The Price

Chapter Two __ untitled

Before Hans headed out that evening he took the newly hotmixed road to the top of the hill, parked his most recently acquired sporty little car in the cul de sac, and scowled at the windrows of dead trees sitting above him on the piles of sand. Nothing of any importance came out of his mouth because the words he was thinking were so vile he did not wish to say them out loud.

It took some time to control himself but when he calmed down, just a little bit, he opened the car door, pulled on the old elastic-sided boots he’d placed on the passenger side floor, and got out. He closed the car door as gently as he was able to in this current mood, shoved a cap low on his head and trudged up the recently made sandhill to the very top of what remained of the ridge.

The tree still lay where he’d last seen it, not yet whirred up into tiny wood chips, its horizontal trunk taking up quite quite a lot of space amidst the great, big, huge and very dismal sandy expanse where native bushland had once been.

He took off his sunglasses and stared moodily down the slope into his own backyard. He’d contributed to this, only in a small way he knew, but he couldn’t get out of it that easily because every other house below him had contributed to it as well and with all those contributions came loss, and what that loss looked like clearly resembled the shit he now stood in the middle of, wondering why the fuck he hadn’t bought himself an old rundown house in the middle of nowhere instead.

Hans sighed, then wandered over to the fallen tree. He felt like covering up its exposed roots with a blanket to give the tree some kind of dignity but that thought, he knew, was slightly ridiculous. Besides that, someone else would probably wander up from below the hill, look at him like he was a complete lunatic and possibly, knowing what people were like in this day and age, call the police for no reason other than the fact he’d likely made them feel uncomfortable.

He took a picture of the names burnt into the trunk and decided to take it down to one of the local joints the following day, the kind of place where they allowed you to blow photographs up and put them on shiny paper and then, when he got the chance, he’d frame it and go and stick it on Jake’s grave just for shizz and gigs and no other reason whatsoever.

‘Howja like them apples,’ He said to no one at all. Then he nudged the bottom of the tree with his boot and wandered back to the car.

Nobody else came up the hill, and he was not actually surprised by that at all. A bottle of bourbon, a heartache, and a plate full of fish and chips later, and he probably wouldn’t even remember it himself.

On the way to his dinner for one, Hans decided to call Solway.

For reasons he’d never been able to understand Hans couldn’t keep his sunglasses on when talking with people on the phone so, as he coasted down the hill from the cul de sac, he kept his sunglasses off, removed his cap, straightened his wavy, not curly, hair in the rearview mirror and cried “Solway” at the top of his voice.

Two seconds later, not that he was counting, she answered with a “Hans!”.

‘What are you doing,’ he asked.

‘Wondering why you’re calling me,’ she replied. There was a moment of awkward silence.

‘Is Bart there?’

‘Yes, he is. Did you want to speak with him?’ Another long expectant pause.

‘No.’ He stared out through the windscreen.

‘You called me, Hans.’

‘I know I did. What are you doing for dinner.?’

‘Oh.’ She signed softly. ‘We’re having dinner at home. You know, with the current economy and all that…’

‘Blah blah blah blah,’ he said rudely.

‘What’s up your arse?’

‘Nothing. The usual. Can’t I just talk to my sister on the phone?’

‘It would help if you actually talked.’

‘I am talking.’

‘Okay, well that’s fantastic. Are you going out for dinner are you?’

‘Yep.’

‘This is like drawing blood from a stone. What’s going on? You sound dumb.’

‘Well, you sound stupid,’ he replied in his most menacing voice.

‘Are we, like, five?’ Her tone was getting that exasperated edge he remembered so well from when he’d been a kid and done something evil and she’d had to clean up after him. ‘You’re upset about something. What is it?’

‘I’m bored.’ He began tapping the steering wheel.

‘No, you’re not. It’s something else.’ After a moment of silence he heard something metallic hit something else like she was stirring something. ‘If it’s about the fleas…’

‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about the fleas.’

‘Yet here I am, talking about fleas.’

‘I don’t want to talk about fleas.’ He glared at the road.

‘I am trying to be kind, Hans. Don’t make it hard.’

‘I don’t want to hang up on you Solway.’

‘I know you don’t buddy. What is it?’

‘Nothing. You wouldn’t get it. I don’t get it. It’s okay. I’m okay.’

‘Now I’m worried. Where are you having dinner then?’

‘That fish and chip place on the foreshore.’

A rustling sound and a soft murmur came through the line. ‘Okay, I’ll come down. I won’t be eating, but I’ll come down, okay?’

‘Okay, Don’t look too attractive.’

‘Don’t look too… Do you want me to come down or not?’

‘Yes.’ He scowled and flicked on the indicator.

‘Okay. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Good.’ He hung up.

He felt like tossing the phone into the back seat, then felt like tossing it out the window. He put it on the leather passenger seat instead. It was going to be a shit night, and a shit meal, and everything was going to be shit. He pulled up at a stoplight and checked his teeth. Perfect, as usual.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t going to be completely shit. Maybe it would be okay. He wondered if they had tartare sauce.

to be continued.

