S is for Sweet Dreams

The movie flickered on the large white screen. Old black and white shots doggedly flickered through the scenes. In days, a piano organ would’ve accompanied it relentlessly, making its term “silent movie” a total misnomer.

Here I sat alone in the theatre except for my son in the chair in front of me and slightly to the left. He was always such a small boy, but since his father’s death, he had shrunken more. Pale, dark bags under his eyes – he cast a pathetic shadow and it broke my heart.

I jumped when I heard a sigh behind me. I jumped thinking that we were alone.

I turned around and saw my husband sitting behind me.

My husband who had died two months earlier.

He sat up slightly to the left as well – directly behind my son, a row separated them. The row in which I sat.

“Kevin” I whispered

My husband and son both turned to me. Each looking as pale as each other. I climbed over the seats to my husband… how was he here?

I got to the chair that divided him and my son and he turned to me.

“Honey – he’s not ours…”

“Mummy – this is not where I’m supposed to be…”

Both started talking at once. I had to strain to hear either of them.

“He watched me die Judith – he now remembers that this is not where he belongs”

My husband looked so solid. I stretched out my fingers to touch his hand when Kevin Jnr draws me backwards.

“Mummy I have to leave you. This is not where I should be – it will kill…”

I snap my head back to my boy. He is turned on his seat towards me and staring at his fingers, picking at the fabric on the back of the seat.

“Wait what… you’re leaving me?”

“He’s not our son. He never has been”

“We barely know each other is the truth of the matter but…”

“I don’t envy your future. It will be torture for you. And for no reason that could ever make sense to you.”

“I love you”

“I love you”

“Goodbye”

“Goodbye”

I flipped my head back and forth between the now empty seats.

I was all alone and I knew I would always be.

M is for Mob

Seven hissing geese had taken over Turtle Bay’s jetty.

Originally it was just one gander and two females, but by the end of the week, the flock had grown to 7 geese. Still the one gander – and he was a cocky piece of work. He loved his ladies and he loved his jetty. He would fight anyone to the death to hold onto both.

Nobody had been seriously hurt yet but plenty had been chased off the jetty by the ruthless gang. Plenty of bruised hips and tailbones resulted amongst the community from slipping on the slimy green, white and brown goose muck in their escape.

The town hall was packed with everyone wanting to find a solution to the goose problem. Half of the room were all about shooting and eating the birds. The other half were championing for the removal of the geese without bloodshed.

So it was decided to try and scare the geese off by letting the street sweeper onto the jetty. It was big, loud and would clean up all the slimy mess and ultimately claim back the jetty.

Unfortunately, the jetty was not as sturdy as everyone hoped. The jetty buckled painfully under the vehicle’s weight – and then both plunged into the water, the jetty completely destroyed. The poor sweeper driver was vigorously attacked by all of the geese and she suffered many nasty bites.

Without the pier, the geese took over the beach. They harassed gulls, swimmers and anyone else silly enough to think a day at the beach was a good idea. The whole situation was looking hopeless.

The gun nuts were getting excited about going goose hunting.

But then Judy Bintz spoke up and asked to give it a go.

Judy had become quite an enigma in the community. Her award-winning garden was now a strange art exhibition of gargoyle statues. They changed daily, position and pose. There was always about 30 statues in the garden, and bust have been 100s more locked away somewhere to represent every pose that each figurine held.  No one could figure out where she kept the spares, and when she moved the incredibly heavy statues around. Because they changed daily! Who has that kind of commitment and time?!

So sure – if Judy wanted to give it a go, then have at it. The hunters would give her 24 hours before they sorted the situation indefinitely.

Man say that they saw Judy walk onto the beach, but not one can actually remember what she did. They just know that next thing, she was walking back home – and the geese were following her in a single file.

“Must be something in her pockets” they figured.

The upshot was, the beach was now free from the unruly geese gangsters.

And Judy and her gargoyles had the most loyal and vicious home security in all of Turtle Bay.

