narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Two

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  ***Editor’s Pick***

  Euphemisms, idioms, metaphors and similes

  Spoonerisms, superlatives, syntax and redundancies

  Do I need to know the meaning before I can write an essay?

  Or is it just a screening test to keep my mind in disarray?

  Infinite, reflective, possessive or comparative

  Expressive or imperative, progressive or a narrative

  I’m so completely full of adjectives

  (I think I need a laxative!)

  Infinite and definite, predicate and irony

  Homonym and acronym are they a form of tyranny?

  If I could grasp the concept of the meaning of these terms

  Would I be a better writer or an apple full of worms?

  To intimidate or educate by passing an exam?

  Will it make me more intelligent or fill my head with spam?

  I’d like to be impressive, expressive and compulsive

  But the logistics of linguistics to me are just repulsive!

  Ed: This reminded me so much of the Gilbert and Sullivan songs my mother used to sing around the house when I was a youngster that it just had to have an Editor’s Pick award. The fact that it talked to me as an editor who also doesn’t always understand all the bits in between sealed the deal for me!

  Saturday 24 November 2012

  The Cave

  John Ross

  Blackheath, NSW

  It was a beautiful morning. There was not a cloud in the sky. The air was still cold but the sun was warm on my face as I set out along the trail. Even though it was heavy my pack felt comfortable on my back. I had brought enough provisions for three days, a feather down sleeping bag and plenty of warm clothes, as it can get very cold in the mountains in autumn. The whole trek down to the cave and back should only take me two days but I had learned to be careful and to always prepare for the worst.

  There was no well-trodden track, just a cleft in the rocks that led down to a narrow platform. One had to inch along this for about two hundred metres to the remains of a rock fall. This was a rather steep slope strewn with man-sized boulders and loose scree. About two thirds of the way to the bottom between two larger boulders there was a small round opening into the cave.

  I had no recollection of the track at all as I started along the cliff face to find the cleft in the rocks. The last time that I had made this trek I had been found just outside the opening to the cave. I was unconscious and had a large wound on the back of my head. Bush walkers on the top of the cliff face had spotted me lying on the rocks below. At first it was thought that I had fallen from the cliff and was surely dead. However, when the rescue team from the local police station reached me they found that I was still alive. It had taken them many hours to bring me back to the top and then by ambulance to the nearest hospital. The doctors did not give me much of a chance of surviving but, against all odds, I slowly got better and after four weeks I was ready to be discharged.

  There was, however, one major problem. I could not remember anything before waking up in hospital. Not only did I not have any recollection of walking down to the cave but also I did not even know my own name or where I had come from.

  Initially the police tried to help me but as the weeks wore on they gradually lost interest. There were only a few clues as to who I was. I could speak English, albeit with a strange accent that I was told was closest to an Irish one. I also had no words for all the modern conveniences of life such as television, mobile phones, computers etc. It was assumed I must have come from a remote rural area. The doctors told me I was about twenty years old. The clothes that I had been wearing when I was rescued did not have any maker’s tags and appeared to have been home made. They were, however, of good quality. They had not found any pack, provisions or other clothing.

  When I left hospital I had initially stayed with one of the male patients that I had become friendly with. He had been discharged a few days before me and owned a small flat in the city. I had to attend a clinic three days a week for the next year. They helped people like me who had lost their memory or who had become mentally restricted because of an accident. At first it was hard as everything was strange and new to me. Little by little I adapted and after the year was up I was able to gain employment and to save up and rent my own place.

  The years had rolled by and now I was forty years old, married with two children and a mortgage. Lately I had become more and more curious about my past and with my wife’s support had sought out one of the police officers who had been in the rescue party. He was now retired and living in the mountains. He told me about how they had climbed down to where I was and described the route that they had taken. He could not help me with any other information except to describe a scrap of paper that I had grasped tightly in my hand. He did not know what had happened to the paper and could only remember that it had part of a picture of a bird on it. The bird had a brilliant red head and a silver flash on its wings.

