now still, a small but stark contrast to the night before.

Curious.

I engage the boot protocol and am welcomed to the workshop by the TX-108 in a kind tone.

“Who made these paper cranes?” I ask.

“I did.” said the TX-180 plainly.

“How? Did you self activate.”

“Negative. I have not become sentient since you shut me down.”

“Has someone else been here?”

“Negative sir.”

“Do you have a hypothesis on how these paper cranes appeared?”

“After a thorough process of elimination I can offer one illogical possibility.”

“Yes?”

“I believe… I had a dream in which I was making paper cranes.”

A

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Request

February 17, 2010 in R

By David Stewart

So this firewall should block any outside attempts to gain control of your computer.

And all those viagra emails?

There’s not a huge amount I can do about that I’m sorry. It’s spam, everyone gets it.

Fair enough then. Well thankyou for your time young man.

Not at all. That’s what they pay me for….um… there is one other thing…

Yes?

Well I was just wondering….

Yes, what is it?

Well I was wondering if I could be a saint?

A saint?

Yes your holiness. A saint. I thought that since you were the pope and I’d done such a good job getting the virus off your laptop you could maybe make me a saint.

It’s not really that easy I’m afraid. There are rules, you have to have done two miracles.

Easy. Retrieving data from Cardinal Helmut’s hard drive, that’s one and the other is a bit trickier to explain because you have to understand the rules of World of Warcraft but-

You also have to be dead.

Oh don’t worry about that bit. You’re infallible, I read that on Wikipedia. So if you say I’m a saint what’s anyone going to do? It’s just that I’ve been feeling really sainty lately and my girlfriend says I’ll never amount to anything so if I came home and said “Ha! I’m now the patron saint of wrist injuries and my birthday is a holiday in Botswana”, well she’d have to sleep with me then.

Canonization is the most sacred and holy gift that a pontiff can bestow. I can’t just make someone a saint because they’re not getting any action.

How’s this for a deal: Make me a saint and I won’t tell anyone what you’ve got on that hidden folder in your hard drive.

You bastard.

Well it wouldn’t look good.

They’re only episodes of Doctor Who.

Yes but they’re illegally downloaded. And those Billy Joel albums weren’t bought on itunes either.

Alright, I’ll make you a saint if you promise not to answer anyone’s prayers and never heal the sick without a cardinal’s express permission.

Wicked.

A

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Selection

February 16, 2010 in S

By David Stewart

Kill you? Oh I have no intention of killing you. I rather thought it would be more fun if we played a game. A game with the highest stakes you’ve ever played for in your life!

Before you I have placed five vials of liquid. Five glass containers bearing different beverages, each one unique in its purpose. In a moment you will consume the contents of the vial of your choosing and in so doing decide your own fate!

In one vial I have placed a deadly and painful poison. Drink it and within seconds you will suffer agony so profound that when death arrives it will come as a blessed relief. Another vial contains a powerful narcotic of my own devising. It brings about unbridled joy and euphoria with no harmful side effects except a slight blurring of the vision and an unfortunate but temporary discolouration of the urine. A third vial contains a drug that induces madness and dementia. Fifteen minutes after it’s consumed the unfortunate drinker becomes a raving lunatic prone to visions and the most implausible of fantasies. While the final vial contains a harmless but pleasant tasting liquid. It’s sort of lemony, I had some earlier and found it very refreshing.

What do you mean that’s only four? Poison, drug, madness and lemony… bugger that is only four. And I’ve got five vials. Crap. Hang on I’ve written it down…

Sorry about this I’ve had a lot on lately what with the world domination plans and building this huge base and hiring the staff, I’ve been run off my- Ah here we are, I knew I had it written down… Oh according to this it’s not euphoria its euphonium. That can’t be right. I can’t have invented a liquid that turns you into a euphonium. …And the poison needs work it says here. …And apparently it’s actually the madness inducing drug that has a lemony taste. But it still doesn’t say what the fifth liquid is… wait a minute- I drank the lemony tasting one 15 minutes ago. That means… oooh the fifth vial is turning into my mum! Hello mum, I’ve been become a criminal mastermind! Hooray for me! Oooh pretty vials lets play hide and seek with them. Count to 20 vials! No not twenty- Fifty. No wait count to Zimbabwe. I’m going to hide behind my own legs!

a

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Hero

February 15, 2010 in H

By Jason Geary

Paul stood proud at the crease in the middle of the MCG. Seventy five thousand people were looking on with bated breath. If he could hit a six off this final ball he would win the game. No, not just win the game; he would lift the spirits of the Nation. He would make this miraculous comeback complete.  He wasn’t worried about the pressure. This is what he’d wanted all his life, the burden of everything his team had strived for now rested on his broad shoulders. On this final ball.