D is for Dawn Chorus

Judy Bintz always loved a lie in. To a fault. She was constantly late for work due to it. Just 5 more minutes she’d tell herself. But the reality was, those 5 minutes never made her less sleepy, just more late.

Early one morning, before her first (of five) alarms had gone off, she awoke with a start to a huge crashing sound. She leapt out of bed (a first) and wished she had someone beside her (also a first) to run forth and find out what that noise was and then report back to her where she was safe in the bedroom. Ever better – safe in her bed, under the covers.

But no such person was nearby – so it was up to Judy to investigate the sound herself.

Actually do I have to?

CRASH!

Yeah ok – off I go.

Judy walked down the hallway cautiously. She turned on lights as she passed them and made loud coughing noises. She wasn’t prepared to actually say

“I know you’re in here so let’s fight” or something.

She figured a few coughs and lights turning on would be amble announcement to the fiend(s) and they could skedaddle so their didn’t have to be a “thing”. Not that Judy would know what to do if she actually caught someone. She just knew she really didn’t want to catch someone.

She got to the other end of the house, now all lit and as looking as it was when she went to bed the night before. Had she dreamed the loud bangs? Judy turned on the spot, scrutinising her living room for any hint of the noisemaker and saw she had left the curtains open to her patio… and that there were several figures out on her lawn.

She froze and was absolutely terrified. There was so many of them – and they all seemed to be so still. And short.

“What do you want!?”

Nothing.

“I’m…I’m going to call the cops!!!”

Nothing….

Judy had a moment of inspiration – she would turn on the porch light. So far turning on lights had been a good move she reckoned. With jelly legs, she walked towards her ranch slider and flicked the switch beside the door.

The lights she had installed to showcase her beautiful garden flooded the landscape. Tears instantly streamed down her face. Her love and joy, the only thing she felt she could do right, her amazing garden, was trashed.

Some mindless, horrible, mean…. Fuckheads!!… had come and stomped all over everything and left what seemed like 100 ugly stone gargoyles all over her land.

Judy flung the door open hoping that the jerks were still nearby. Someone was going to pay for this vandalism.

As soon as Judy stepped out, she stopped. Her rage and grief evaporated into the forest just over the road from her house.

For the first time in her sleep-in loving life, Judy was up early enough to hear the birds of the forest waking and calling out to each other. Birdsong filled the air and she heard the peeps intertwine with the chirps and the more impressive vocal range of the whistles and warbles.

Judy closed her eyes and allowed the chorus to envelope her. Her heart lifted from its sudden melancholy and she felt like she was floating with supreme lightness and joy. She opened her eyes again and saw many birds perched on top of the gargoyles. The birds of all sizes and colours were singing at Judy and as she looked out at them, they all leaned forward and spread their wings out in what looked like a curtsey. Judy noticed then that all of the gargoyles were also bwoing.

How strange!

Judy blushed and looked down at her feet. She saw lots of smashed rock all around her, including what looked like the face of a gargoyle. She picked up the face and felt a touch of heartbreak. It looked scared! This must have been what made all of the noise.

Judy grabbed her yard broom that had been leaning up against the house next to the door and carefully swept up the pieces of smashed gargoyle. It didn’t seem right to throw the pieces in the bin, so Judy took them down to her destroyed garden and buried them where her basil used to be.

The birds all suddenly took flight. They circled Judy then peeled off into the sky towards their daily errands and adventures.  

Judy made a sincere promise to them and herself, she would hear their song again tomorrow morning.

L is for Laundry

Theirs was a love that was never meant to be.

They ran in different crowds and that was never going to change.

They met through chance; and had to rely on luck for every reunion.

They looked forward to Sundays. It was this day that the dirty hamper went room to room, clearing the errant pieces missed in the hustle and bustle of the week, and therefore their best chance for a rendezvous.

The boy’s floor always harboured bunched up socks – and most always – the Left Gray Batman Sock would make the hamper.