The Temper

I was going to show you something else this morning but I’m feeling a spot of rage coming on. It’s possibly why, with the original story/title of The Temper, it felt like like it didn’t quite hit the mark.

When I got to the fourth story of that book (you know, the one I wrote, not anyone else) I called it Out Of Time, because the name I’d been looking at for a long time to call the story was “Extempore”. It didn’t quite fit what I was looking at though. It didn’t sit right.

With a word like “Temper”, you get to see it in its entire meaning. The “pounding into shape” of a mood or mindset, the flash of rage those who don’t know me very well always seem to be surprised by, and the immediate control I will insert on myself when this happens. Not everyone can do this. It doesn’t make it an excuse, and sometimes it can be used to your advantage. Hence the alternative title of “The Tempest”, (which unfortunately had been used as a title many years ago for another book).

It (the word Temper) can never be used to your advantage, though, if you can’t control it. Imagine going into a boxing ring and flipping out at your opponent while he’s sizing you up for a nice meal. He’s going to win because he’s in control, and you’re not. Rage, and fury are two very different things.

So, when one is not in a boxing ring and one is capable of wounding with one’s voice instead of fists or whatever, one still needs to apply that very strict code of conduct to oneself to stop yourself from “beasting out”. It doesn’t always work, and sometimes it is almost impossible to control (I know this one for a fact when it comes to the written word), but the written word is possibly the ONLY place where one can go back and put things to right before they pass them on… Especially if the message conveyed is on someone else’s behalf because that other person was too much of a coward to say it themselves. It happens a lot, and sometimes it happens without their consent

If that is the case, as I have helped construct messages on other people’s behalf (my sons, husband, friends), then those people need to once again look at the title of this particular piece. Using my words without my consent to send a message will only get you deeper in the poop. Understanding whose temper is controlling who really depends on the time of day, so don’t get too carried away with yourself. Perhaps take a leaf out of your own “Book,” and learn how and why one needs to control one’s temper.

People also need to understand when a dream is a dream and not reality. Even if it’s a dream that smacks of deja vu, or a dream that appears to be a recurring one, it is still a dream, and not reality. If it hasn’t actually happened, it likely won’t happen at all. It’s like a little switch has popped on in your head to tell you beforehand that something might be difficult to control and it’s a pretty good indicator you’ll know exactly how to control it if you were ever in that situation. You’re welcome.

Chapter One __Untitled, continued

Hans sat on the freeway for what felt like forever in the midday traffic. It took an hour and a half to get back from these stupid bloody meetings. God knew why they couldn’t have Zoom meetings instead, although, apparently, a rather clever chap by the name of Zed Van Burton (who maintained his websites) had assured him that having in-person meetings were far more unlikely to be hacked into than Zoom ones, not that Hans knew that was a thing although, he supposed, if it were possible, someone had likely done it already.

Zed, being rather clever (if Hans remembered correctly) had assured him it had indeed been possible and if Hans perhaps remembered the story about the priests meeting where someone had left on (or maybe even added) those little extra wonderful bits to the online service that time (Hans remembered that story very clearly) then Zed may have accidentally not at all have known someone who might have had nothing to do with it.

Sometimes, Hans’ web designer spoke in rather roundabout ways about certain things, and Hans quite enjoyed it. Not that he told anyone that, because that would be “betraying the trust” or something equally ridiculous, yet important.

It had been around that time Zed had kicked him, not in the least softly, under the table.

Hans shot back to the present, remembered he was driving and felt rather pleased with himself he hadn’t done what Bart had done that time a couple of years back, and instead had kept his hands on the steering wheel.

He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, admired his own chin, made sure his eyebrows were neatly trimmed, and winked at himself because, when one was as amazingly “adorable” (he tried not to cringe at that one) as he was when he wasn’t working, one just had to remind oneself of how utterly amazing one happened to be.

He did this regularly. It worked for him.

‘Where was I,’ he said to the radio, which happened to be playing loud and awesome music with lots of guitar and headbanging.

The radio kept doing its own thing and didn’t reply.

Hans wondered if the line of traffic he was currently in, would actually reach over fifty kph, or whether he’d still be doing twenty k’s in another hour’s time.

He decided to change the radio station.

‘At the third stroke it will be…’

… Something that no longer existed. Bloody ABC.

Maybe he should take selfies for social media and… Get picked up by the traffic cop who’d just turned up in a patrol car nnext to him.

Okay then, social media “I’m bored” shots were understandably out of the question, which was lucky because he was thirty two, not ten, and really didn’t need all that wonderful feedback from randoms at all, ever.

Not even a, okay, just a little bit.

But not now.

Definitely not now. The cop’s partner, who was the one not driving, had poked her head past her partner’s shoulder and was currently giving him a little wave, despite the frown on the driver’s face.

‘Hellooooo,’ Hans crooned, giving her a mouthful of shining white teeth to admire.

The constable in the driver’s seat did not look impressed. He glanced at Hans then looked back at the road pointedly, before glancing at him again.

Hans sighed. God, even the police were boring.

Who knew? Apparently, everyone did but him… and the sweet little police officer who was giving him a very pretty smile from the passenger seat of … He slammed on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of him, the patrol car sailed past him without the driver giving him the finger at all, and Hans came to a complete halt.