The wind died down. How could such a huge space seem so claustrophobic? The crowd grew louder and louder as the bowler turned to begin his run up. He marvelled at how the collective cheer of seventy-five thousand people really did sound like blowing air into cupped hands brought up to your mouth. Paul was facing his nemesis. He’d lost his wicket to this bowler every time they had played this series. This man knew how to get him out.

Paul felt a drip of sweat escape from the rim of his helmet, annoyingly dripping down his nose competing for a fragment of his attention. It was a fragment Paul couldn’t spare. The bowler was running in at full speed now, his face a mask of focused hatred. Paul forced himself to go through his routine. Keep your feet apart, a step forward, a half back lift of the bat. He saw the ball leave the bowler’s hand. A leg cutter pitching short. ‘I’ve picked this.’ He thought as he instinctively rocked onto his back foot, completing his back swing. The rest of the stroke took care of its self, all he had to do unwind.

Paul hit the ball hard, sending it screaming into twelve rows back into the stands over the square leg boundary with a shattering crash. He ran down the pitch jumping like a man possessed. The crowd went wild. The journey ended. The hero announced. Paul looked at the bowler and saw him pointing towards the boundary swearing. That’s when the stand behind the bowler turned back into the garage. The square leg boundary morphed back into the house. The shrieking of Paul’s mum’s voice silenced the cheering.

“Paul! What have I told you about playing cricket close to the house? You’re going to pay for this window out of your pocket money.”

The bowler reached Paul, took the bat from his hands. “Window on the full is out. I win.”

A

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Circulation

February 14, 2010 in C

By Jason Geary

Whenever I come across an errant piece of string I wrap it tightly around the first knuckle of my pointer finger cutting the blood flow and turning it purple.

It’s a habit I got into as a child, something I’ve paid no mind to for all of these years, until my wife pointed it out as odd. I tap the fingertip on surfaces around me, trying to gauge how hard I must push to register feeling. It’s a curious thing.

It goes cold, both to the touch and what I feel. This, in microcosm, is what it must feel like to be dead. I can cheat death. Not so as to offend it, just a white lie to keep things in order.

Then comes the point where I decide to let it go. This is not easy internal monologue. Part of me wants to set a record for amount of time the circulation is cut off. Another part of me wants to see how deep I can make the string dig into my flesh. The logical side of me says ‘Let it go. You’ll hurt yourself. Don’t be stupid.’ That’s the part that always wins, though the curiosity still lingers.

a

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Oath

February 13, 2010 in O

By Jason Geary

I’m bleeding from every orifice. Shit.  I think I’m dying. I hate this. I want to stop. I want to. Why can’t I?  I’m sorry mum. I am. I’m sorry dad. I let you down.  I know you done your best. I fucked it all for you. I shouldn’t be coughing up blood. I’ve over done it this time. I gotta sleep now. Then I’ll make it better. I promise mum.  Tomorrow I’ll make it better.  I swear.

a

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Careless

February 11, 2010 in C

By Jason Geary


The line was long and Richard was growing impatient. In two days he would be leaving on his trip around the world – his first wish – and he hadn’t expected things to be this bumpy. Now that he had more money than he could possibly imagine – his second wish – having to draw it out and physically change it to another currency was tedious.

His legs hurt. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other trying to get the blood flowing. Three people in front of him sat a woman in a wheelchair. At least she looked comfortable. His shins began to ache and a tiny sweat broke across his forehead. To his left was a comfy couch, invitingly vacant. He tried his luck turning to the person behind him “Ermm… Would you mind my spot. My legs are killing me?” He asked. The woman gave him no verbal reply though her incredulous look spoke volumes.

Fifteen minutes passed before there was movement forward. Richard looked toward the front of the line again.  Wheelchair girl was first now.

First in line and comfortable.

Richard looked in envy and absentmindedly said on an out breath. “I wish I could swap with her.”

A flash of blue light washed the room as a Genie appeared from Richard’s bag. All except Richard were frozen in time. The Genie said to Richard “Master. Your third wish is my command!”