  After discussing it with my wife we decided that it might be helpful if I was to go back to where I had been found. There was just the possibility that it might make me remember something about my past.

  All these thoughts were swirling around in my mind as I found the cleft in the cliff face and headed down. I found the going surprisingly easy and was soon approaching the area where the cave should be. I rounded a large boulder and there it was, just as the policeman had described.

  I stood staring at the opening for many minutes and at the area where I must have lain all those years ago. Nothing! The past was still just a blank wall.

  Crushingly disappointed I sat on a small rock and tried to gather my thoughts. I must have sat there for at least an hour and then feeling both hungry and thirsty I opened my pack and had something to eat and drink.

  After the meal I was still hungry so I took a biscuit from my pack. As I was about to eat it a male King Parrot landed near the opening to the cave. I threw it a piece of my biscuit and then it struck me. The male King Parrot has a bright red head and a silver flash on its green wings.

  The bird took the piece of biscuit and flew into the cave. It disappeared into the darkness. For a moment I was too stunned to move but then grabbing my torch from my pack I followed it into the cave.

  The opening was narrow but not far inside it opened out into a large chamber and from this numerous tunnels led off in different directions. I was just in time to see the bird disappear down one of these. Again I hurried after it. The tunnel twisted and turned and then came to an end in a large cave. The floor of the cave was littered with rubble that had fallen from the roof and many stalagmites and stalactites almost obscured the view through to the back wall. Then I saw it.

  In the middle of the cave was a skeleton. I approached cautiously.

  One side of the skull was cracked open. Beside the skeleton was a rucksack that had nearly rotted away. It was full of books. Tied to the bottom of it was a bag of what must have been provisions and a water bottle.

  I pulled back the flap of the rucksack and on top was a sheet of newspaper with an article on the wildlife of the mountains of the Colony of New South Wales. It was dated 1867.

  Something made me glance back at the skeleton. The bird was sitting near its right hand.

  Grasped in the bony fingers of that hand was a scrap of paper with a picture of a bird with a bright red head.

  Sunday 25 November 2012

  Recollection Of My Future

  Robertas

  Drummoyne, NSW

  How many candles? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven ... er ... seven ... eight, nine, ten, eleven. Eleven!

  Can’t be! Just look at my hands. No!

  That little boy is eleven. I’ve seen him before.

  Hello, what’s your name? Did you already tell me?

  Yes – I’m Richard, Grampa.

  Oh, of course ... Richard. I didn’t really forget you know. You’re my grandson, that’s right isn’t it?

  Yes. Well ..
. not exactly. I’m your great grandson.

  My goodness! Am I that old? Oh, so this is your cake. You’re eleven.

  No, silly. I’m only eight, and it’s your cake – it’s your birthday.

  Then why are there only eleven candles?

  ’Cos you’re one hundred and eleven.

  Am I? Are you sure?

  Yeah, Mum said.

  What’s that dinging sound? Who’s doing that?

  That’s only Dad dinging his glass for everyone to be quiet.

  Bit of hush please everyone. It gives me great pleasure to see you all here today to celebrate Granddad’s birthday, yet again. Well Granddad, here we all are again to wish you happy birthday ... and I must say, you seem to be getting younger every year – you don’t look a day older than 105.

  You always were a cheeky boy ... I think.

  No I wasn’t! Oscar was the cheeky one. I was always a good boy ... and got all the treats ... I’m no fool.

  Happy birthday to you,

  happy birthday to you,

  happy birthday dear Bertie,

  happy birthday to you.

  Hip hip ... Hooray ... Hip hip ... Hooray ... Hip hip ... Hooray.

  Oh, for he’s a jolly good fellow ...

  Well thank you. Thank you all. I hope you don’t expect me to make a speech.

  No Bertie. You just have another glass of bubbly. Keep you young.

  Well thank you. Don’t mind if I do. Oh, this is lovely ...

  As Robertas says, life’s a wonderful ride but we all lose it in the end.