‘God I hate Monday,’ he muttered.

He didn’t get home ’til two p.m.

There were actually many reasons why Hans didn’t like Mondays but this afternoon’s reason was all the noise coming from the top of the hill.

He’d already said goodbye to Jake’s tree early that morning, but decided, perhaps when the man in the whatever-it-was, which was extremely loud, had knocked off and gone home, he’d see what else had been destroyed in the name of progress.

Hans laughed at himself. He’d never been too interested in the past about why things like construction sites were done a certain way, but in the last two years (possibly around the time he’d found out he occasionally turned into a large, brown and slightly terrifying dog), he had felt more connected to nature (for what were fairly obvious reasons, not all of them being the fact it was Monday).

He adjusted the flea collar under his shirt as he sat on his long back verandah and sipped on an espresso.

‘Wankers,’ he said to no one in particular, and tried not to lift a leg and scratch himself under the chin. Growling, he stood, opened the french doors, and grumbled his way inside.

He’d pulled off his paisley tie earlier, thrown it over the back of the couch, stripped himself of the ridiculous (yet extremely cool) brown leather shoes which he’d left halfway down the hall and now, simply because he didn’t want to sit out the back and watch trees being knocked over, decided to pick it up and toss it all into the very long walk-through robe thing, and check himself out in the floor to ceiling mirror he’d purchased for himself on Boxing Day.

‘You’re a hotty and don’t forget it,’ he said to himself, very seriously, and didn’t burst into flames once — then wondered why he thought that might be a thing. After all, bursting into flames was not conducive to getting a new girlfriend, was it? No, not at all. ‘I like you,’ he added, refusing to back down from the mantra he’d uttered at his reflection every day for the past two years.

His reflection did not reply, and Hans felt rather pleased by that.

He wondered which restaurant he’d go to tonight. The local places were all friendly and simple, and he was pretty sure none of them had whipped garlic butter.

Hans pulled out his phone, opened the Maps ap, shut his eyes, and began twirling a finger over the screen. he refused to think about the heated discussion he’d had with bloody Nora earlier that day on why restaurants should be closed on Mondays. These were different kinds of restaurants to his, and that’s all there was to it.

Tonight, he’d be dining at “Carbaretta’s”, who apparently did seafood. He hoped it wasn’t too oily.

Chapter One — Untitled

Hans Endersans was not a happy man. He’d been to one too many “bored” meetings, as he called them, and each and every restaurant manager felt exactly the damn same to him. They were pretty, pretentious people, made to carry a tray of Cognac, or a semi-inexpensive bottle of wine, made to greet people at the door with a smile and a slight bow, made to pick on the harried, sweating kitchen hands and argue with the greatly feared chefs of the seven restaurants Hans now owned.

Not a one of them seemed to have the brain capacity for new ideas.

Apparently, thought Hans, this is my fault for not “allowing” them to sprout their rubbish into my ears for hours on end, or listen to their thoughts on a new type of whipped garlic butter, or allow them to be ashamed when I’ve told them it’s all been done before, but ….

‘Sure,’ he said loudly to the severely gelled woman at the other end of the table. ‘Whatever you think.’

She smiled and picked at the tablecloth in front of her with fingernails Hans would never have allowed in a commercial kitchen. ‘I’d like the thoughts of my fellow managers if you don’t mind, Hans.’

The other managers, who knew Hans far better than she did, held their breaths and leaned back, or held their breaths and slumped down, or held their breaths and …. He glanced at the man closest to him. It did kinda look like he was trying to dig a hole into the carpet with one patented shoe. Hans frowned, and tried not to let his baser instincts get the better of him.

There are no bones under the table. There are no bones under the table. The scowl deepened and he rolled his shoulders, trying not to glare at the ridiculous woman with the gelled back hair.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he asked politely.

‘I said,’ said the woman, not completely understanding everyone else’s reaction. ‘That I would like the opinions of my –‘

There came a chorous of positive responses arounfd the table.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Oh yes, what a wonderful thought.’

‘I am in complete agreement.’

‘Never would have come up with that one myself,’ said one participant, who nearly swallowed his own tongue after Hans shot a glance at him. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Too much?’

Hans tried not to grin. It had been a sarcastic comment, but he should not have found it amusing. He cleared his throat.

‘There we have it,’ he said, waving a hand in the air. ‘Are we done yet? I’m hungry. How about you bring one of your whipped garlic butter whatsits in and we’ll destroy it with some lovely crunchy bread rolls, and then you can all go back to what you should actually be doing and take the fucking day off because it’s Monday.’

‘What does Monday have to do with, well, anything?. The soon-to-be-fired restaurant manager asked from botox injected lips.

Hans raised an eyebrow. ‘How long did you say you’d worked in Hospitality,’ he asked. Did he really need to go back and check her resume?

Her mouth closed with a slightly gummy sound them popped open again. This woman had a death wish. ‘I know, traditionally we don’t open on Monday’s Hans, but…’

‘There’s a reason for that Nora. Tell me what the reason is,’ he said.

‘The reason?’

