Her mother was here again, in the corner, pen in hand. Katarina cast a brief glance over her shoulder, looked directly at Jennifer and, without expression, turned her back on her daughter again.
“Are you kidding?” Jennifer said.
The Breakthrough Room evaporated and Jennifer found herself on a patch of grass in front of a State building whose architecture was clearly North Ameregion in style. Against the white walls of the Town Hall, the words ‘San Francisco, 1977, Disabled Rights Sit-In’ appeared. That word again. Disabled.
Suddenly, she was flanked on all sides by wheelchairs and placards and before she could react, vinyl strained against her back and thighs, and the rough wooden post of a placard scraped against the inside of her palm. She was one of the protestors. Jennifer tried to shift in her wheelchair, but her legs refused to comply. She prodded her thigh with her free hand but could feel nothing of her own touch. Her legs were lumps of ice. A chant rose around her, “What do we want?” The crowd moved slowly toward the imposing gates of the Town Hall.
“Disabled rights!”
“When do we want ’em?”
Jennifer raised her placard and joined the call.
“Now!”
Without warning, the splintered wood turned cold in her hand and she was standing once more.
Jennifer was in another clinical room. She looked down at what was now a sharp metal spike in her hand. The irritation of a calico surgical mask scraped her cheekbones and she could feel the heat of her own breath inside the mask. She knew what she was looking at this time.
Beyond the icepick in her hand, lay a patient on a surgical table. Across the patient’s body, the words ‘Walter Freeman, Lobotomist, 1940’s’ appeared and then faded as the implement in Jennifer’s hand moved, lining itself up with the patient’s eye. She had heard of this atrocity from the old world. Walter Freeman was an experimental psychologist from Pennsylvania whose ice-pick lobotomies scrambled the frontal lobes of schizophrenics, psychotics and even depressives.
Her own two fingers reached forward and pried open the patient’s eyelid. Jennifer watched in panic as the pupil flitted from side to side. The metal spike rested on the soft, wet flesh of the tear duct and her fingers adjusted the eyelid further to allow for its passage. It was not possible, she could not do this to another human. How could anyone have done this? The icepick found its angle and Jennifer cried out as her hand pushed it into the patient’s tear duct. Then the world transformed around her again.
Jennifer Grove found herself in Babylonia, and she fought to compose herself. She was shunted from the desolate misery of children’s cells in Berlin to a mass grave behind an old Sydney asylum. Her eyes streamed with tears, the needless shame of endless decades crushing her. Then Jennifer arrived at a scene of enormous jubilation, tickertape and roaring crowds; the 2012 London Para-Olympics, and she smiled through the tears. It was the first time in history the disabled had been called Superhumans and the shift in the collective consciousness had been a permanent one. Her heart rejoiced when she was transported to the signing of the Antonucci Declaration almost a century ago in 2043, a day that had changed the world for the parabled forever. It had been the birth of the kinder, more just world. She careened through the openings of Institutes worldwide, she saw education and workplaces change, she lingered to watch governments implement laws to safeguard parabled rights for perpetuity and her heart soared.
Then, as smoothly as it had begun, Jennifer was once more standing before a four-metre high, ten-metre wide wall and the exhibition was at its end. In the centre of the wall this time, was a door. It was slightly ajar, and above it, large letters glowed in glittering blue, “Parability: A New World”.
Jennifer gathered her balance and stepped off the disc through the door. She was back in the world that saw her for who she was, not ‘what she had’, and she had never felt more grateful.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: DEANNE Seigle-Buyat is a Gold Coast based writer who’s lived most of her forty-six years on Australia’s East Coast. She is a member of the Queensland Writers Centre and the writing group Scribes United. Her other works can be found in anthologies by Stringybark Publishing including A Nice Boy, Red Gold and Timber!
Cicada by Maggie Veness
ALI DOESN’T WANT TO be a stupid moron, it’s just that when she tries to communicate, a thick white noise like cotton-wool fills her head and only a syllable or two can escape. Gran told her she was born that way; told her nothing short of a darn miracle was gonna change her into a girl with a proper brain; told her the one consolation was that critters liked her.