The bathroom was the next stop where – with less regularity – an Orange Face Cloth was tossed into the mess.

Orange Face Cloth and Left Gray Batman Sock would crumple into each other in ecstatic embrace.

Many others in the hamper tutted and tsked their disapproval. Some comforted Right Gray Batman Sock:

Left and Right were supposed to be a pair! Who did Orange Face Cloth think they were!?

The lovers ignored everyone.

They danced wildly in the wash amongst the suds and fabric softener.

And swayed in time together to the rhythm of life on the clothes line, under the sun.

Then – if they were really lucky – they could spoon in the “To Be Folded” basket for what felt like an eternity. And yet never long enough.

For eventually, the laundry will be folded.

The lovers will once again be torn apart to yearn for the day where they can dance again. And the memory of the few hours where all barriers against their love had melted away, will be their only comfort.

That, and the fabric softener.

N is for New Beginnings

Gargoyles surrounded the old cottage.

Casting shadows over the lawn, the morning sun illuminated the ruin.

Just yesterday it had been an award-winning garden – 4 years running. The grass was imported from the top of the North Island where the perfect balance of heat and rain grew the best, lush green crops.

Any weed that dared sprout was hand picked out with determination and a homemade made spiky claw that removed the plant and root in its entirety.

Edibles and flowers grew together, their seating positions chosen carefully for their symbiotic potentials. The bitter leaves of the marigold deterred the slugs from the peas which in turn enriched the soil with nutrients.

All was now dashed to asunder. Soil, petals and leaves splattered across the eaves of the cottage.

The gargoyles all faced the cottage. Bowed over in graceful respect, the statues’ clawed arms were bent in front of their pot bellies in allegiance.  One sat on the edge of the roof, the old guttering buckling under its weight.

As it fell and smashed onto the ground, the inside inhabitant stirred.

The broom leaning against the wall knew, it was go time.

Y is for Yeeesh

There once was a guy called Barry,

Everytime he got cranky he would shrink.

One day I was particularly annoying.

Barry shrank to the size of a thimble.

We now call him Baz.

He really hates me now

X is for eXorcism

Nadia lifted her soda water to the centre of the group with the other glasses and they all said,

“CHEERS!”

The company Christmas party was officially off with a happy clink of glasses. Some of Nadia’s colleagues were slightly flushed and had already been sampling the free bar a few hours before everyone else arrived. Nadia had no doubt that others would catch up soon enough. And she could blend in with the messy cloud easily enough.

Nadia had a wedge of lime in her tall glass and he co-workers believed she was on the gin and tonics. Then it was just a matter of always having a full glass in front of her so she could easily avoid anyone buying her a drink,

Another favourite move was to stay on the dance floor. Never needing dutch courage to move her groove thing, Nadia found that drinks and dancefloor very rarely worked well together. Especially the way she danced – full body, full dance floor used, zero shame, maximum joy.

All this subterfuge was much easier than telling the truth. As soon as Nadia would tell anyone that she didn’t drink, there were so many questions and assumptions:

Are you pregnant?

Are you religious?

Are you a recovery alcoholic?

Are you sure you don’t want one?

Just one, come on, one won’t hurt you…

Nobody could ever understand that someone would choose to just, not drink.

…

The reality was, Nadia did have a reason for not drinking. One that she never shared with anyone.

Ever.

The truth was, when she drank, her brain let down its defences and trouble was let in. Not in the usual way of kissing the wrong person and waking up with a lampshade on her head. Nadia definitely had enough of those memories that popped up on her Facebook feed from time to time.

No. The trouble was the damn voices. The mean, insistent, relentless voices that took so much energy to lock back away. As long as Nadia didn’t drink – life was what she could make it. But – as of 4 years ago – if she had a glass of wine or a cheeky puff on a spliff – in crash the two women.

One old – Ms Ellis.

One teenager – Penny.