‘Yes, the reason. Tell me the reason we don’t usually run our restaurants on a Monday.’

‘Well, traditionally, we wouldn’t make much money I suppose, but –‘

‘You suppose?’

‘Yes.’ She sat up straighter on her vinyl covered chair, if that was possible. She’d already looked like there was a carrot stuck up her arse. Now it looked like it was a cobweb broom with an extendable handle.

‘Well,’ said Hans. Let’s just suppose I like making money, okay? Let’s just suppose that, shall we? Let’s not kick “tradition” in the arse, just because you have come up with this “new” and “amazing” whipped garlic butter which has never been done in the past, ever, apparently, by anyone else at all, and think about this sensibly for a change.’ He stood up. ‘I like making money, Nora. I do not like losing money. I also like to give my staff the occasional day off. How about you?’

Finally, it looked like the woman had grown a brain. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh, indeed. Speaking of staff, when you’ve pulled that one out of your backside, perhaps you’d like to come and visit me in my private office and we’ll discuss how much you like your career.’

‘Let’s see how those crunchy bread rolls are going, shall we,’ said the man with the patented shoes.

‘Let’s,’ said Hans.

Chapter One to be continued…

Why This?

Perhaps,

It’s the glimmer on the water

A thousand quicksilver mirrors dancing over breeze-blown ripples

Reflected below in lightning streaks of gold

The tightness of salt-encrusted skin, baking on a gritty towel

Amidst the surprisingly pleasant scent of warm sunscreen

It’s the swift gasp when one bursts from the waves or

The sweet drag on muscle as we navigate tide and current

Confident in the body’s strength

‘

Or maybe

It’s dark thunderheads on the horizon and

wind-whipped particles of sand peppering our faces, twisting our hair

And,

with an indrawn breath, the rush of ozone and salt

That lets us know there’s an adventure on its way . . .

And, more distantly, the crash and boom as the ocean throws herself wildly at the land and we

Are home in bed, lulled to sleep in the knowledge we are safe.

‘

But it could be memories

Of a toddler’s dimpled bottom staggering towards the water

Arms high, fingers plucking the air in anticipation

Or simple treasures, like spiralled seashells in sandy palms

Weathered glass, smoothed and curling wood or

Footprints glanced over shoulders, and other footprints read

Temporary stories that wash away with the next high tide

‘

It could be all those things and

Perhaps its more

Maybe there isn’t a reason at all.

Red Sky Morning

“Red Sky Morning” (Normally, I’d let a long-ish story like this sit for a while before turning it into something with a little more teeth. As I don’t have the luxury of giving it the maturity it deserves, I apologise. Perhaps one day I’ll pick it apart again and make it worth something. At this moment in time, and myself not a script writer, it reads more like something one might just throw out in eleven days, which I did. It is certainly not worthy of being a decent novel. Not yet. After this year, possibly not ever. We’ll see.)

Dawn had just begun to colour the sky when Solway woke up.

She’d fallen asleep on the couch, slumped sideways, a cushion under her neck and her head half hanging off the arm. It was not comfortable. She wiped the drool from her mouth and regarded the uncurtained window of the living room.

‘Oh God it’s morning.’

The notebook she’d scribbled everyone’s names in lay open on the carpeted floor. Most were from the television industry, but there were a few names from her time in the swim team years before, those who she’d kept in touch. One of those names stood out to her now as someone who might come in very handy indeed. She wondered if he still had his pilot’s license.

Her digital watch had gone flat. She scrubbed at the crusty feeling on her cheek and stumbled towards the bathroom. Her mobile rang just as she grabbed the door handle.

‘Solway, it’s Hans,’ said her brother, which was good as she hadn’t looked at the screen. ‘Are you up?’

‘Is this a trick question,’ she muttered.

‘Oh good. I have to wait for places to open before we can hire a four wheel drive, but I have found somewhere, and I’ve also found somewhere where they hire out portable air-compressors that are really not that big.’

‘Thank you.’ She wiped her eyes. They definitely felt crunchy. ‘God I must look like shit.’

‘Probably. Look I’m going to pop around in about half an hour, so have a shower and get dressed will you? I’ll make you breakfast.’

Solway perked up. ‘Will you? Awesome. What will you make me?’

‘Whatever’s in the fridge, I guess. Maybe not. Does it matter? Just have a shower.’

‘Okay.’ She lurched back towards the bathroom, bumping open the door with a shoulder. ‘I think we’ve run out of soap.’

‘Not something I can help you with,’ Hans said. He was beginning to sound slightly annoyed. ‘Can you hang up now please? I’m in my car and haven’t set up hands-free properly.’

‘Okay, whatever, bye.’ She put the phone next to the sink, remembered to shut the bathroom door, and got in the shower. It felt beautifully warm.

______________o______________

Bart crawled out of the swag and waddled down to the edge of the track, It was still very early and the sun had not yet risen. Splendid sat on the edge of a large puddle, looking at his reflection in the water. In his fingers, he twirled a tiny, fluffy, white feather.

‘What happened,’ Bart asked, his heart sinking. He sniffed at Splendid, who smelled sad.