“No! No !” No! It was just a…” Before Richard could finish his protests the Genie turned to smoke and entered Richard’s body up his nose. As quickly as the Genie disappeared he shot out of Richard’s ear ricocheting off wall after wall then impacting into the wheelchair woman hard enough to make her chair rock in place. She shuddered violently, then the Genie escaped via her mouth and raced directly back inside Richard. When Richard was done convulsing the Genie slowly emerged from Richard’s nostrils like he was smoking toxic gas.  The Genie floated over to the wheelchair woman. Richard’s eyes stared back at the Genie from the frozen body in the chair.”

“Your final wish has been granted. My servitude to you has been fulfilled. You have no more wishes. I am no longer bound to you. Farewell.” With that the Genie disappeared.

The world be around him began to move, none the wiser. The teller said “Next.”

Richard wheeled to the window weeping, “There’s been a horrible misunderstanding.”

The teller wasn’t listening. He was distracted by the man tap dancing three places back in the line.

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Environment

February 11, 2010 in E

By David Myers

Sunday: Dear Diary, Ainslie and I had a massive fight tonight, and I blame Al Gore. Ever since we saw that damn documentary of his, we have been at each other’s throats over turning the toilet light off.  I’m tired of the endless bickering. So the toilet light, in fact all the lights in the house are going off and staying off! Ainslie is away this week. Things are going to be different when she gets back.

Monday: Keep bumping into things. Hurt my knee. Not abandoning my plan, but will need to pick up some stuff from work tomorrow. I’m determined to make this happen and not give in.  We’ll see who is more environmentally friendly.

Tuesday: Grabbed one of the ‘Submerge D sonar devices’, which we send out to the navy boys, from work. I spent the night on the couch listening to sound waves bouncing off the walls.  A bit disorientating at first and really loud, but with some practice I’m pretty sure I can avoid the furniture.

Wednesday: Police dropped by. The neighbours complained about the noise. Don’t they realise this is about saving the planet! Tried to explain that to the police, but they weren’t interested.  There are no laws against recreational use of a submarine class sonar device in a suburban area. I looked it up on the net. But I am suffering from some hearing loss and the dog has run away so I might try something else.

Thursday: Night vision goggles are awesome! I spent the whole night running around the house.  I wouldn’t recommend watching TV with them on, but I’m going to tell all my friends to get one. I am such an Eco warrior!

Friday: Everything looked weird this morning.  I thought my eyes had been damaged by the goggles. Turns out I forgot to take them off last night before bed. People were giving me some funny looks at work.  The duty sergeant wanted to know why I was taking stuff home.  I’m on reprimand.  Pity I was enjoying the goggles. I picked up a cane from a shop for the visually challenged.  That seems to be working ok.

Saturday: Ainslie and I had another fight. She wanted to know why there was a big pile of shit on her grandmother’s rocking chair.  I must have mistaken it for the toilet in the dark.

a

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Recognition

February 10, 2010 in R

By Jason Geary

My father lies unconscious with three tubes out of the side of his chest cavity draining fluid that will crush his lungs if left untended. I sit two meters away staring at the slow parade of blood and puss to the collection bag below.

This place is alien. Like a science fiction movie set, tubes and monitors, power cords and oxygen pumps, oppression and sterility. I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I have to be here. He doesn’t know

I think about all of the times I wanted to thank him. All of the times I wanted to challenge him. All of my problems that I feel have been caused by me wanting and not wanting to be just like him. All of the times I said nothing when I knew he could be a better man. Which, in turn, has shaped the man I have become.

I feel cheap.  He can’t answer for himself now. God knows that I haven’t got the answers.  Then I realise, as I watch his life hang in the balance, he doesn’t have the answers either.

A

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Battle

February 10, 2010 in B

By David Stewart

General, I’m afraid the enemy will be here any minute. We’ve lost sir.

Well that is inconvenient. That’s a jolly nuisance I must say. What happened to our lot?

You mean the 19th battalion sir?

That’s the chaps. Weren’t they strategically located between where the enemy was and where we are now?

They’re dead sir.

I say, That’s dashed bad form, weren’t they wearing their cunning disguises?

They were dressed as trees as you ordered.

Well then they should have been damned near invisible.

They were dressed as trees… in a desert.

They should have huddled together to look like a copse.

In accordance with your orders they were dressed as Christmas trees. The enemy shot at the flashing lights.

I thought we could solve the twin dilemmas of camouflage and lack of morale at the same time. Didn’t they seem at all cheery as they died?