  Monday 26 November 2012

  The Persian Tanker

  Penny Blackwell

  Blue Mountains, NSW

  The snow was a white blindfold over the tanker’s windscreen. The Iranian, vibrating with the old engine, drove at the wheel and peered hard through the curtain of falling snow, hoping, as we all were, that we’d beat the snowdrifts.

  We had got this ride outside Tabriz. There had been four of us but John, thinking he would make a bigger profit, went to sell the half-pint of his blood to a private bidder instead of to the hospital. We had waited for three days and even gone to the police but John didn’t show up again. It was only Jim, Neville and I, Penny, who got the ride on the tanker. Three hours on the dusty roadside under the hot sun had seen the last of our naan eaten and furious bidding with the tanker drivers for the cheapest ride. Finally one had given us a ride for nothing.

  It was fine then. The warm air blew fresh through the numerous cracks in the cabin floor and the areas where the windows didn’t fit. The old tanker’s vibrations triple-exposed the landscape in our eyes. The Iranian could speak little English and, having all grown tired of laborious sign language, we had lapsed into silence.

  He was thin, the Iranian, with features rugged like the worsening weather. His clothes were worn, as all clothes are in Asia, and torn in places like the clouds by the ragged mountains on either side of the winding road. His eyes were kind and paternal, like our memory of the sun.

  We had taken a short cut. We’d left the surfaced highway at a creek bed where two trucks had overturned in the rising water and nine others mourned with dipped headlights. Our own truck driver remained undaunted and we’d joined the dirt road.

  It was cold. ‘Snow,’ warned Haan (the driver) by sign and he pointed ahead. No matter, Haan would get us through and he knew a little cafe where we could eat and get a glass of tea. ‘Tea!’ I thought. ‘My world for a glass of tea!’

  It was closed! The whole village was closed and battened down against the coming storm, dark and black. Haan mumbled a few Iranian adjectives along with his English equivalents and we shivered with the chill wind blowing up our legs.

  Snow fell then. Not in tentative flakes but with determination, ‘to block the road’, according to Haan. The engine roared louder in an effort to devour the distance before the snow devoured us. But the effort seemed hopeless – within an hour the snow was a foot thick on the road.

  Jim and Neville took turns to climb onto the bonnet and clean the windscreen; the wipers didn’t work, obviously the reason for the free ride. The Iranian wouldn’t let me help because of my sex. Two minutes outside in the wind and snow and Jim’s and then Neville’s clothes were stuck to the glass. Their bodies were so rigid they found it difficult to return to the cabin. Their fingers were numbed into the shape of the rag.

  ‘Road falling!’ A truckie gave Haan the message as he passed. Haan’s lips tightened and his foot forced more on the pedal. He’d beat the fall. His family was waiting.

  Not quite like zombies the two men dreaded their turn on the bonnet. The engine screamed and the snow rose calmly.

  We stopped once, when the snow did, to give a lift to a burly shepherd. There was no room inside so he clung desperately to the door but we hadn’t gone far when, with a cry of despair, he flung himself onto the bonnet to gain a little warmth. We could have told him not to bother. Now we had a mascot; a Samson with his hair cut. The night was the saddest darkness we’d ever felt.

  ‘Road down!’ The cry, in Persian, came from the shepherd. Haan braked but the tyres slid on the snow. ‘Stop!’ the shepherd cried with his fingers a forked star in panic. With a struggle the tanker stilled and we climbed out to take a look, our heavy breaths a fog around us. The dirt road had fallen away on one side into the depths of the gorge. There was room enough for a lucky car on the right but the dirt was wet and loose, the snow slippery.

  Haan decided to take the truck across. We tried to argue against it but he wouldn’t listen. We could have tried harder regardless of the futility of doing so but none of us was feeling particularly well, and if he did get across we’d be in Teheran that night. Haan spoke quickly with the shepherd who then walked on ahead, torch in hand and waving.

  The snow started to fall again.

  The engine roared in low gear, backed up to line up, then inched forward. Persian words holed the night.