‘Owl. It was Tawny. She’s quite territorial.’ Splendid glanced at him sideways, his beautiful brown eyes liquid with unshed tears.

‘Oh.’ Bart sat down and curled his long, prehensile tail around his feet. ‘Who was it?’

‘Elfie. She was my best layer.’ Splendid cocked his head at the sky and ruffled his shirt. ‘Three eggs. Every time. She’d get confused about what time of year it was though, you know?’

‘You shouldn’t have been up so late.’ Bart traced a line and a half-circle in the sand with one claw.

‘I know. She told me that. But, you know, with all the weather going on it was very exciting, and seeing her for the first time was quite exciting too, you know?’

‘You’re repeating yourself,’ Bart said.

‘It’s what we do. Part of our song, see. I know you see, Bart. Not many do.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bart, and he meant it. ‘Maybe later we can hold a funeral for her.’

‘That would be nice.’ Splendid wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve. Most of the suit had turned brown now. ‘You should go back to bed, Bart. Possums are nocturnal creatures. You need to get up high.’ He stood up, shook himself and stretched his arms, knotting his fingers together above his head. ‘It’s time to wake up.’

Bart woke up. The sun had just started to rise.

~~~~~~,~’~~~~~.~’~~80>

The feeling in his chest was an unusual one, and not something he’d felt for a long time. He could also feel it in his throat, sort of like a lump he couldn’t quite get rid of. He didn’t like it much.

Bart crawled out of the swag and put on his boots. The sunrise on the edge of the track had coloured the water sitting in the wheel ruts orange and pink. It seemed fitting.

Red sky morning, Shepherds warning.

Slowly, he walked through the dead leaves and scattered rocks to the bottom of the hill. Next to the water’s edge, impaled on a slender twig, sat a tiny breast feather. Bart sat down next to it and, for no reason he could think of, began to cry.

Two distant ravens started calling to each other, their harsh back and forth echoing across the landscape. Shortly after came some other bird calls he couldn’t quite decipher. Above him, in the low branches of a karri tree, a kookaburra began to laugh.

Bart swore softly under his breath. ‘Fuck.’

It didn’t seem enough. He stood up and turned around, staring back up at the hill and the stillness of the trees and the loneliness of the sanded track and the fallen logs covered with old scars from long ago bushfires.

‘Fuck,’ he said louder, and, ‘FUCK,’ again. His voice echoed through the bushland.

Nothing replied.

Carefully, he bent down and untwined the feather from its little stick. Just as Splendid had in his early morning dream, he twirled the tiny feather between his fingers, marvelling at its softness.

It’s natural, the voice said from beside him. This is what happens. He’ll get over it, eventually. He’ll find another bird and add her to his collection and he’ll move on. That’s what happens.

Bart didn’t turn his head. ‘Why?’

It’s just the way it is. Nothing has changed. Were you expecting a miracle? It’s just a bird. It’s not like it’s human, like you. Are you human, Bart?

He looked down at himself. He was not covered in fur. He did not have four legs, nor did he have a long, black, prehensile tail like he had in the dream. His eyes were not large and brown, and, although he did have an urge to start rummaging in the box of food he’d put under the wattle bush further up the track, he was definitely not a possum.

‘I’m human.’

Glad we got that sorted out. The voice was all business now. Right then. You need to get yourself some breakfast, consider what you are going to do with that vehicle, and decide how organised you need to be. You do not have a time frame for if and when your girlfriend is coming back, so you should probably come to the conclusion, and rather quickly I might add, that you could be here for at least another day. Make yourself a decent camp, and start living a little. Look after yourself.

‘I am looking after myself,’ Bart said, and he turned to see exactly who it was that was talking to him. No one was there.

‘I am looking after myself,’ he repeated. ‘I am.’

He sat down again next to the puddle and placed the feather on the rippling water. It floated there for a little while, and he said all the things that Splendid had told him about the bird it had belonged to.

Then he went back to where the swag and the vehicle was, and began to make camp.

Worry, continued

~~~~~~,~’~~~~~.~’~~80> let me know if any of this sounds familiar, especially today. As I wrote it all back in March, it’s terribly exciting it all comes up as I post it, isn’t it.

Solway had written a very long list of people she’d never thought she’d speak to again. Many of them had job titles that not even she knew what they meant, but along with those job titles came experiences and fancy toys that Solway thought, if she asked very nicely, she might be able to get them (the people) to use to save Bart.

Not that she was sure if Bart needed saving.

But, it might help her get some sleep knowing he could be saved if he needed to be.

Solway did not think she would be getting too much sleep tonight. Her stomach was turning over and over, just like her mind, which seemed to be performing acrobatic cartwheels around the fact she had left her partner in the middle of the bush all alone, possibly stuck in a creek without a paddle. She picked up the phone and searched up a name she had not looked up in quite some time.

He answered on the first ring. 

‘Hans Endersans,’ he said in a very official sounding voice.

‘It’s me.’

‘Long time no hear.’ Her brother sounded relaxed. ‘Could you make it quick, Sol? I’m on another call.’

Her stomach dropped. ‘Oh. Um… How long is the other call going to take?’

‘Not too long, I guess. We’re wrapping up shortly. I can feel it.’

