Weekend at Aireys, 1998
I couldn't get the fire to start properly. Too many inky pages of the Age rolled into sticks, not enough kindling.
She couldn't swing the log splitter, not with only a week til she was due. And i almost put her into labour from laughing at my efforts when i tried to bash some chunks off a damp hunk of redgum. That stuff is like iron, honest.
It was the end of winter, when the bulbs have sprouted but not yet flowered. Cold and wet and perfect weather to stay indoors. And in bed, since there was no fire.
We looked at the lighthouse and had beers with a bachelor's booze cruise at the pub. I stroked her face in her sleep and wished never to have to leave this time, this place.
once upon a time...
...there was a girl born to a family without enough imagination. As she grew it became apparent to them that she would be beautiful. But they couldn't quite imagine how. She didn't have doll-blonde hair, she was short and her voice was quite loud.
So they were afraid of her.
As a result they told her that she was ugly. She was fat. Her mouth was too big, her hair was too curly. She'd never be a beauty.
But she grew up, in spite of them. Into a woman who would capture the eye and the heart with the beauty of her whole person. She also discovered the secret power of a pair of red shoes.
It made her family's eyes hurt to look at her, as they couldn't imagine how it was that she was so beautiful.
'm going to burst. My lungs, my chest crushed as this wave crashes over me. Why they can't see i'm drowning?
All i can see is the wild sea green of your eyes.
Coach
I dunno. Probably i was about 13. Still a kid y'know?
I didn't really like it. But i didn't know what to say.
Yeah i saw his car outside work.
I still don't know what to say. But now i'm saying it to the court and the telly people.
Hell's breaking loose.
From below I can hear the pounding of demons trying to escape. Rhythmically beating the air so it's more felt than heard. An almost imperceptible monotone moan counterpoint rises to meet petrified ears.
Imagination populates the darkness alongside with horned and taloned beasts, climbing the walls to taste freedom. The rattle through the hollow spaces signifying a last desperate defence.
Pretend it's not happening. Keep typing. Keep working.
As if that will save me.
bite size (notes for a story)
Small enough to hide in the palm of your hand.
Cherries, raspberries.
The occasional strawberry. Popped in whole.
No biting, dribbling.
Food made sensual instead of utilitarian.
More kinds of fun than fun size. Tiny, made for one.
Selfish food.
Not shared.
Indulgent, rare, exclusive.
Perfectly presented.
Single spoons of sensual cold delights.
Sirens
The sound of a siren drifts hazily through the thick summer air, mixed into the soundtrack of this day.
Still to far and too attenuated to be distinguished, perhaps the police are hot on the trail of some evil-doer, or another fire alarm summons the trucks.
Closer now, it gains form, becomes the song of the ambulance. Like an orchestra tuning, as it gains intensity heads turn, traffic slows, conversation hushes.
As it comes yet closer the sound becomes the dominant sound. All motion seems paused, a feel of expectancy dominates.
When the siren cuts off it's like a sudden cry of pain. I lie there and let the last of it pass through me, feeling every vibration of it finally fade.
The moment seems to last forever.
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Very short short stories.
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