  The name of Allah was called. Flakes of snow like a million stars displaced the air while the torch danced and the tanker jerked and revved. Another piece of road fell away to the rear of the great roaring monster.

  Two shouts. Then the night slowed to savour every moment of its victory. The rear red tanker lights made slow parabolas then straightened out in their descent to final death below.

  Then quiet. The night was clear. The fallen snow was fresh with no smelly tanker noise.

  We went with the shepherd.

  Tuesday 27 November 2012

  Love’s Passing Remembrances

  David Jenkins

  O’Connor, ACT

  I asked her:

  ‘Can you write a poem in the shape of a human heart?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  And we watched in silent awe,

  As these sparks that danced across my soul,

  Came each to rest and finally fade at her feet.

  Like the scattered and happy memories,

  of love’s passing remembrances.

  Wednesday 28 November 2012

  Reach For The Stars

  Linda Callaghan

  Bullaburra, NSW

  If you do not try you will never know,

  Should you forget your dreams or give them a go?

  Little steps with hope in your heart,

  Is always a very good place to start.

  Then when you slowly grow in pride,

  Move away from the shadows, no longer hide.

  Shake off the fear and let go of the doubt,

  For no one will hear if you do not shout.

  Follow the trees, see their arms stretched high.

  Reach for the stars, only then will you fly!

  Thursday 29 November 2012

  The Great-Grandmother

  Felicity Lynch

  Katoomba, NSW

  The mists of time draw a veil

  Around the great-grandmother

  As she sits watching

  Her fragile hands foldedr />
  Her inner life a secret

  Her dreams unspoken

  An elegant young woman

  Now over 50 years wed

  Time has smoothed years of hardship

  Endurance and stoicism

  Laid a map of fine lines

  Her beautiful eyes sad and wise

  Happiness, glimpses of eternity,

  Found in the achingly sweet birdsong

  Her garden full of flowers, her children’s laughter

  Memories she’s garnered over the years

  Her husband’s warm loving arms

  The gift of their children, their children’s children

  All aware that she put them first

  All the days of her life

  Today she sits unmoving

  Her fragile hands folded

  A gentle smile given the small boy

  Planting a wet smoochy kiss on her lined cheek

  Laughter warm and gentle

  Enfolds the great-grandmother

  The family gathered together

  To honour her life

  She’s loved and she knows it

  Happy, perhaps even content

  She loves them all still

  As she has all her life long

  So she sits quietly watching

  Her fragile hands folded

  Hands that have tended untiringly

  Those that she loves, her family

  Friday 30 November 2012

  Cardboard Families

  James Craib

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  Life-sized cut-outs so exciting advertise the movies trying ...

  To encourage the jaded public in city theatres.

  Now you can order cardboard wizards, heart throbs and lounge lizards

  To decorate your home with the other creatures.

  Although they don’t discriminate alas they’re still inanimate,

  Two-dimensional Tussauds figures, life size and imposing.

  Indulge your weirdest fantasy and try a little ... origami?

  Paper lovers don’t fall asleep: they’re comatose-ing.

  A young widow innovative had cut-outs made for husband’s funeral,

  But later the grieving wife couldn’t bear to let it go.

  He was the life and soul of the party and although it’s quite surreal,

  The children even dress him up as Santa in the snow.

  Young wives of soldiers overseas keep their ‘flat daddy’ near;

  He’s just as tall as the models in the mall.

  He might amuse the children or he just might raise a tear,

  But he’s no comfort in dead of night when passion calls.

  Even President Obama is subject to cardboard drama,

  The folks adore their avatar, or, he’s a target.

  While others think he’s just divinable or place his head in the urinal,

  Now Osama has bitten the dust, they have a new prophet.

  And yet the families still live in cardboard city slums;

  From Soweto to Rio de Janeiro, nothing much modified.

  Obese people nowadays eat from cardboard takeaways, leaving crumbs

  That the pigeons swoop upon, be it baked or fried.

  I have a cardboard family that I keep in a cardboard carton.

