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Pink lemons open, with ripe thrusts juice squirts. Open flower, peel skin, sweet smell. Tangerine on green. Black spot. White mould.
Huge ancient tree open to the sky. Look straight up. Trees, leaves, birds, of all kinds. Unkempt branches spread out and up, down almost touching the ground. Damp earth, tiny wild strawberries red on lush green. Prickly leaf rough to the touch, dusty underside. Old rotting limbs, each winter more die back.
Birds sing. Blue sky, scudding clouds and a tiny plane drones behind a spider's web. Spider and plane the one size but the plane escapes the web.
And does the boat glide on, slice through the silence, cut through the black, oily, mirrored lake? Silent arrow, listen with care for swoosh of oar dip, small splash of water before whoosh again… splash, whoosh, splash, whoosh.
The wake stretches back with a gentle plunk, plunk, on the shore. Tiny and round, pebbles on the shore glisten in the moonlight as the waves push and pull, and leave them exposed in the chill night air.
Ragged hills tower up from shadow, naked and heavy in the thin light of the moon. Silent arrow glide eastward out of this night.
Florence eschewed the thought of baking. Never the less she found herself folding her apron and placing it in a drawer, shaking the crumbs from the tea towel onto the grass, and wiping clean the floured bench top. The scones sat cooling on a plate, tall and plump and proud.
Barry’s old truck swung into the front drive, coming to a halt with a protesting screech of metal. Florence smiled as she ran water into the kettle and put it on the stove. The match struck with a hiss and the screen door slammed, as Barry strode into the kitchen.
A box is often a square shape. Being utilitarian in nature, a box will usually have a lid or hatch which may be opened and closed. A container of another shape may also be called a
, as it is the function as well as the shape that denotes the name. Lacking a lid, a shallow container bearing the name
may be better described as a
. However, if the box has a functioning lid, the word “box” will be best understood. A functional box should always be set on the base, normally the opposite side to the lid.
Fielding swore he would end it once and for all. He made his way to the inn through the hateful chattering throng, cursing the day he first set foot in Sparrow Lane.
The inn looked deserted but he knew the occupants were aplenty, amid the smoke and foul, poison air. He pushed open the door causing the bell positioned above to clang above the sudden burst of muffled noise from the throng inside.
In the corner by the fire she sat, eyes twinkling and head tilted toward a lowly bearded cad, straight off a ship by the look of it.
Basking in the mid afternoon sunshine was a favourite pastime of Brenda the cat. Her tail lazily flicked to and fro shooing the recalcitrant flies of summer. This very afternoon her head lolled backward down the top step and she looked at the world upside down. With a flick she righted herself, launched herself into a seated position, and took to licking her back leg with long, slow movements. Slowly the afternoon shadows crept toward her blissful bower. Soon the dog would be home and her sojourn would end with a joyful bark and token chase across the cool lawn.
Wendy felt wonderful but worried she appeared weird in her woolly waistcoat worn with wide pants and wire-rimmed glasses, white wellingtons and wishbone earings. Wendy was weird but didn’t know it. Her workmates went to wild lengths to wangle the secrets of her wardrobe from her, and laughed in secret when Wendy went away. One Wednesday Wendy overheard the wicked words and wept, wounded to the core. Wednesday week Wendy walked in and wasted them all with her walrus-gun, which she had in her wardrobe for years, and thought she would never in this wide world find a use for.
Rain fell softly on the bright green leaves of the willow tree. The branches, heavy with water, hung low and gently swept the ground. It was dark inside the tent of branches and light dappled green through the leaves. The tree grew on a slope by a pretty creek. The rain had fallen for some time and the water ran quickly, gurgling around rocks and reeds.
The little gnome crouched by the water with his fishing rod, frowning. He worried he would catch nothing but a cold. He put his cap on the grass, sat and threw in the line.
Carrying an anvil in the pit of her stomach and a sandbag on each eye she was too tired to sleep. Thirsty and sick, tired puffy and sore. At times like this thoughts of potential personal apocalyptic events open unbidden like pop up windows. What if. Not as young as you used to be. These scary thoughts just as quickly fade. If they didn’t one would go mad, she imagines. Nothing can be done. It is best not to think too much. Prevention is supposed to be better than cure but she is only human and so lives too much.
The road strung out like a rope uncoiled any which way, hot and yellow in the noon sun. It meandered on without any sense of purpose, he thought, not as the crow flies and not a track any sane goat would follow. The rocky surface was rough and hard through his worn out soles. A gate on unsteady hinges sat ajar, an invitation to try his luck at the homestead within. He shifted his pack and sidled through the gap in the unruly string of fence posts. There might be work here, enough to do for a meal or two.