After the Tall Men came in the night and took her older sister, Ali had lingered by the bedroom window and seen something shiny and cone-shaped flash across the sky. Next morning, when she couldn’t explain where Karina had gone, her father whacked the side of her head with his leather belt and sent her to the far paddock where the water fowls flap around on the dam; told her not to come back ‘til sundown. She’d sat by the dam all day in her little singlet and shorts, toes squelching in ochre mud, petting the water dragons and kingfishers that came by to drink.
Ali hoped the Tall Men would never return her sister. The day before she’d disappeared, Karina had burnt herself on the iron and come after her, yelping like an injured dog. When she’d caught Ali, she’d slammed her to the floor—her chin hitting the bare boards with a hollow crack—then sat on her thin, brown back, screwing her knuckles into the tender place below her shoulder blades. “Stupid moron!” Karina had yelled. “Why’d I hafta git a sister with a brain that don’t work!”
The next night, dressed in a cotton nightdress, Karina had drifted away between the Tall Men, as calm as a sleepy rattlesnake, bare feet floating well above the boards. Ali hadn’t felt at all frightened of the Tall Men. Their spindly, white limbs reminded her of the stark branches of the ghost gums she loved to climb during winter. Kneeling on her bed, she’d pressed her forehead to the window and watched their swift departure—the Tall Men shimmering and Karina’s long, pearly hair reflecting the light of the full moon ‘til they passed over the cow-pen in the side paddock. Moments later they’d vanished over the rise, and then the shiny cone shape flashed away. After that, the night went back to being ordinary, besides a curious, lingering smell that reminded her of the smouldering hay-bale that took a lightning strike last winter.
She’d waited by the window for the longest time, but nothing else happened, so she’d slid down between the calico sheets, curled onto her side to face Karina’s empty bed, and cupped a palm against her swollen jaw. Unable to chew, she’d only had milk for supper and hadn’t realised ‘til now how hungry she was. Drawing up her knees, Ali hugged her legs to soothe her rumbling stomach. She wondered how far away the Tall Men’s sky-farm was and what type of chores her sister might have to do. In her imagination, all the critters up there were coloured shimmering-silver. Ali sighed and closed her eyes. She’d figured the Tall Men didn’t want stupid morons, but she still fell asleep dreaming her bed was the one left empty.
FOUR MONTHS LATER, Mama was on the veranda fanning herself with a piece of cardboard—her gaze fixed on the far end of the driveway—while Ali played beneath the front steps filling an old pickle jar with cicada shells. Cicadas were her favourite critters. Last summer she’d been lucky enough to spy a live one on a twig. Mesmerised, she’d watched the casing split open and a new, pale body emerge to unfurl its gossamer wings and begin its shrill call.
“Mark me words, girl,” said Mama from her wicker chair above Ali’s head. Ali froze. Mama never spoke to her unless she was in trouble. “Karina’s gonna show up one day soon with a belly full’a baby an’ some pimple-face farmhand in tow. Clever little thing’s comin’ back awright. Jist a matter’a time.”
Ali wasn’t sure what she was meant to do, so she climbed to the top step on all fours and held her jar up like a prize. “Carrr-da,” she said, and let her tongue play over her chin. Mama peered into her dull, green eyes and gave her a look that sa
id the wrong daughter went away.
From the far end of the driveway came the squeal of the postman’s dusty brakes. As well as carting water to the animals and mucking out the cowshed and pigpen each day, it was Ali’s job to collect the mail. This morning she skipped the entire three hundred yards barefoot over the rough, brown stones with her precious jar clamped to her chest. Every day Mama expected the cow-shaped letterbox to contain a letter from Karina, but Ali could only imagine such a letter falling from the sky—and then only if the Tall Men happened to be zooming past directly above their farmhouse and if her favourite wedge-tailed eagle didn’t swoop down and snatch the letter in his talons and fly back to his nest of sticks in the high fork of the tree across the gully. Finding the letterbox empty, she checked the sky for shiny cones and eagles but didn’t see any.
