narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One by narrator AUSTRALIA
~~~
The next morning followed the same pattern as the previous day. Melanie groaned as she tumbled out of bed, still tired from lack of sleep. It was the last straw when the doorbell rang, and she opened the door in her dressing gown.
‘Yes?’ she asked curtly, in no mood to exchange pleasantries with an early morning caller, even if he was impeccably dressed in suit and tie.
‘What kind of a greeting is that? At least I invited you in, when you knocked on my door.’
Melanie gave the stranger a blank look, and was about to shut the door when she looked into his eyes.
‘Scott?’
‘None other.’
‘Oh, my God, what have you done to yourself? You look so different.’ His face was clean shaven, his hair properly groomed, and his whole demeanour was that of a young executive.
Melanie was suddenly conscious that she herself must look like a frump.
‘Are you going to invite me in?’
Melanie stepped aside to let him pass.
‘I take my coffee black, no sugar,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ she led the way into the kitchen and proceeded to make the coffee. Everything seemed surreal to her.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this, but your visit yesterday was a wakeup call to me. I have decided to reclaim my old life. I noticed you were not wearing rings, so I presume you’re unattached. I thought if I had you by my side, I could start again. I’m not asking you to make a life changing decision right now, that is something I will have to earn, but I’d love to have you with me, as I make the journey back to the top.’
Melanie was now convinced her world had gone completely mad. All within the space of a couple of days she went from eviction, to a barely liveable apartment, to sharing an exciting adventure with a man whose life she might even consider sharing.
‘If it means getting away from your noisy mates,’ she said, smiling, ‘you can put me down as your travelling companion.’
Sunday 13 May 2012
Repast
Barry McGloin
Holder, ACT
Marie Henrietta De Montfort was a witch. Had been for sixty-five of her eighty years. In the nonchalance of youth she had kissed the devil’s bum, made the pact and enjoyed certain favours which still danced in her memory when she was disposed to recall them. Her gifted powers, which had supported her in the royal courts of Europe, remained; but the purse-lipped puritans now burned and hammered their joyless doctrines onto the door of destiny. Thus she fled the faggots of disclosure and disgrace lit by the whores of righteousness, le mob amok.
A nifty little scoop sailed by a spellbound captain deposited her on Erin’s fat green shores after a night of being tossed around like a turnip on the Irish Sea. The Dutch captain had duly demanded his tithe, and with his hand between the thighs of an eighteen-year-old beauty, suddenly found his lips were sucking those of an eighty year old wobbegong whose tongue was down his throat. In fact, it was reaching to his entrails and melting his medallions. It is said that his scream was heard in Scotland.
Marie Henrietta De Montfort was in great spirits after that, and skipped off down a country lane bordered by a rocky wall on one side and a hedge on the other. She was a sprightly old thing and, glad to be off the boat and alive in an Irish morning, was whistling away to herself. But she wasn’t much of a whistler and disturbed a cow in the field who droned a long brown complaint to her fellow beasts, ‘Will you get a load of the tuneless old trollop, she could earn a living as a scarecrow, wha?’ Although true, it was imprudent. Marie was able to interpret the Gaelic moo, and cracked the little finger on her left hand. The cow – who was Philomena O’Donahue – shot over to Sligo like a methane rocket. Phiiiiiiiiizzzzzphuuuuuuuttt. Folks who spotted it crossed themselves, exclaimed ‘Holy Cow’, and said it was a sign to be sure, an important portent.
Marie Henrietta De Montfort jumped up, clicked her heels with a flash of blue, started another tune and skipped onward. Along the way she exploded a pig who had dared to give her a wolf whistle.
‘’ow dare you’ she said, ‘you cheeky Irish pig. Je suis une grande dame. Paysan.’
A cart pulled by a donkey came hurtling down the lane heaving dust behind. Marie jumped aside, cracked her finger and a cartwheel fell off, toppled the donkey and expelled the occupant. Jumbo McManus had been loaded onto the tray early that morning due to a chronic indisposition which afflicted him mercilessly at O’Halloran’s pub each night. He was sleeping his way to his darlin’ wife, Thin Annie. Jumbo was uninjured but understandably peeved.
‘Hey you, Baggins, did ya see what happened?’
‘Je suis Marie Henrietta De Montfort, of French aristocracy. You, Monsieur, are a drunken paysan, not fit for pig swill. I dropped the wheel from your cart.’
‘Yeah? An’ I’m Oliver friggin’ Cromwell, Your Great Pomposity. If you don’t be civil I’ll kick yer arse.’
