The Trouble with Sydney By Cath Barton
Muriel called me from the bottom of the garden. “Your Great Auntie Ethel's on
the phone,” she yelled. “Sydney's had a stroke.” Ruddy Sydney. He was always
causing mayhem, especially with the way he talked, swearing all the time and
upsetting people. Uncharitably, I thought maybe him having a stroke was a
good thing.
I was halfway through pruning the bushes, my glasses all steamed up and
sweat running into my eyes. I was not best pleased to be disturbed and I did
not want to talk to Great Auntie Ethel, who was going to be feeling upset.
“Okay, okay. Tell her I'm coming,” I shouted back.
Ethel says she’s so worried and will we come up? Sydney's able to stand, but
“He’s all at an angle and a twist,” that was how she put it. Like your church
spire, I thought, but I didn’t say, because she was in such a state she wouldn’t
have appreciated the analogy. Ethel lives in Chesterfield, the place with the
crooked church spire. I don't know anything else about it because when we go
to visit it takes four hours to get there and we have to run around getting her
lunch and money from the Post Office and seeing to Sydney, so there's no time
to go sightseeing. Muriel and I have promised ourselves that one day we will.
But there'll probably have to be a funeral before that happens, and we
shouldn't be morbid.
Muriel said it was ridiculous, to go all that way just because of Sydney. “I
know,” I said, “you're right, but that's not the way Ethel sees it. She's the last
of that generation and she's always been good to me.” Muriel went off,
muttering about what she'd like to do to Sydney, and I went back to my
pruning till tea-time, when we had a calm little talk and decided we'd go.
So we went. Off bright and early, and it was a lovely sunny day for a ride,
which was a mercy given the distance. I could see Ethel peeking round her net
curtains as we pulled up. She must have put on a turn of speed to get to the
door, because normally she took ages. But there she was, flinging it open
before we'd even got out of the car. “He's worse today,” she announced,
without so much as a hello. “Look at him.” Sydney was a pathetic sight. As
Ethel had said, he was off balance and uncharacteristically quiet. “I don't think
he'll last the day,” she proclaimed. “Oh, don't be pessimistic,” I said. “Your
Sydney's a survivor.”
We made lunch, and did the Post Office run and all the other stuff we normally
do for Ethel, and when we left Sydney was looking a tiny bit perkier, though he
still wasn't saying anything.
Back home four hours later we rang Ethel. She was weeping. Turned out
Sydney had dropped dead just after we left. Ruddy budgie.
Fresh Start By Clive Martyn
His fat white belly rose and fell slowly with each whining snore. He was
covered in hair, sticky, matted with both their sweat. She lay on the bed
propped up on one hand, watching him sleep, disgusted, revolted. She knew
she had reached an all-time low with this one. He was one of the worst. She
was desperate to shower, to be clean again but knew if she got out of bed,
he would wake up and she would probably be forced to pleasure him again.
She shuddered at the thought.
The taste of him was still in her mouth; stale cigarettes, cheap alcohol and
something under that which was far more disturbing.
Some days she really hated her job; not that she had a choice. She glared
up at the ceiling.
“Come on!”
Slowly, beneath his skin, the tangled mess of his soul slowly appeared.
Veins and arteries glowing, interconnected, pulsating. In the dim light of the
bedroom the majority shone bright red, with patches of grey, black and faint
small areas of green.
Arieleth shook her head. She had never seen a soul in such a terrible state –
years of hate, fear, anger had taken the man’s soul and mangled it into
something monstrous. There was very little to save, but Arieleth was an
expert. Confident that he wouldn’t now wake, she got off the bed and took
her scalpel from her bag. The sharp blade shone in the moonlight as she
made the first cut – a girl in the sixth grade who had mocked his fumbling
affections. She picked up the long thin red strip of memory and put it in the
bin.
Next she removed the times he had been bullied, and the times he bullied
others. She stripped the fights, the arguments from him. Lies, affairs and broken oaths. Dark patches of true sin, she cut into tiny pieces, and wearing her gloves tipped them into the bin as well.
It took over an hour to remove every inch of negativity, every second of
failure from his soul. When she had finished, he was mostly bare, with only
a few precious patches of light; moments of self-sacrifice, honesty, love.
Carefully she stroked these, urging them to fill the space that had so
recently stifled them.
Having done all she could, she walked to the bathroom and showered for as
long as she could in water as hot as she could handle. She cleaned her teeth
twice and swigged her mouthwash. She dressed by the light of the new
fresh soul. Confident in her work, she left without looking back.
When the motel reception rang at 8 am, Chris woke up confused as to where he was, and momentarily who he was.
He felt the bed next to him, disappointed that the attractive blonde had
gone. She had been amazing. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, smiling
as random thoughts and memories surfaced. A strange happiness filled him
and he knew for the first time in a long time, confidently, that it was going
to be a good day. It was a bizarre feeling but he felt free, happy. As he left
the motel, whistling, he noticed a cold and dirty homeless man stood with a
pleading cardboard sign and a cup.
They were both surprised when he slipped a fifty into it.
I had a Dog By Margie Riley
Before I came to this place, when I was surrounded by people who loved me and who I loved, I had a dog. He wasn’t a handsome pedigree dog, but he was my dog. We loved one other. We were family.
One of the people who loved me complained about his fur. It was everywhere, she used to say. She said it got onto the furniture and into the carpet. She said that his scent was all-pervading. In a voice which brooked no argument she’d ask that he live outside. She’d give me that stare, but smiling, and tell me that he was, after all, just a dog. But I knew he needed to be inside with us and I pleaded, promising to remove the invasive fur. I didn’t do it often enough for her and sometimes we found stray hairs stuck to the butter, in the sandwiches and stews. My need to have him inside caused some disagreement.
One day I had to go far away and fight an enemy. I held my loved ones close and prayed to God to protect us until I returned home. I squatted down to my dog. He laid his soft black head against me and licked my chin. He knew I had to leave.
When I returned, thanking the god I’d lost faith in, my loved ones were there to greet me. Everyone – except my dog. He had died, they said. He was old, they said. His time had come, they said. I miss him.
I forget where we lived, who the people were, and my dog’s name, yet I can still feel his silky head against my cheek. I miss my dog.
Here I am kept warm in the winter, cool in the su
mmer. I am showered. I attend Residents’ Meetings with some people I don’t know and am obliged to vote on motions I cannot hear properly. There’s food for breakfast. They never give me butter now. I like searching for the hair in it. We meet for morning tea, we sing songs. I eat lunch. I drink the weak tea given me at afternoon tea-time, though I tell them I like it stronger. I eat my supper. I don’t taste it. I miss my dog.
Sometimes, in a dream, a woman wearing red shirt visits. My dog follows her and looks up at me. I feel his velvety head and I scratch him under his chin. I gaze into his liquid brown eyes, stroke his thick black fur. I tell her that he has a white patch on his shoulders, white socks, a white shirt-front and white markings on his nose. I tell her it’s my dog. She has a warm smile and her eyes glow as she agrees. When I wake, the lady and my dog have left.
One day I’ll wake to find him, along with the people I loved and who loved me. We will romp on the beach and through the tall grass.
I wish to sleep now and to meet my dog.
Twisted Tales Page 2