  Photographs of my former life and my former wife, we were so naïve,

  Images of my daughter and son from high school to kindergarten;

  Mustn’t linger for too long, melancholy rises – I start to grieve.

  And it’s hard to just recycle and be done with endless sighing.

  Anxiously, I await my progeny to call on the telephone.

  Indeed there’s no denying that I am prone to crying,

  For a man’s not made of cardboard but flesh and bone.

  Saturday 1 December 2012

  Let Down Your Hair

  Winsome Smith

  Lithgow, NSW

  It had been a hard ride; the forest had been dark and he had had to dodge the low branches but the young man eagerly looked forward to the reward at the end. The villages in the shire were full of the stories of the beautiful maiden in the tower and the pleasures to be gained by doing the climb. In the taverns he heard the bawdy conversations, perhaps somewhat embroidered but nevertheless enticing. He never paused to wonder at the truth of the stories and he never met anyone who had returned from the tower but as he listened his anticipation and determination grew.

  He gasped when he saw the splendid tower rising high in the forest clearing. He chuckled when he saw the long plait of golden hair that was looped over the window ledge. He rested for about fifteen minutes, anticipating all the promises of that tower.

  He dismounted then called out the words, ‘Lady, let down your hair,’ in his strong and masculine voice. He repeated his words in a gentler and more enticing voice. ‘Lady, lady, let down your hair.’ The face that looked down from the window was more beautiful than any he had ever seen.

  Darinda smiled as she moved back from the window. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘I will certainly do as he asks.’ She took down the roomy, silk-lined basket and picked up a large plump hare. She smoothed back its velvet ears and whispered, ‘You know what to do, little one. I have taught you well, and used my magic.’ She kissed the animal in its furry head, placed it in the basket and said, ‘God speed.’

  She firmly attached the rope to the basket and gently lowered it. She gave a cheery wave to the waiting youth on the ground beside his horse.

  He had not expected a basket; he had anticipated the long golden plait to be lowered and had readied himself for the climb. With surprise and something of shock he lifted the brown hare from the basket. It was large, plump and firm, not what he wanted, but it reminded him that he had not eaten for hours – in fact he had not had a good meal for a week. Visions of jugged hare came into his mind. This animal was perfect for such a dish, or for a rich hare stew. He could sense the aroma of meat slowly cooking, with onions and herbs, over a steady fire. He could even taste the mug of good ale that would go well with such a dish.

  The hare began to struggle, and with a sturdy kick into the youth’s stomach, leaped from his hands and hopped a short distance away. Undeterred, the youth slowly approached. If he was patient and careful, he could catch the hare. The pleasures of the tower could wait; he had immediate work to do.

  The hare loped temptingly away, keeping just out of arm’s reach. The young man followed. The hare hopped slowly around the curve of the tower wall. It picked up speed and continued around the tower. The young man noticed that there behind the tower the forest had ended and there was a thicket of tall firm plants. He knew he had to head off the hare before it reached this thicket and he quickened his pace. Being strong and athletic and used to hunting, he felt so confident of his success that he almost drooled.

  He followed the hare for a few yards, staying close to the rough stone of the tower wall. He noticed that the nearby growth of plants was thickening but kept up his careful pursuit.

  The hare suddenly turned, increased its pace and ran into the thicket. The youth followed. At first the going was easy, with slender branches that could be thrust aside as the chase became intense. As the youth ran the plants grew closer and for a moment it seemed that the growth was closing in behind him and he wondered how he would ever get out.

  The gentle plants were replaced by thorn trees with thorns and prickles inches long. The hare, being close to the ground, ran into this wooded area with complete safety, dodging and scampering further into the growth. The man followed but more slowly as cruel thorns scratched at his face and limbs. He bravely ran further. He had his sword but could not reach it as the forest of thorn trees was so thick. He tried to turn but could see that there was no going back and no way out. The hare had disappeared but he sensed it scuttling along the ground in the thicket.

  The young man had been in battles and as a child he had been well trained in the use of the sword; his courage was
undoubted but he had never been faced with a situation like this. With his gloved hands he tried to push the branches away but the thorns pierced his gloves and tore them from his hands.