No sir.

Oh. And what happened to my secret weapon?

You mean the books about hypnosis sir.

Powerful stuff. My wife’s aunt was cured of smoking thanks to that book.

It’s effectiveness was rather dependent on getting close enough to the enemy to perform the hypnosis.

Yes, now you come to mention it that is rather a shortfall.

That and the fact it only included instructions for the cure of nicotine addiction.

 

Well I thought the lads could improvise. After dissuading the enemy from the smoker’s life they could continue the hypnosis to include not killing us.

Sadly we’ll never know if they were capable of such tactical thinking, what with them all being dead.

Well this is a blow.  And I had such a good victory speech prepared, some lovely passages and really juicy analogies. Oh here’s thought. Perhaps instead of surrendering we could team up?

I’m sorry sir I don’t follow.

Well obviously the enemy is a lot better than us at fighting and not dying while dressed as a festive tree but we hold the upper hand when it comes to writing cracking speeches. So instead of a surrender we offer to become their speech writers. They can do all the killing and I pen their stirring words of a victory.

What you’re suggesting is nothing short of treason and I’m duty bound to shoot you if you attempt it.

Colonel. Come here. Now I want you to look deep into my eyes, you can feel yourself becoming sleepy…

a

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Hands

February 9, 2010 in H

By Jason Geary

Our hands meet.

Finally.

Naturally.

Not forced.

It feels like it was meant to be.

We drift along our way, no destination really. Just moving forward.

Aimless.

Together.

A gentle squeeze tells me everything I need to know. I smile, warmed to my core. I squeeze in reply. I hear her sigh.

It is understood.

Nothing else need be said.

A

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List

February 9, 2010 in L

By David Stewart

Whenever he met someone who was gay he subtly interviewed them and added their interests to his list. There was no scientific evidence to back up the theory but he was sure it held true: Gay people didn’t develop hobbies because they were homosexual, their interests and past times affected their sexuality. The idea was to comprehensively catalogue the hobbies of gay men which would give him a list of activities to avoid. Most had talked about their love of musicals (23 homosexuals) and cooking (19) which was why he never went to the theater and always ordered take away. Bushwalking scored surprisingly high (12) and so he made sure he only ever walked in suburban areas. If he had to venture through bushland he had always jogged until four gay men in a row had told him how much they enjoyed jogging. The one time he’d been in a small section of bushland after that he’d crawled for almost two kilometers. The fact that three gay men had confessed a love of football had upset him until he’d inquired further and reclassified their interest from “Football” to “The Richmond Football team” which allowed him to continue supporting his beloved Magpies while reinforcing a stereotype he’d always believed about Tigers fans. He would spend hours on his list, carefully categorizing, cross referencing and organizing the data into spreadsheets. And then one day his world fell apart:

“So what do you and your partner like to do? What would you say your hobbies are?”

“Oh interesting question. Well the one thing we both adore more than anything else is making lists.”

A

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Score

February 8, 2010 in S

By Jason Geary

Travis had the whole pirate thing down. Scrappy clothes that worked as an ensemble but not individually. Though his look was honed it was by no means pretentious. He had a charm that pushed such thoughts from your mind. You just wanted to be close to him. I laughed at him when he said he was from Neverland, he seemed taken aback.

The music in the club was relentless. Deep drum and bass made to match the heartbeat of the tripping people in the room. Travis looked me in the eye, leaned in and yelled in my ear.  I could barely make out what he was saying over the music. I think he wanted some sort of affirmation. I nodded. Though I was unsure of what I’d just agreed to it seemed to please him. I flashed him the cash in my hand to prove I was ready. Travis reached inside his jacket and pulled out a glowing vial. He palmed it quickly. We shook hands and magically the exchange was complete.  I looked at my fist and it was glowing. He leaned in and yelled something else in my ear again I just nodded. Then he walked away.

In a dark corner of the club I opened my hand to look at the junk.. There she was trapped, glowing and angrily swearing while beating on the lid.

A Faerie. Half a week’s wages.

I tingled with anticipation, as I opened the lid carefully. The air around me was filled with the sound of chimes. Gold dust burst out of the vial and illuminated the darkness I was trying to hide in. A few heads turned but nobody said a thing. They were used to seeing this kind of thing here.