Both held heavy judgement of Nadia’s life and generally battled it out with microphones to get their points across:

“You know that people are laughing behind you back. I thought it better that you knew instead of continuing with…the strange things you do… and making more of a fool of yourself”

“God you’ve gotten fat”

“Really – you do know that everyone see through the façade dear? You know that right?”

“I hate you”

Then the hangovers had gotten so bad that Nadia would be throwing up for a day while Ms Ellis and Penny allowed each other to have the floor.

Ms Ellis had originally seemed so kind, but really, she was a miserable old cunt that undermined Nadia’s confidence.

Penny was loud and blunt and just stuck with name calling.

Although they held different methods, the women eventually would agree on one thing:

“Just pick up the knife Nadia. It’ll be better for everyone to be selfless and say goodnight one last time”

Approximately three days after having the drink or whatever, Ms Ellis and Penny would fade away and Nadia would be left with her own thoughts and great life again. It did not take Nadia long to make the connection between alcohol and the bitches and just figured that they were an interesting way that her brain reacted to certain chemicals.

Nadia was nearly four years without any alcohol or other forms of “chemical entertainment” and her two unwanted head guests had barely stirred. A little murmur here and there but very easy to ignore.

So it was a shock that only moments having sharing a toast with her co-workers, that the older woman’s voice rumbled into her right ear:

“I think it’s very sweet that they put up with you. They are all so different from you – it’s obvious that you’ll never be part of their family so to speak.”

Nadia nearly dropped her glass. It had been so long since she had heard Ms Ellis so clearly. She peered at her soda water. It definitely tasted like soda water. And she had only had a sip. Usually Ms Ellis required a good couple of swigs before she gate-crashed the party.

“Dumb bitch” scorned a squeaky voice into her left ear

“Penny!” Nadia whispered – then blushed.

Shit – had anybody heard her?? No… they were all loudly teasing their boss.

“Well this party is lame – music is dumb too. I suppose you’ll be dancing to this basic playlist later”

“Oh no she wouldn’t be so silly. Nadia knows she has bad judgment and when it comes to dancing, she’s very enthusiastic but leaves herself open to mockery.”

Nadia looked down at her feet bewildered and panicking How could this have happened?! Tears pricked her eyes – what will she do?

“Crying you stupid bitch? Are you kidding me? At least the party won’t be lame – it’ll be awkward”

“Really Nadia, tears. So emotional. You’ll ruin your make up – and potentially the whole night for everyone.”

“Nadia!” a new cheerful voice rang out. It was one of her colleagues walking towards her with a polaroid camera.

“Say Cheese!”

Nadia flashed a big smile and internally prayed her eyes only looked shiny and not bloodshot.

“Good luck with that dear. Everyone can see you’ve been crying”

“And you look fat. How many chins do you have now?”

Nadia took the developing photo from her colleague who left to work the room. Concentrating on the photo, Nadia’s head became her own again. Then she truly did make a scene when she dropped her soda water and her glass smashed on the floor.

There in the photo was Nadia (with shiny eyes) with the unmistakable figures of Ms Ellis behind her right shoulder, and Penny leaning in on her left.

D is for Darkest

Tears run down her face, bleaching her skin of the heavy layer of make up she had only just applied.

The mirror lay smashed on the floor,

amongst the make-up brushes,

            and tampons,

and random receipts that multiply and doss down in every one of her bags.

The tag on her dress itches her back and once again the fury lashes out. It is a dumb fucking dress and who the fuck was she to think she could ever wear such a beautiful thing?!

She wrenches at the zip under her arm and tears through the dress in her haste.

$800 – torn.

She picks up a mirror shard – making sure not to look at herself – and attacks the dress.

Fuck you! $800 and you fucking tear, well just get the fuck off of me! Get off me! GET OFF ME!

The dress tears and splits under the attack. She pulls it off, ripping it almost in half. Hulk fucking Hogan eat your heart out!