  Scratched, stabbed and bleeding profusely he finally fell to the ground, never to rise again.

  In the tower Darinda picked up and patted one of the half dozen leverets who ran freely around her room. She shook out her short golden curls and checked that the long detached plait was still looped over the window sill.

  Her laugh was soft, almost wicked and triumphant.

  ‘Men only want two things – food and sex. I can tempt them with both. Never again will a male person promise me everything in order to satisfy his appetites then leave me. Never again will I be betrayed. I have hair and I have hares that will do my bidding.’

  She patted the young hare again and laughed even louder.

  Sunday 2 December 2012

  Sisterhood

  Ruth Withers

  Uarbry, NSW

  In the garden of our lives are many tracks and trails,

  Some of which we once explored, but never will again.

  Some are full of thorns and burrs that tear us to our souls,

  Others hide strange animals that seek to cause us pain.

  There are caves we’ve ventured into that are full of dark despair

  And nooks and crannies hiding things we’d rather not have known,

  Trails we’ve lost ourselves upon for months and years at times

  And tracks we’d never dare at all to venture on alone.

  But there are other places in the garden of our lives,

  Places bathed in warm sunshine all day.

  Where sweetly scented flowers breathe their secrets to the air

  And dancing streams can wash our cares away.

  There are trails to wondrous places that can cause our hearts to soar

  Far above the pain and anguish we have found elsewhere.

  There are waterfalls of love and hope, behind whose magic veils

  Fairies, elves and other wonders kiss away our cares.

  To reach the very best of these, we sometimes have no choice

  But to suffer through the worst of burrs and thorns;

  To creep in fear along those tracks, through cold, forbidding caves;

  To grab those beasts by gnarled and twisted horns;

  To look them in the eye and say ‘I will not yield to you.’

  And ride them through the darkness ’til we reach the other side,

  Where the cloaks of love and kindness will wrap us in their warmth

  And joy and peace once more within our hearts reside.

  And every time we tame a beast and ride him to the sunlight

  We leave a trail of healing in our wake

  And flowers burst forth and birds and magic things arrive

  And the cold, dark cave is swallowed by a lake.

  You and I will hand in hand explore the tracks and trails

  We never dared to venture on alone.

  There’ll be no dark and cold in the garden of our lives

  By the time that you and I are done.

  Monday 3 December 2012

  A Natural Scape

  Emma-Lee Scott

  Callaghan, NSW

  A steady warmth,

  The sun kissed sand,

  The salt engrained breeze,

  And the green-blue of watery expanse.

  The frame of the day,

  Enshrouded and encompassed,

  By the depths of the hearts,

  Standing between the ceiling of blue,

  And the floor of grainy gold.

  Gilded by the rises,

  Given to the crashing midst,

  Passed by the oblivious,

  Remaining in the clear cloud,

  Free from a continual rush.

  Intricacies lace the blue,

  With pattern of whitened plunder,

  Edging the grainy gold,

  With a hardened ground,

  Of rewritable path.

  Footsteps have embedded,

  To be unrecognizable,

  Leaving a trace of broken beauty,

  Upon a world seemingly untouchable.

  A refuge of immense,

  The distance seems forever,

  The horizon foretells,

  But the continuity remains.

  The unchanged space,

  Revolving on a constant pulse,

  Of ebb and flow,

  Unstopped,

  Irremovable.

  A reconfiguration,

  A metamorphosis of normalcy,

  Individualistic in a span so collective.

  The gilded beauty of golden white,

  Embraced by that intentionally created,

  Juxtaposed to the mass of opaque,

  Etched upon by the callings of pull,

  And by the whisper of wind.

  A sound so unique,

  A world defined to tell the silent secret,

  Of hidden honesty,

  And true perception.

  Tuesday 4 December 2012

  Strange Days

  Joanna Rain

  Nelson Bay, NSW

  Strange days ahead,

  Strange days I will face,

  Strange ways to interpret

  Our peculiar human race!