Solway started to laugh. Her brother could always “feel” things, but he didn’t always get it right. ‘Would it help if I gave you a time-frame to wrap things up by?’

‘Could you? That would be great.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

‘Fifteen minutes. If you’re not done in fifteen minutes, you owe me five bucks.’

‘You’re on.’

Feeling slightly better about herself, Solway decided to make a cup of coffee. She put on the kettle.

______________o______________

‘Put some clothes on,’ said Bart from under his beanie. It was a sentence he never thought he’d utter in his life, but here he was saying it, and meaning it, because this thing was not Solway, and he knew that because, before he’d pulled the beanie down over his face he had seen, quite clearly, that not only were its eyes extremely round and golden, but when it had smiled it had no teeth.

Which was not all it was cracked up to be, in his humble opinion.

Is that thought based on a dirty joke I think it is I don’t have clothes this is what I came here with I used a plastic poncho from your car do you have clothes I can wear then oh wait a minute she dropped something earlier on and I pulled it out of the wind  I’ll put that on okay I look like you now see if that’s better

Bart raised one side of his beanie very, very slowly and looked at the lizard.

‘Are those Solway’s knickers?’

I guess so am I wearing them correctly

‘No. They are meant to be worn, you know, down below… not on your head.’

You are wearing your knickers on your head

‘Nope, I’m not.’ Bart pulled the beanie back down to cover his chin ‘This is a beanie. It’s official headwear, in my humble opinion. What you are wearing is not headwear, it is underwear and you are meant to wear it on your under regions.’

My feet question mark I think if I wore these… do they go on both feet or just one there are two stringy bits do they go between my toes do I need to jump instead of walk you know I only just developed these legs and I do not think I have learnt how to use them yet

Bart could feel his cheeks getting very hot. He did not, under any circumstances, wish to remove the beanie.

‘Put one leg in one hole that one string makes and put the other leg in the other hole and make sure the cloth bit is in the middle and then pull them up your legs.’

He could hear shuffling. 

‘Pull them right up to the top of your legs and make sure they cover everything there if…,’ he remembered exactly how much those knickers he had bought Solway last Christmas did not cover. ‘…If you can. Don’t pull them too high though because..’ He heard a screech, which thankfully wasn’t too loud. ‘It might get uncomfortable.’

Now what

‘I think I can now probably help you find a blanket to wrap around yourself. I am coming to terms that you have absolutely no understanding of decorum, or how off-putting this is for me, so I am…’

I do understand it is perfectly natural this is what animals do to make more animals is it not I think I can help you make more animals but you are thinking this is not right because I am not Solway what an interesting idea are all humans like this you know there are many birds and animals that are like this so I suppose it makes sense okay I think I have a feeling what a blanket is and I can get it and I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. There I made a fullstop in my thoughts just for you and I have also warped a blanked around my hung on this isnt right something else is here its that bloody fucking splendid man he understand this better than you do where the hell is he it must have stopped raining I hope he has not bought the girls He has more than one

Bart pulled off his beanie.

Intermission — Straight Talk

What’s the why of it? This is the question.

Think of being the smallest child in the family. You have two big brothers, maybe, maybe not. They keep knocking you down, and they say ‘Stay down’.

You get back up.

You start to smile, and yes, sometimes it’s only on one side of your face, but it’s not a half-hearted grin, it’s a smirk.

Sometimes it’s a full-blown grin, and there are a lot of teeth displayed. Do you understand my meaning?

It’s not a display. It’s a willingness to fight. It’s your boxer in the ring, blowing his opponent a kiss. It’s a flick on the nose. Despite your willingness to make me seem small and insignificant, it’s my opportunity to say, ‘Okay. Fuck you too, Have another swing and see where it gets you.’

It’s not cowardice. You will get your diplomatic ones that do not have this little fire inside, They will keep trying to put your fire out. It’s not a physical fire, it’s a mental one, you see?

So, if you give me something to go up against, I’ll go up against it. I’ll circle it, or cross it. I’ll mark it in the sand, and I will say to you, ‘Go ahead, cross this line.’

You should not cross this line. Do not cross this line.

This is why I am telling you this. I’m the diplomatic one here. I’m telling you how it is. It’s a simple process of marking my line in the sand, and you just keep crossing that line.

Why am I not crossing that line? This is my strength that I offer to you. I do not cross the line, but I’ll keep getting up, over and over again. This is what I try to teach my boys.

Be polite.

Be kind, not naive.

Being nervous is okay.

Stand up, step up to the line and smile at your opponent. Use that adrenaline and turn it into a shit-eating grin. That is always the line I wanted to use when I wrote about Jake. Jake was a young man in a fictional story. He was not real, but his legacy is.

‘I feel threatened,’ your opponent thinks. ‘This guy is smiling at me and he has shit in his teeth. This guy (or girl) is saying hello, beautiful, and I think that’s frightening me. Or maybe I think it’s funny because they don’t take me seriously. Or maybe, they know something I don’t, which is often the case in this thought process, or maybe they simply do not give a shit what I do, because they’ll just keep getting back up. I can’t win here.’