I let the faerie attempt to escape then pinched her between my fingers. She was fierce, swearing at me in some language I could never understand. My mouth was watering. Her screams grew louder as I drew her to my face, only to be silenced when I put her in my mouth. I bit down and felt my mouth go instantly numb. She was bitter, others I’d had were sweet, maybe this time the ride would be different. I could feel her dripping down my throat. My eyes rolled back and I slumped down where I stood. I swallowed as I hit the ground then opened my mouth. In the mirrored wall opposite me I saw my mouth glowing with the remains of the faerie. All gold and beautiful.

“Wow” I said to myself as I felt my body dissolve; “That’s what I look like on the inside.”

A

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Fail

February 8, 2010 in F

By David Stewart

Once I realised the time machine actually worked my first thought was to go back and kill Hitler. I’ve always hated Hitler (I think it’s got something to do with how annoying I find Charlie Chaplin, they do look so alike) so I thought I could go back in time and kill him or at the very least hit him a bit. But I realised it would completely alter the course of history which apparently is bad.  Then I had an idea. If I went back to the bunker in 1945 I could kidnap him just before he killed himself. Then I could bring him back to my time and show him how he was remembered. I thought someone with the ego of Hitler probably died thinking he would be revered as a German hero so it would cause him incredible mental anguish to realise he was hated and ridiculed in the future. The actual kidnapping went off without a hitch (although Eva Braun can really scream when she’s startled) but the problems started when I got him home. I’d hooked up my laptop to a big screen and planned to start by showing him a youtube video of the infamous Hitler Rant, where footage from the film Downfall is subtitled in order to make him look especially foolish. Sadly I clicked on the wrong link and ended up showing him a clip of a young kid trying to throw a cat in a pond but falling in himself. Hitler loved it. I’ve never seen a dictator laugh so much. “Ha! Ze boy tries to throw ze kitty into ze water but falls into ze pond! Sploosh!” He thought it was hilarious and I had to admit I did too. He made me watch it fourteen more times and then begged me to click on a link that promised a video of a kid getting hit in the face by a soccer ball. We spent the next six hours watching funny video clips. Eventually I feel asleep and when I woke up he was gone. He’s out there somewhere now doing god knows what. I occasionally see a comment on youtube that I think is him and I’m pretty sure he’s signed up to reddit but as for his current whereabouts I have no idea.

(Although I could probably ask him since I did accept his Facebook friend invitation.)

a

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Threshold

February 6, 2010 in T

By Jason Geary

My left arm is tingling. Is that a sign of impending heart attack? Or is it the right arm that means heart attack? It’s definitely tingling though. Isn’t this the time I should call an ambulance? That’s what the ads say. Just in case. No. That’s stupid. It’s just pins and needles? I’ll give it a shake. That’ll fix it. There. Shit. Now it’s worse. It’s probably just because the blood is flowing, more blood, more tingles. I’ll massage it. Strange, I can’t feel it when I touch it.  Press harder. It’s dead to the touch. Fuck. Don’t panic. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Get to the phone just in case. Where is it? Kitchen bench next to the coffee machine. What? No. Where are my legs? Move damn you. Shit. I’m pretty sure that hitting the ground that hard should have hurt more. It’s dusty down here. There’s my other shoe under the couch. Get up idiot. Get up. Now there’s pain. In my chest – Horrible constricting pain. It is a heart attack. I’m fucked now. Wow. I never quite thought it’d be that easy to resign myself to death. The cat comes to me and lies down next to my convulsing hand. It’s not scratch time. I want to yell at it to go away but the words don’t come. Only a series of short gargles. I can feel my eyes. From the inside-out building with pressure. In quick succession they pop. Plunging me into darkness. Then the pressure subsides. I still cannot see. I don’t dare to move. It’s comforting to hear the cat purring nearby. Though I’m sure now the convulsing has ceased, it’ll only be a matter of time before she deserts me too.

A

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Letterbox

February 4, 2010 in L

By Jason Geary

Simone pulled into her driveway relieved that the landlord had finally replaced her letterbox. She closed and locked her car and walked to the installation. It was quite a fancy one she beamed to herself. Finally, Karl the Landlord was starting to spend a bit on the place. She even liked the colour, a bold fire engine red. She opened it.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Said a smooth deep voice from inside the letterbox. For a second Simone was at a loss to explain where it was coming from. Then she saw movement… inside the letterbox.