There was something wrong. His shoes crunched on the gravel, each footstep cutting into the eerie silence that hung like a threat. He heard a bang and swung around. A screen door slowly swung open, and then closed with another bang. “Jesus” he said.
He had seen abandoned farm houses before. “Snap out of it,” he told himself, and he made purposefully for the door, trying to ignore the irrational foreboding. He put his hand to the door handle and hesitated, then knocked as he peered through the screen. He called “Hello! Is anyone at home?” He opened the door.
One of the carrots held a grudge against potatoes. Carrots are orange and quite pointy, as far as vegetables go. Being root vegetables they extend down into the earth leaving their green tops exposed and vulnerable to rabbits. Potatoes are brown and lumpy and point in no particular direction at all. They are content to simply balloon outward in the soil. The carrot hated that about the potatoes. Boringly brown, idly expanding in their soft earth hillock, while he worked hard to stretch downward, impotent to stop raids on his green tufted top. “Tubers are such fat bastards”, he said.
He was late getting out with the dog. The sky had been darkening and now a huge bank of black cloud welled up in the south. Hope for the best and go. Getting wet doesn’t matter in this heat.
The dog ran on ahead, stopping to sniff the air. “Smell the rain?” he asked, and cast a worried look to the sky, trying to gauge the speed and direction of the storm.
The rain started to fall in huge drops, kicking up the dusty desert soil. Thunder clapped and the dog skittled sideways in astonishment. He wanted to be home.
Patrick was fifty, and sorting mail was the only job he had ever had. His mind clicked though each address backwards, postcode first. By the time he had reached the top line of an address, he had anticipated what the name would be. If a name was not what he expected he lost his rhythm, and his hand stopped short of putting the envelope into the slot. He put those ones aside, and later would try to guess who the new addressees may be. After his break he would sort these envelopes first and then begin on a new pile.
Thin paper wave follow the wind
Streamer, float and flap
Snap slap tail of a kite
Soar cross and box
wire slash whip snap
Flashing dashing red blue violet gold
Down, down, down
Shudder and dive
Dead bird wrecked
Tangle of wire, cloth
Paper wood paint
Red torn defeat
…run and pull and fly! Fly!
Soar through sea of blue
Over peak and valley
Flaunt at winking sun
Death swift whip wind
String snap kite float silent
Sway fold float fall
To earth to meet
Dead bird wrecked
Tangle of wire, cloth
Paper wood paint
Red torn defeat
His lip curled into a cruel smile as he cornered her in the room. She wanted to laugh. His gappy teeth spoiled the effect of menace and showed a glimpse of the innocent boy she had once known. She felt the wall behind her and frantic, bit her lip, he hated being laughed at.
“Poor little bird” he put his hand behind her head and drew closer. “No where to fly.” His hand tangled in her hair, he pulled her head back and slowly ran his tongue across her neck, from ear to ear. Her hysteria turned into naked fear.
The milk truck delivered the daily pint to the top of the long drive. When she stopped at Nan’s, Nan also ordered a little bottle of strawberry milk for her. It was the best taste in the world, and a treat for no apparent reason. She would run up to get the milk and run back, leaping in delight. Maybe Nan had the pink milk every day for herself and missed out when her little guest was there. She felt magic, hearing the warbling of magpies in the cool morning air and the butterfly-tummy feeling of being away from home.
What a time to be bringing a child into the world, sitting for hours, watching the strange blurred flashes of light from the muted explosions of a televised war. What a time to have nothing to do but wait for this new life to come into the world. It is both frightening and exciting. There is a dread of immanent apocalypse, extinction of yourself, your child.
The baby finally arrives, and in the small private world of birthing there is no room for this lounge room war, until one of the mothers asks “has anyone heard what’s happening in Iraq?”
My place is full of hairs of the dog and hairs of the cat. They don’t live in the house. They come in once a day to hair the place up. I managed to not vacuum for a whole year. It was not hard. The vacuum does not run itself. There is no carpet, I swept and mopped. Unlike others in the neighbourhood who use a sucker or blower or cutter or grinder of some description on a daily basis, each day being allocated its own noise-making device. The leaf blower is my favourite. That happens on bin day, Friday.
The ship has been on its lonely journey many years. She pirouettes with the current and at the whim of the wind, no hand at the wheel. The ashen bleached sails hang in tatters, through years of violation by water and salt and sun. The creaking timbers will soon rot through.
Below the pitiless heat and sway the ocean bed lies cool and inviting. Weary of this living death, she longs to sink to the ocean floor where she will welcome the slow encroachment of shifting sand that will make her at one with her lover, a bride of Neptune.