While Mama was busy shelling broad beans and keeping watch down the driveway, Ali moseyed around to the back door and slipped inside to hide her jar at the bottom of her wardrobe alongside the small torch Gran had given her. Later that night, like most nights following Karina’s sudden departure that summer, she’d be free to line her cicada shells up along the narrow windowsill and admire each filmy, brittle shell.
IT WAS THE MORNING of Karina’s sixteenth birthday, and the dead of winter. Ali was outside puffing white breath and lugging pails of water to the pig’s trough when she heard a sudden unholy racket coming from the house. Scurrying inside, she found Mama in the kitchen on her knees with her head deep inside one of the cupboards, all manner of pots and jam tins and baking dishes being tossed out across the hardwood floor. Ali thrust her freezing hands into her overcoat pockets and crouched, wide-eyed, in the doorway. After producing a nest of round, aluminium cake tins, Mama set about measuring, sifting, mixing, cracking eggs, beating and beating ‘til her face was red, then finally dividing the thick, yellow batter into five tins. While the cakes were baking, she cleared the mess and washed the dishes. A sweet, vanilla smell filled the house, and Ali stuck out her watery tongue hoping to catch some flavour. With the tins cool, Mama covered her largest serving plate with tinfoil. Selecting a long, serrated knife, she carefully split each cake into three, then trimmed the edge off every layer to make each one slightly smaller than the last.
Ali watched in awe as Mama began assembling a multi-tiered masterpiece. Once the tiniest layer was in place, she emptied four bags of icing sugar into a bowl and swiftly blended in a cup of hot water. After smothering the entire structure with glossy, white icing, she decorated each layer with a row of tiny silver balls, then plunged a stout, silver Christmas candle into the summit. The finished product—a hybrid birthday-wedding cake standing two feet tall if you counted the candle—was carefully set down in the centre of the kitchen table where the chill winter air quickly hardened the viscous icing.
Mama wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper, took two steps back, and folded her arms. Scrambling to her feet for a better view, Ali drew in a sharp breath and pointed at the cake. Mama had made a replica of the shiny cone Karina had departed in. “K-rrrrina!” she announced, and began jumping on the spot and flapping her hands.
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Damn right it’s Karina’s. An’ so help me God, if I catch ya anywhere near ‘er cake, you’ll git ya father’s belt ‘round ya stupid legs,” she snarled, and marched out to the verandah. Dropping back down onto her haunches, Ali listened to the rhythmic slap of damp skin that always came from between Mama’s ample thighs, then scurried back outside to finish filling the pig’s trough. Bundled up inside a brown, woollen blanket, Mama kept watch down the driveway from her wicker chair for the rest of the day.
Although the cake remained untouched, Ali knew better than to expect a piece after supper. Come bed-time, Mama removed the candle and covered the cake with an overturned box. Herding Ali into her bedroom, she flicked off the light and slammed her door so hard the windowpane rattled. Ali dropped down to peek through the crack under the door. Within seconds, every light in the house was out.
Moving quietly inside the moon-lit room she retrieved her torch and jar, then sat cross-legged by the window and unscrewed the lid, eager to make another convoy of delicate shells. Ali loved the hush of night-time. Now and then she’d cup her hands against the window and peer outside. She liked watching the gums and wattle trees sway in the wind. Beyond them, the distant hills drew a familiar, black silhouette against the wide, starry sky. Although the land appeared to be sleeping, she knew the bush was alive with fossicking night-critters—dung beetles, termites, and slaters beneath fallen logs; ants, centipedes, and fat, wriggling earthworms, all working to turn the soil. Eventually she grew weary. Packing up her shells, she shimmied down and fell asleep with the jar in the crook of one arm.
Around midnight, Ali woke from a dream about a smouldering hay-bale and opened her eyes to see the Tall Men hovering by her bed. When she blinked the scene into focus and realised Karina was suspended between them, a sharp pang speared her belly. Swinging her feet over the side, she hugged her jar and watched as her sister was lowered onto her bed. Ali saw that she was wearing the very same nightdress and that her shoulders were slouched. When she recalled how angry Karina could get she began to tremble.