She let the metallic flap drop with a clang as she stepped back in shock.  Her brow furrowed. It was probably just a spider. But there were words. She heard words. She slowly opened the hatch again and a tiny man in satin pyjamas and a red smoking jacket hoisted her mail toward her. “There you go. Sweet cakes.” He said with a wink. The mail hit the ground. Simone just stared. The little man took a comb from his pocket and waved it through his already slick hair making a show of flashing her his pearly whites at her as he did so.

“Would you like a Cocktail? I can make you anything?”

Simone didn’t answer.

The tiny man walked over to an orange bar he’d had installed in the corner. “Let me guess.  G & T?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Am I right? Am I right?” He asked. “ I am Aren’t I?” He winked again.

“Who? … What? … I mean… Who are you?” Was all Simone could muster.

“I’m Alberto. Karl’s little brother. He didn’t mention me? I’ve moved in here. The rent is cheap and the views… “ He said offering her a little gin and tonic with a blown kiss. “…Are spectacular.”

A

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Predictions

February 4, 2010 in P

By David Stewart

Good news! Excellent news! Julius Caesar has just been murdered in the senate!

That’s not good news, that’s a terrible. That’s the single biggest disaster to face the Roman republic in years.

Yes but you’re missing the point woman- the point is I predicted it! One of my predictions has come true!

You didn’t predict that.

Yes I did. Remember we were out buying a hat and you said “Ooh look it’s Caesar” and I said “Beware the Ides of March!” I saw this coming.

If you saw it coming why didn’t you give him a more useful prediction? Why not: “beware senators with knives” or even better: “The following are a list of your colleagues you might think of giving a wide berth for a bit.”

Ooh you know nothing about the way’s of soothsaying.

I tell you what I do know. I know you said beware the Ides of March but as far as I could tell you didn’t say it to Caesar you said it to Mr Marius the fishmonger.

I didn’t! I clearly said it in a deep and booming voice to the Consul himself. Why would I make predictions about fish sellers when I’ve got the greatest man in Rome to predict at?

Then why did you say “Beware the Ides of March and how much is that Mackerel?”

I don’t have to explain the sayings of my sooths to the likes of you woman. I’m the man who predicted the death of Caesar himself. After this people will come flocking to my door to have their fortunes told.

We’ll see, most people around here still haven’t forgiven you for ruining that orgy last year.

The end of the world is a very difficult thing to predict! It’s not my fault people got all panicky about it.

So who did kill him anyway?

Who?

Caesar.

Oh him… Cassius, Cascar, Cimber… and that Brutus chap, the one with the nice cheekbones. I predict big things for that boy.

A

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Rules

February 3, 2010 in R

By Jason Geary

The rules were few though they were set in stone.

No eye contact.

No speaking.

No external stimuli (Reading, Writing or Music.)

This was, after all, a sacred space. A space where over the course of a ten-day stay one could find one’s true self through concentrated introspection. Mediation.

It was breakfast of their seventh day; Angela sat quietly across the courtyard from Leon, as usual. Meal times were the only time they were within sight of each other during the course of the day. Angela couldn’t bare it any more; who’s idea had it been to come to the retreat together? Quality time together segregated. By the end of the week both were flagrantly flaunting the first rule and this is why Angela always sat across the courtyard from Leon.

Without any verbal coordination, they figured that if they spooned their breakfast into their mouths at the same time they could manage the smallest glance without looking as if they were looking. Each fleeting contact made their hearts sing. Every meal, this would happen. Every meal, they would break the first rule, and by doing so break the second. They thought they were getting away with it. Why wouldn’t they, It was perfect. Synchronised eating, who could see through this guise?

What they couldn’t hide was the slight smile that lingered after each look. That was plain as day, for all to see. Thus, they broke the third rule for everybody else.

A

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Connection

February 3, 2010 in C

By David Stewart

Brian didn’t know anybody else on the train.

Stranger One: An older woman. 25 years ago she had called the police to complain about the noise coming from a party Brian had hosted when he was a student. He’d been arrested for marijuana possession.  A few nights later he threw stones at her windows but got the wrong house by mistake.

Stranger Two: A middle-aged man who had written a letter to the newspaper which they’d published that morning. Brian said if he ever met him he’d like to punch him in the face. He once pulled Brian’s mother out of the path of a speeding cyclist and saved her life.

Stranger Three: A middle aged lady. She’d backed into Brian’s car in a Safeway carpark and then driven off. She’d been talking on her mobile phone at the time to a young woman who had rung the wrong number looking for a clothing company she wanted to work for. Brian had come back with his shopping to find a dented fender.