Your opponent now has the choice to walk away, give in, or hold out a hand and say he (or she) is sorry. If they don’t then that remains their problem, not yours, because you never started this fight, but you can always finish it.

Here is another very short example. You say bee-sting. I say I have a splinter in my heel that has been there 12 months or more, and it does not concern me. It’s painful. It reminds me I’m alive. Train yourself to remember you’re alive.  

C.S. Capewell

P.S Stop using sticks and start using clicks. Not bait. Just a sound. Just a sound to get your horse to move forward. It’s the exact sound your opponent doesn’t want to hear. Walk on. CSC

You might think this is rolling out in a bad way…

But this is why it is best to read something in its entirety, not just in pieces.

Either way, it’s never what you think it is.

While Bart relaxed comfortably on his camp-chair eating breakfast, Solway  inspected the tyres. Her legs poked out from under the vehicle like two popsicle sticks and a language he’d never heard before started floating back towards him. Maybe it was time to offer some help.

Snatching the last piece of bacon out of the cooling frypan, he plodded towards her elastic-sided boots. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Very bad things, that’s what.’

‘Do you want me to have a look?’

‘Grab my legs, will you?’

Solway’s voice sounded almost as crispy as the bacon. He shoved it all in his mouth as quickly as possible, looked at his greasy fingers, decided if he was going to wipe them on anything it would be her jeans, not his, and grabbed her legs just above her fuzzy explorer socks. ‘Won’t you get sand in your hair if I drag you out like this?’

‘I honestly don’t care.’

‘Okidoki then.’

Bartholomew Branson was many things, but coordinated was not one of them. His act of pure power, dragging Solway out from under the four wheel drive, ended up with him falling backwards into the native grass on the edge of the track, one of Solway’s feet lodged neatly in his crotch, and hysterical laughter coming from the woman attached to the other end. He smiled happily to himself. This was the sound he always aimed for when it came to Solway. It took a lot to get her to crack a smile, so hearing her laugh made him think that, occasionally, just occasionally, he could do the right thing.

She rose from the sand and started scratching twigs and clumps of dirt from her beautiful blonde locks. Her smile faded almost immediately. ‘I should’ve put on a beanie,’ she muttered.

‘You can’t get everything right.’ Bart rose from the ground himself, just not quite as majestically as she had. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ He nodded at the vehicle.

‘Oh you know. Everything.’ She sighed. ‘No, it’s not that bad. I just had to pull what looked like half a forest out from underneath it, but I blame myself for that one. After all, I was the one who decided we couldn’t wait.’

‘I didn’t try to stop you,’ he reminded her gently.

‘I know, but you know I wouldn’t have listened anyway. The back wheel’s fucked. I wasn’t wrong about that. That branch pierced the sidewall, so it’s not just a puncture. We could patch it up with some duct tape I guess but there’s absolutely no air in it, so even if we got back out to the bitumen, we wouldn’t get very far.’

‘What if we…,’ Bart gazed around at the scenery. ‘Never mind.’

‘What if we what?’

‘Oh I saw this tv show once where the guys filled the tyres up with spinifex just to keep going, but they were in different country to this, and I just can’t see what we could use here.’

‘Sounds like a perfect way to start a fire,’ Solway muttered.

Bart frowned. ‘They stopped driving when the tyres started smoking which, as you know, is a pretty good indicator a fire is about to start — so that didn’t happen, Solway. Look, why I’m arguing with you about a tv show, I don’t know. What I do want to know though, is this. Are you going to let me help you or not.’

She dusted off her jeans, not meeting his gaze. ‘I’ll walk back for help.’

‘What?’ Surely he wasn’t that useless? He’d eaten all the bacon. Now he felt like a piece of toast.

‘I’ll walk back for help. Okay, not back, forwards.’ She turned and pointed eastwards, then traced the air with a finger. ‘This track circles towards the road in a couple of k’s and I can head down that way. I think there’s a siding not too far along, so I’ll probably be able to get someone to help us from there.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Right. Well, that sounds sensible.’ It sounded a lot more sensible than he felt at the moment. 

Sick was how he felt. Sick to the stomach. And, very upset, if truth be told. He’d never felt like bursting into tears before, aside from that time in year five when some kid had stolen his school bag but right now, it seemed like something had just broken in Bart Brand’s soul, and he did not know how to fix it.

‘Not that I know how to fix anything,’ he muttered.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned away. ‘Nothing at all. I suppose you want me to stay here and look after our belongings just in case someone turns up, and all that sort of thing.’ He adjusted his jeans. They seemed a little looser, but that was possibly because he’d slept in them all night.

‘Yes please.’

He glanced back as Solway pulled a backpack over the backseat.

‘Could you find me a water bottle, please,’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ Bart said quietly. ‘No problem.’ He headed for the back of the vehicle.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

He didn’t bother answering. He didn’t see the point.