Try as she might she could not find the answer to the question that had plagued her her whole life. She searched in books and on the Internet. She asked family and friends and new acquaintances. She wrote letters to the editors of newspapers. She posted on blogs and started her own blog. Her knowledge grew vast but she was still unable to answer the question she was afraid was unanswerable. She wrote it in chalk on the footpath like Eternity. She grew famous in her eccentricity and knew that if an answer existed it would one day find her.
The lead car screeched around a bend in the race track, its back wheels leaving the road and sending up a billowing cloud of dust. Another car followed close behind, taking the same off road path though the dirt. The car in third place shot from the screen of dust unprepared for the curve and spun around, back wheels skidding sideways as the driver fought to keep four wheels on the road. Travelling sideways the tyres screamed in protest before the front again swung around and the car fishtailed back onto the track, missing the spectator’s barrier by inches. Phew.
It is very late and I would like another cup of tea. My shoulder aches from spending too much time on the computer. My desk and chair could not be less ergonomic. The chair is too low and is not adjustable. The keyboard is flat and I prefer it to be higher at the back. The cat, well the cat is just lying there next to the keyboard, nothing to do with my predicament of discomfort. I have bitten one of my nails, for no reason, and I regret it. I have ten words to go to make one hundred.
Sunlight makes inroads across the window, soft and dappled through the big leaves of a tree outside the veranda. This first part of the morning is the only time the sun brings to sparkling life the coloured glass panels in the window. The cat jumps up on the window sill and sits prettily behind the curtain, golden coat bathed in soft pink, green and yellow light. A glass bowl glows amber on the sill next the cat. The cat looks out the window for a while and listens to birds chirping, then jumps on the bed to sleep all day.
What is love? Is it a chemical addiction to a feeling? Does it really matter if it cannot be defined as it is just a part of being human? What happens when love sweeps all up before it and becomes bigger than the sum of the whole? When it takes on a life of its own and then destroys itself? And when it does not die but shrinks down to a small forgotten point in the heart. Even when love turns to hate it still has love as the core. Death of the body is the only death of love.
Australia Day what does it mean? Set up in the park in the morning of tents and arenas for a big family day out. Ah, that is what the noise was. Heard fireworks last night but they are so prevalent in today’s Sydney for whatever reason and this area in particular I no longer take any notice. In the late afternoon assorted people walk from a celebration somewhere, sporting an Australian flag tattoo and a carrying a red balloon on a stick. I get sunburned because I am still not prepared for the sun after all these years in Australia.
Ah moan tired. But day off tomorrow oh yay. What we need is some boogie woogie. But not right now. Right now we need some sleepy. Pies can hide anything. One needs copious amounts of trust to eat a pie. Why do these effing windows open up all the time in XP? Better than ME ‘encountering a problem’ and then will ‘restart windows for you’. Gee thanks. Back to the pies. I don’t think I will ever eat one again or for a week whichever comes first. I don’t eat them anyway, fuck it I’ll just not eat one again.
Johnny liked his new head of wild jet-black hair, but felt his head itch under the wig. It wouldn’t suit everyone, especially the white skunk stripe. He turned his head a little to the right to check his profile. He was a damned good looking man, but not being vain he turned back to face the mirror square on. He couldn’t not be in character when dressed for a part. He drew his brows together and scowled, bared his teeth and barely moved his lips as he tossed out a line in low Cockney. He smiled, it would be fun.
“Was it your nemesis?” Ah, no. I hate it when I open the door and it is him. I go slitty-eyed and he puts his head back and goes bug-eyed under his cap behind his glasses. In mono-syllables we conduct the exchange. I get the pizzas. He gets the twenty bucks. He does not offer my change. I can’t bear it and so always have the correct nineteen ninety five, if I can. He slinks off and I close the door. Since I’ve been paying by credit card he’s as happy as Larry. Why this is so, I can’t imagine.
Every day lived is another day closer to death. Every day is one day closer to the edge of the abyss, to the edge of the known and the beginning of the unknown. Some believe in a better place but strangely not want to leave this one, and remain fearful. There is fear of one’s own demise, one’s disappointing lack of immortality. Some believe the end is the end and how can that give any comfort? The end is the end. Something ends. Something else begins. Something else is at its middle. It is the way of the world. Amen.
Her nakedness in the sulfurous light lay green, her hair tinged blood-red. She bared teeth delicately pointed, and snarled at nothing but the darkness beyond. The black drapes at the entrance to her lair twitched and her eyes darted toward the disturbance. She arose from her bed and strode to the curtain, taloned hands snatching at the tattered drapes and pulling them apart. She was stopped short by the chain attached to the collar at her throat reaching to the back wall of her prison. Her master would not allow her a free meal. She threw the curtain closed and
The Tip Jar