Stranger Four: The middle aged lady’s five year old son. In 12 years he would get Brian’s daughter pregnant. He would not go with her when she terminated the pregnancy. He would spend that night at home having cyber sex with an 18 year old waitress from Oklahoma.

Stranger Five: A young male office worker who answered the telephone in a clothing company. Three nights ago he’d had cybersex with Brian in a chatroom. He told Brian he was an 18 year old waitress from Oklahoma.

Stranger Six: A teenage girl. She’d called Brian by mistake earlier in the week because his number was one digit away from a clothing company she wanted to work for. He thought she sounded frustrated. She would later grow up to work as a nurse. She would hold his daughter’s hand while she terminated her pregnancy.

Stranger Seven: An accountant with the tax office. Later that day he would decide Brian’s taxes needed to be audited. When he was growing up he was terrified by the night someone threw stones at his bedroom window while he was sleeping. Earlier that morning he’d read a letter in the newspaper and told his wife he agreed whole-heartedly and wanted to shake the writer’s hand. Once he’d lost concentration while riding his bike and had nearly hit Brian’s mother.

A

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King

February 2, 2010 in K

By Jason Geary

Outside – In.

A homeless man is sitting on a park bench.  Though his suit is in fact brown it is the type of brown only achieved by wearing it constantly without washing. Spattered with mud and dust collected from his various sleeping places. His worldly possessions are scattered across the bench next to him. A blanket, a paper covered bottle of whiskey, and a swag of knick-knacks and shiny things. He barks drunken incoherence, at the flock of pigeons milling at his feet. They coo back and squabble over the breadcrumbs he throws. Suddenly he reaches to his swag and removes a key. He holds it aloft and yells again. People around give him a wider berth. He throws another handful of breadcrumbs; over his feet this time and the pigeons oblige and quickly rush to his feet and eat.

Inside – Out

His kingdom is expansive. He has chosen a lesser-visited region today and made himself at home. His suit, the finest he could organise with such short notice is the impetus for much conversation amongst his congregation. “I have come with good news my friends.” He liked calling them friends; it brought him down to their level. “Good news indeed. Come closer.” With that he gives the peasants what they most desire; a sprinkling of food. They rush forward and eat as he takes a key from his bag. “This key to the kingdom I bestow on you for your tireless efforts in my name. Eat, and be merry.” With that he scattered more food at is feet they rushed in a kissed his feet as they ate.

A

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Mother

February 2, 2010 in M

By Michelle Nussey

I quip with what I feel is a clear twinkle in my eye and I look up to expecting to see a glint of response in hers. Any twinkle that was there soon takes over and ends in a wet line down her face. A tear.

I am genuinely confused – we’d just been teasing each other a few minutes back. Light hearted teasing. I thought.

Her face crumples and though her reply is a statement it holds questions of her necessity.

The unexpectedness of this leaves me in silence. I look at her. My intention was of jest.

Her quick movements prove otherwise. She breaks our gaze and hurriedly grasps at various things that gave her a reason to be elsewhere. Scampers into my peripheral view and is gone from my sight.

I look at my father whose own questioning veils the relief that he isn’t involved. Is there also need in his eyes? He glances away.

I turn to find my mother standing in the pantry. Arms full of objects that don’t belong there, not moving, her eyes on the industrial sized Glad Wrap.

I call to her. No answer. She is quite still. Bewildered but not surprised, I ask what’s wrong. The voice that tries to null the question is slipping deeper underwater.

I call her over but she is enthralled with the Glad Wrap. Again I call. She responds immediately, relieved.

She fits neatly under my arm as it blankets her shoulders. Her head is on my chest and she is soothed. As if the plan all along was for me to be the one to take care of her.