She drops the mirror shard and then realises there is blood everywhere.

Dully she looks down at her naked body. When ripping the dress, the shard has also sliced through her. The rapidly increasing blood puddle is fed from a deep cut in her abdomen and a large gash running up her arm.

She sits down in her destruction of fury and enjoys the creeping drowsiness.

As the life pours out of her, so does the anger.

She is interested in a purely theoretical way if she can get all of the anger out and still have life left.

She lays down and closes her eyes.

She doesn’t care either way.

Z is for Zoom

Broomsticks gather fallen leaves and numbers in the moonlight. The gazebo at Turtle Bay’s Caravan Park is packed with brooms shuffling about each other.

It is a good turn out this year.

Many old acquaintances brush up against each other joyfully and pass dust and stories to and fro.

A vacuum cleaner sits back against one of the pillars. It had come as a “plus one” with a brush and shovel. It felt cold – no one was paying it any attention and it was not used to being outside. Many of the broomsticks purposefully turned their bristles away from the appliance which was “too new” and a job stealer.

One of the older ones took the transgressing brush and shovel aside to explain in short, sharp brush strokes what was and was not “the done thing” at such events as these.

The oldest broom shuffles forward and scrapes its brittle twigs over the gazebo’s boards. All move aside to give it the floor.

It maps out the history of their kind and draws pictures of the many battles between them and cats. It flutters about, dancing in the memory of the children that use them to pretend to be witches.

The audience twitches in anticipation.

Finally, in long and majestic sweeps, it tells them of the witches who inspired the children to ride them. It reminds the crowd that it is the last broomstick left that had served as stead to the original witches. In those times, the air was clean with invisible waves and streams that allowed their magical hosts to ride the brooms deep into the night.

The air, the old broom twirled, has the same sweetness once more. It prophesized that before their next meeting in a year’s time, another new being of magic would rise up and become the first of a new generation. And someone here – some stick, brush or even vacuum, could be the catalyst for change.

They all bristled with excitement – even the vacuum twisted slightly at the news.

The old broomstick stepped down from the gazebo and swept quietly and calmly along the Listless River and disappeared back into the woods. The others dispersed back to their homes – each wondering who of them would be the catalyst of change.

P is for Petulant

My screams reverberated throughout the streets. I called for help – people saw me – I saw them look at me, some even made eye contact – but no one came to my aid.

The attack had come out of nowhere.

I had been sitting on the porch watching the kids play on the trampoline. It was a rare dry and sunny day in the middle of winter and we were all enjoying a moment in the sun. I was concentrating on my knitting when I felt the first shot hit my arm. I looked down and gasped, not quite registering what had happened.

Then I felt two more shots and started screaming.

Their faces twisted in maniacal joy, they had me trapped up against the ranch slider and relentlessly shot me over and over. My husband stood on the other side of the door, calmly sipping at his tea. I pulled at the door handle but it wouldn’t budge.

“Open the door!”

“No way, they’ll get inside”

Another onslaught hit my back. I looked over my shoulder, my white t-shirt was staining a reddish-brown colour – ugh – how long had the water been in these pistols?

“Open the door Gary!!!”

“No can do babe” another sip of tea “not until they’re empty at least”

My daughter shrieked in glee, she had focussed her shots to my bum. My son was at the hose, refilling his tank.

“THEY’LL NEVER BE EMPTY! OPEN THE DOOR!! OPENTHEDOOR!!!!!!”

The back of my head was hit point blank. I turned around and got a face full. My son was a deadly shot.

“Babe” my voice faltered through my desperation “my knitting is getting wet”

Gary frowned. The wool was expensive and the source of a major fight between us

“I’ll have to replace it all if it gets any wetter”

Gary unlocked the door. He hated spending money.

I burst through and pulled Gary into the fire fight. He had not been ready for it and I had the door locked behind him before he even realised he was outside.

I ambled off to the shower to the soundtrack of my husband’s whimpers and pleas.