The Tall Men turned toward Ali, each extending a stringy, iridescent arm. Without hesitation, she set the jar down beside her, stood, and reached out with both hands. A ticklish tremor as faint as butterfly wings ran up her arms and she felt herself relax. As her toes left the floorboards she felt a strange pressure—like a warm rubber ring—encircle her ankles. This pressure began rolling upward, over her shins and knees at first, then her thighs, hips, and ribcage. Edging over her shoulders, it continued up over each vertebrae of her neck, the sensation only stopping when it reached the base of her skull.
Ali’s head suddenly pitched backward and a protracted, hissing breath escaped her throat. The white noise inside her head grew louder until her eardrums thundered and roared with a sound far worse than any storm she’d ever known. And then, like a cicada breaking free of its shell, the membrane covering her brain split open to reveal a shiny, new mass.
When she lifted her head, her green eyes were twinkling and her arms were glistening like gossamer wings.
“Oh, my! Thank-ya! My-oh-my! Did ya hear me say that? I can talk an’ all! Thank-ya!” she cried, overjoyed to hear all the lovely words she was speaking. “Will ya be takin’ me back home? I be a very good girl. Please say ya will.”
When she realised she was already gliding with them toward the door Ali beamed and glanced back over her shoulder to farewell her sister. Karina’s knees were tucked up beneath her nightdress and her bottom jaw was hanging loose.
“Tell Gran I got me a darn miracle,” Ali whispered, “An’ could ya look after them pretty cicada shells?”
“Carrrr-da,” Karina said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: MAGGIE Veness realised a while back that fiction was easier to live with than fact. People do drugs, lie, die, cheat, abuse, and go bonkers. Look no further than your own family. All that craziness and angst needs an escape-route. Her stories get to the mad heart of things, which isn’t always comfortable. From flash to novella length—the vast majority print-published—Maggie’s award winning fiction has appeared in many countries in a range of eclectic literary journals and anthologies. She feels lucky to be Australian.
Green Grapes Red by Roger Patulny
THE HOT ORANGE WIND blew the door open and tilted the sunglasses stand. Joel raced round the counter and caught its bulk across his big green, uniformed stomach just before it hit the ground. Black plastic glasses scattered through the angled aisles. He slowly righted the stand.
“Nice catch,” a smiling woman called out with a whistle. Frizzy blonde hair, happy, lined face, and clad in lycra.
A long-distance bike rider, she had stopped for a Powerade. And cigarettes.
“Thanks,” he called back. “That bloody door. Blows open every sunset.”
“Every sunset?”
“Yeah, at the moment. It’s the heat. The stinking day ends, and the wind picks up.” He chuckled. “All this crap blows in. Leaves. Ants. Birdshit. Smoke. Ash, right now. Stuff from the bins.”
“Me?” the woman laughed.
“Huh. Yeah, you blew in.” He smiled. “I’ll try not to worry.”
Ten minutes later, they stood out on the Highway, sharing a cigarette. They stared at the yawning grape fields to the west. Pink clouds hung in puffs and gasps above the brilliant, darkening fields, catching the setting sun, and the breeze shook the leaves and the twisted, leathery limbs of the vines beneath the bird nets; withered dryads waving old, dark, summer hair. The cicadas started up their throaty, piercing song, louder than a car alarm, deafening in the bush-quiet.
To the east, across the highway, the glow behind the eucalypts was brightening, and the drifting pall of smoke through the trees was growing heavier. The hot orange air did not seem to be softening.
“You see the earth over there?” Joel asked, pointing westwards, while absently stroking circles on his belly. He patted his stomach, as though it were filled up with good sweet things. “It’s pretty average soil. You know that?”
“Nope,” the woman replied. Her name was Janine. She was from the city. “I grow everything back home. Tomatoes, eggplants, everything. Soil’s great in the city, all lovely and fertile.”
“Not here,” Joel rumbled. “Only scrubby native stuff grows. Gum trees, shrubs. And grapes.” He stabbed a finger towards the vines. “Grapes are great. You can grow them in shitty dirt if you pick the right type of grape. Sand, clay, it’s all good. You should see over there. The grapes are huge. Big as eggs, sometimes.”
Stories of Hope Page 8