  Strange, vibrant days,

  Of a celebratory life,

  Strange days ahead,

  Now I've given up the fight.

  Strange days

  Of bizarre interactions,

  Grand sweeping statements,

  And shame filled retractions!

  Strange days of decadence,

  While half the world

  Struggles with dissidence –

  Strange days – present.

  Strange worlds of individuals,

  Thoughts and ideals so incompatible.

  Strange, crazy days,

  With all the mental delirium

  Of our human ways.

  Strange that our days,

  Should melt into togetherness,

  When our days merge, united,

  Through all of our differences!

  Wednesday 5 December 2012

  Final Curtain Call

  Nicole James

  Narrandera, NSW

  Thank you ladies and gentlemen,

  And welcome to you all,

  I ask of you to stay seated,

  Until the final curtain call.

  Please provide the contact number,

  And name of your next of kin,

  Now without any further delay,

  Your journey will begin.

  As you are all well aware,

  This is the final frontier,

  Upon joining in this journey,

  There can be no turning back from here.

  All suffering shall be ended,

  No more struggling for every breath,

  There will be no pain and sorrow,

  When your destination is death.

  All things have an ending,

  Though some we just can’t find,

  And so we offer this opportunity,

  To leave all we endure behind.

  You will find beneath each chair,

  A flask of brandy and a loaded gun,

  If you would all join me in a toast right now,

  The formalities are all but done.

  We shall all travel together,

  United by lives of dread,

  So good people take your guns,

  And now hold them to your head.

  Before we pull the trigger,

  That will be our journeys end,

  I’d like to thank each one of you,

  And hope you consider me your friend.

  On the count of three we fired,

  We crossed to the other side,

  Our bodies were never discovered,

  Nobody cared that we had died.

  Our decaying bodies rest in peace,
<
br />   Freed of wrath and hate,

  Destiny lost its hold on us,

  For we turned our hands of fate.

  Life is meant to be a gift,

  But it isn’t for us all,

  I bid you folks my farewell,

  The final curtain call.

  Nicole says that some of her works are a little controversial as they are of a morbid nature. She has suffered depression for 20 years and has found writing to be her greatest therapy yet. She feels these topics are largely forbidden in the public forum but knowledge is power and awareness, which is vital in understanding.

  Thursday 6 December 2012

  The SMSer

  Julitha De La Force

  Katoomba, NSW

  There was a woman

  I won’t say her name

  She really doesn’t

  Deserve the fame

  One day she really lost the plot

  Into a state she really got

  Beep beep beep beep …

  She got frantic

  Went into a panic

  Got stuck to her mobile phone you see

  And sent SMSs non-stop to me

  Well I was wondering what to do

  For really I had not a clue

  Every time I took a breath

  There was another SMS or two

  Well I knew this somehow had to end

  Because really it drove me round the bend

  Hours and hours she would send

  SMSs with no end

  Her mobile phone got sick of her

  Buttons being pressed

  In vain she did protest

  Well in the end her mobile gave up the ghost

  As the woman had used it to the utmost

  May her phone rest in peace

  Thank god the SMSs did cease

  Friday 7 December 2012

  Gift Of The Grab

  Hazel Girolamo

  Ulverstone, TAS

  There in the country were some shepherds, simple civil shepherds abiding in the fields by night as lamb prices were now at a premium. And as they sat musing quietly about industrial reform and unionism, a brilliant light shone around them in the darkness and they were sore afraid. And the Angel of the Lord came upon them and said, ‘Fear not, for behold I bring you tidings of great joy.’ And as it was told to them, they listened and marvelled at the excellent working conditions and above award wages of sin, with maternity, paternity and eternity leave thrown in. ‘It’s a certainty,’ the Angel said furtively. ‘See Daniel at the inquiries den.’

  So the shepherds voted unanimously to go unto Bethlehem and see this thing come to pass, what the Angel of the Lord had made known to them.

  So the shepherds fled deep into the night with the Angel’s words floating behind them: ‘Conditions apply!’