a

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Apocalypse

February 2, 2010 in A

By David Stewart

“Aaaaand your listening to 3FG the home of classic rock from yesterday and today. This is Dirty Dick Richardson with you until the morning shift get off their arses and come in at 6am which means we’ve got another 3 hours together. I’m still waiting for your calls on tonight’s topic which is Farting and Sex- I know it’s all we seem to talk about on this show but we’ve never done both topics at the same time before. Have you or the person you’ve been with ever let rip while on the job? If so give us a call on 9618 2222… aaaaand I’ve just been handed a piece of paper by my producer…apparently… is this true? This isn’t a joke? Okay according to this note there are what appears to be alien ships in the sky… and weird bug monsters on the ground all over the country… there’s something about lasers… fire breaking out… pandemonium and death… the army being hopeless overwhelmed by superior numbers and firepower… lock yourself inside and don’t come out… well that’s… that’s very… just looking at my producer for further developments but I’m afraid she’s on her phone and in tears so I’m pretty much on my own now. Presumably there’ll be more details at 6am in the first news bulletin of the day and I imagine Rhonda our eye-in-the-sky traffic reporter will have something to say about it as well, especially if it affects city bound traffic. Well I’m not sure how the alien invaders reproduce or if they have gastro-intestinal systems but if any of them have ever farted during sex and can speak English then give me a call on 9618 2222 that’s 9618 2222. Later in this hour JoJo is coming in to give her celebrity gossip report, assuming she’s still alive, and I’ve got Dirty Dick’s Dirty Joke of the week, stay tuned for that it’s an absolute ripper. But first here’s some Nickleback.”

A

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Man

February 1, 2010 in M

By Michelle Nussey

“Scuse me darl. Can you walk on the side darl? So people can walk past you.”

It was uttered humbly and quietly. The voice excusing itself for having to point out the obvious. Carly veered to the right as a man overtook her on the left. He mumbled again. Almost to himself.

“Thanks darl. It’s just courtesy darl. Letting people pass.”

He was a short, sinewed man with a closely shaved head, wearing a faded baggy t-shirt and worn baggy shorts. He powered past her, a look of determination in his eyes. More mumbling, this time inaudible to her except for a couple of ‘darl’s.

He settled into a purposeful stride 15 metres ahead of her. Carly kept walking. She felt what she considered an irrational uneasiness towards him. That he could turn on her at any moment, even in the middle of the afternoon. With a sudden jerk of his arm he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and off his wiry body. Her unease increased slightly. He kept walking ahead of her. Tattoos patterned his upper arms and lean muscles stood tersely on his back with defiant independence. Two particularly taut muscles near the bottom of his shoulder blades pulsed with every step. Probably from holding his arms out from his sides as he walked. Probably to prove how much bigger he was than his diminutive body size. An abrupt change into a run took him a few steps off to the left, where he swiped to grab a small tree branch that lay on the road near the path. He continued his brisk gait and two steps later dropped it on top of a crushed coke can. He slowed to a walk and pushed on. Arms out. Muscles tensed. Eyes determined. A girl in a purple hoodie came from a gate just behind him, turned towards Carly and walked past her. She never even saw this man. He didn’t exist to her. Had Carly stopped at the lights before crossing the street, he wouldn’t have existed to her either.

At the corner the muscled man hardly broke his stride as paced across the street, t-shirt still in hand, purpose still vivid and forceful. Carly turned right towards her house. The man powered on.

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Fashion

February 1, 2010 in F

By David Stewart

Can I help you madam?

Yes you can. This is the most exclusive fashion boutique in the city isn’t it?

Well we like to think-

And every item of clothing here is the latest style?

Our ranges comes straight from the catwalks of Paris, Milan, London and New York.

Can I show you this photo? That’s me at my sister’s 21st. Which means it’s 23 years old now.

And you haven’t aged a day madam.

But the clothes have. Try and look past the hair if you can and just see the dress. What the hell was I thinking?

Well madam, we all make mistakes.

Exactly! It was a mistake. Do you know how long this shop has been here for?

Umm… no. I’ve been working here for two years so…

Well I can tell you it was here 23 years ago when I wanted a dress for my sister’s 21st. And a woman who looked a lot like you, only she was a natural blonde and I think her tits were real, said this dress was perfect for me. The dress that you and I have both decided was a mistake.

Well-

So what I want to know is- was she an idiot and we both made a huge mistake then or did she know what she was talking about and we’re both wrong now?

Times change madam.

So why does your advertising use the slogan: “Timeless elegance?”

Because…

And really what’s changed? What occurred in the last 23 years that made the perfect dress into a mistake? The invention of the internet? Twenty twenty cricket? The death of George Harrison? Was it bringing Doctor Who back? Was that the catalyst that turned me from a fashion goddess into a woman wearing a dress that looks like it was made from Christmas decorations?

Who’s George Harrison?

The point is I want you to have this photograph. I want you to have it so you know what you really do for a living. You might think you sell people the latest fashions but all you’re really doing is giving them outfits their future children can laugh at. Two decades from now every woman you’ve served in the last two years is going to be saying: “What the hell was I thinking?” And someone like you can tell them we all make mistakes.

A

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