Now, a strange thing happened as Marie’s hands came together, for the crack … There was a rustle in the hedgerow and out popped a wee woman wearing rustic garments.
‘Ah you must excuse Jumbo, my Ladyship. His heart’s in the right place, but the tongue’s inclined to wander. Welcome to our shores. ’tis rare we have a grand lady such as yourself come a-visiting.’ The wee woman waved Jumbo away.
‘Will you be stayin’ long at all?’
‘At all. At all. Will I be staying long? I will stay as long as it pleases me to stay. So far I ’ave suffered only displeasure. The natives coarse, the animals rude. A lack of breeding afflicts this country.’
‘Well now, Your Ladyship, we’ll see if we can improve matters. We have a wee game we play with new arrivals, sort of getting to know you, it’s a guessing game.’
‘Marie Henrietta De Montfort does not play guessing games in the countryside with ugly old peasants.’
‘But we’re two grand women together, you and me, eh, no-one around, middle of nowhere, let’s amuse ourselves. It’s easy. You see that pond over there, off the stream. How many trout is in it?’
An exasperated Marie cracked her finger and a bolt of blue flashed and fifteen stunned trout floated to the surface.
‘Fifteen I believe.’
‘By jingoes you’re a dab hand at this game missus – sorry – Your Excellency. Dem trout look splendid so they do. I’ve a hunger on me t’would fill a horse trough.’
‘Mmmm, j’ai faim aussie.’ And Marie cracked her finger again, and a skillet and spatula landed on the bank of the pond, followed by slabs of butter, two heads of garlic, peeled, sprigs of dill, parsley, six lemons, silver plates, a bottle of Legende Bordeaux White uncorked, two silver goblets and a salt and pepper shaker. In a moment a fire was crackling and the trout were sizzling, and the two old dears, seemingly ravenous, devoured the lot in thirty minutes. A nearby apricot tree, replete with plump ripe fruit, provided excellent dessert.
They lay there, sated, on the soft fragrant grass by the side of the stream, and divested their garments so the sun could play its warm golden fingers on their fat white bellies. And a fine tune it was with the stream picking up the rhythm and the breeze singing through the trees; perfect.
The wee Irish woman remarked to herself, ‘Rosheen, that was best meal I had in me life bar none.’
Marie agreed. ‘Tres magnifique! Eh bien … Rosheen, you know what they grant a condemned prisoner?’
‘I do, sure I do … What’s that?’
‘The best final meal … ’
‘I’m with you, sure I am.’
‘Ma cher, a witch requires much sustenance and I confess I am peckish again. One of my favourite dishes is slow roasted mature peasant … stuffed with trout … and apricot.’
And with that she cracked her finger.
But nothing happened.
Rosheen gazed at her with still, dark eyes.
‘And you remember our pact, Jacqueline Bidet, when you were fifteen.’
&nbs
Autumn Love
Linda Callaghan
Bullaburra, NSW
Let’s go sit, just you and me,
under the shade of the big old tree.
Witness the leaves fall gently to the ground,
and cuddle closer to the Autumn sounds.
Together we will wait as the rays shine through,
warm and soft with golden hues.
Time for a season’s page to turn,
Spring will disappear as Autumn burns.
We can talk of good times that have come and gone,
arm in arm where we belong.
Remembering memories happy and sad,
content in the knowledge there is more to be had.
Monday 14 May 12 noon
Beyond The Glass
Tracey Smith
Sawtell, NSW
It is, to that I’m pointing
Just there, beyond the glass
A darling little boy
His fingerprints, to last
I remember, when he gave it
The year, that he was four
A day, that I will carry
With me, forever more
A memory, I shall cherish
Just there, beyond the glass
The sweetest little boy
His life, it did not last
I remember, when I nursed him
And how he was, so smart
A small and dark haired, little boy
To me, he gave his heart
A gift, that I shall treasure
His memory, sure to last
His fingerprints, forever more
Just there, beyond the glass
As I look back now, and over time
How hard it is, I strive
To stem the flow, of all the tears
The year, that he was five
Yet here he sits forever
Just there, beyond the glass
A life no more, however
His finger prints, to last
For all of five, short happy years
He was, God’s gift to me
Still clearly now, within my mind
His image, I can see
Though years are gone, and he’s no more
Still one thing’s, sure to last
A tear stained print, his gift to me
Just there, beyond the glass
Tuesday 15 May 2012