Popcorn (continued). Bunyip of the Blackwood

Before I do the old copy/paste thing, I’ll tell you that a little voice inside my head told me I am tempting fate. I’m not tempting fate, mate. I am fate. Pull up your pants and let’s get on with it.

~~~~,~’~~~,~’~80>

Bart opened his eyes to a grey light creeping into a silent sky and a desperate need to relieve himself. The hardly visible glow of dawn made it almost impossible to make out their new surroundings. The previous night, aided by the vehicle’s brake lights, Solway had placed his swag in the wheel rut on one side of the track and now he quietly unzipped it, struggling to release himself like a rotund terrier from a rabbit-hole as he felt for his boots. You never knew if a little bitey would make a home in your footwear when you were sleeping rough, and it didn’t matter what you did — if you didn’t check, it would happen. He shook the boots vigorously yet as silently as possible, unwilling to wake his sleeping partner, then grabbed a nearby twig to poke in them as well.

Solway’s soft fluffy snores from the other single swag made him smile, but he didn’t let it distract him. He really needed to take a piss. Pulling on his boots, Bart stepped off the track.

Due to the fact the sun had not yet risen, and daybreak really seemed to be taking its bloody time, it remained dark under the low canopy of trees. Bart slowly stepped over saplings and dropped branches, flapping furiously at the stickiness of unseen cobwebs. He stopped. Should he face away from the road or towards the road when he went to the loo. Did it matter? There didn’t seem to be anyone else here, aside from a distant raven heralding the oncoming daylight. The track, once they’d come off the hill, had been terribly overgrown. Once again, Bart assumed it to be highly likely no one had been this way for a very long time. He could hear the gurgle of running water not too far away and shivered in response, then heaved a sigh of relief as he began to water the plants.

The sun was rising. Wattle bushes began to take shape before his eyes and tiny, unseen birds started to chirp. Solway had told him in order to get a real good feel for a place you had to take in all the sights, sounds, smells and be aware of what local wildlife to look out for. It made better footage, she said, if you at least tried to sound like you knew what you were talking about. He couldn’t smell anything except for the acrid stench of his own piss and he couldn’t see the bloody birds. He had no idea where they were. 

Somewhere in the trees, he thought. Which isn’t helpful.

A heavy thump reverberated through the soles of his boots. If he could explain it as a bang, he would have, but it was not a bang it was a really big thump and he didn’t know what the fuck it was and, if it could be anything alive, why he didn’t hear it again, or which direction it had come from.

It was not a kangaroo. Of that he was ninety seven point nine five and a bit positive.

Kangaroos jumped when they weren’t grazing. If he’d heard a kangaroo, or disturbed one, or whatever, it would have made more than one thumping sound, that’s for sure.

It wasn’t a branch. If it had been a falling branch, it would have had to have fallen from a very big fucking tree, and there were no trees big enough to make that sound.

Bart realised he’d been spraying the surrounding scrub as he’d turned, searching for whatever the hell it was and somehow, he’d become a sprinkler system and it didn’t matter. He needed to know where the fuck that sound came from — and the cracking sound that had just happened behind him. He lurched around again, tripped over the low bush he’d been pissing on, and landed on his arse on something decidedly prickly.

‘What the hell are you doing,’ Solway asked from above his head.

He let go of his dick. ‘Nothing?’

‘You are a fucking weirdo sometimes, Bart,’ she said, pointing a roll of toilet paper at him. ‘Do you need the shovel?’

He pulled up his fly and got to his feet. ‘No thanks, I’m good. Go do your thing. I’ll just head back to the Landy.’

The sun had fully hitched itself over the horizon as he reached the sand – the long shadow created by the four-wheel-drive nearly reaching his swag. His heartbeat began to slow as he opened the back door and started searching for something to eat, then the hush of footsteps on the track had him looking over his shoulder at Solway’s grinning face.

‘Hungry, are ya?’

‘I’m a tad peckish, yes. He pulled a cardboard box towards himself. ‘Did we bring milk?’

‘We did, it’s in the…’ She looked him up and down. ‘Are you trying to distract me?’

‘No?’

‘What happened back there, Bart?’

‘I heard something. God, I sound like a little kid in an American movie. Did you hear something?’

She smirked and shook her head. ‘Just you, falling all over the place. What scared you?’

‘Nothing? Okay,’ he sighed as she raised one perfect eyebrow. ‘Look, I know what roos’ sound like, and I know it wasn’t a roo, okay? I don’t even think there are roos’ around here. It was just one big thump, I didn’t know what it was, I got spooked, and then you turned up.’

She grinned again. ‘Are you going to get that box out of the back of the vehicle, or are you going to balance it there on the edge of the seat forever.’

‘Oh come on,’ he muttered. ‘I was pulling it out from under that friggin’ blanket when you turned up, and I am just about to remove it, if you’ll just give me a bloody minute and if you like, I’ll take it back to wherever it is you want to set up the camp oven. How’s that?’

‘That’s great,’ she replied, smiling even wider. ‘But you could have waited until I’d pulled out the table and set that up before taking out that bloody box. So, I guess you’re hungry.’

Bart sighed again, so deeply he felt his shoulders rise and fall. ‘I am hungry, okay? I got a fright, and I just want a biscuit, a cuppa coffee, and a sit, alright?’

‘That’s fine.’ Solway gave him a hug. ‘I’ll grab everything and get the kettle going. Why don’t you grab a bickie while I set it all up.’