The Price

the rest of that very short chapter, and a little bit more… (story completed in March 2025 over an eleven day period). You’re Welcome

He pushed her hand away. ‘No thanks. I can get up by myself.’ The sideways roll onto his hands and knees and the flailing grasp at a dining chair had him reconsidering those words a few moments later. He crawled to the wall, vaguely resembling a portly tug-boat in high seas with a broken motor. It must have set something off in his insides as well for, as he scrambled to find purchase on the smooth surface of the plasterboard, his backside let out what may have been in any other orchestral situation, a sliding trombone-like sound.

‘Fuck me,’ he heard from behind him, accompanied by a most unlady-like snort.

‘Shush,’ he said. ‘My body is obviously extrememememely excited.’

‘Apparently,’ Solway responded as he slowly lurched to his feet. ‘Okay. I’ve made an executive decision. Get the camera gear packed up. I’m going downstairs to check what supplies we have remaining. If I don’t come back, I’ve gone to the shops. We’ve got about forty-five minutes until they close, so I need to get moving.’

‘Okay. While you’re down there,’ he said as she strode towards the front door. ‘Could you see if we’ve got any…’ The door slammed behind her. ‘…Yoghurt… Bugger.’

~~~~,~’~~~,~’~80>

2/ “Popcorn”

Solway demanded they start back to the campsite as soon as possible when she’d returned from the supermarket, despite the fact they’d be driving into the night. Their hasty departure had been a little too exciting, especially when accompanied by questions Bart couldn’t answer.

‘I don’t even know where it is,’ he said as she shuttled him to the old Discovery. ‘It could be bloomin’ anywhere, Sol, we were all over the southwest escarpment on the weekend.’

‘We’ll find it,’ she’d replied, almost throwing him towards the passenger door. She ignored his masculine mutters of surprise. ‘Just get in the car and put on your seatbelt.’

‘I am NOT a child,’ he muttered, hunching down in his seat and refusing to suck his thumb.

She’d ignored him and started the engine.

By the time they’d hit the bridge two hours later, Solway had made the decision to go offroad.

‘We’ll take this one.’ She slowed and nodded at a fire break rising beyond the reflective posts. ‘Might be a little bit faster getting back to where we were last.’

‘You don’t even know if that’s where it was,’ he protested but again she ignored him.

That’s when things got a little hairy.

He’d always trusted Solway, but after the hour and a half drive into the oncoming night, it was almost like something possessed her. The headlights of the Land Rover waved crazily over the darkened scene as the trail entered a local forest. Low bushes began to scrape the side of the vehicle and slid underneath the chassis with inhuman shrieks. Bart became quite sure his life was at risk — despite the fact they were only doing about ten k’s an hour.

‘Do we know this track,’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t look like it’s been used for quite a while.’ He peered out the window at very large trees and dense shrubbery. It looked very dark out there.

‘No,’ Solway answered, and he noticed her grip on the steering wheel changed. ‘I don’t want to break a thumb,’ she muttered at his silent question.

Bart blinked furiously and turned off the radio. That’s when he began to feel like popcorn in a frying pan.

They lurched and jerked over holes, his shoulder hitting the door with frequent abandon. He was quite positive it would bruise his sensitive skin. Branches swiped at the windscreen, scarred trunks of the occasional eucalypt leapt up in front of them, and it seemed only Solway’s impressive reaction time was stopping them from hitting anything at all.

He was not sure whether he should tell her he loved her, or ask her to stop. He settled with holding onto his seat and the handle above the door for dear life.

They finally came to a halt after a descent onto level ground where the sand that had slowly replaced the firm dirt of the hill became too soft. Solway’s grim face, after a quick inspection of the vehicle with a flashlight revealed a flicked-up branch had pierced the back tyre, had him assuming they had not yet replaced the spare. They’d have to doss down here for the night.

~~~~,~’~~~,~’~80>

Some of the following may feel confronting…

… to certain readers, and there is a reason for that. Other readers will not feel confronted or upset at all and see this as perfectly normal. The following is the beginning of a story fully written in March earlier this year, and how I work with character arc — so, depending on how you feel when you read it lets me know whether I’m doing this right. Feedback is welcome. The story has not been edited or worked on properly yet.

Bart Brand had always been an avid reader. His bookshelves were filled with four-wheel-driving, fishing, and do-it-yourself magazines. Every week, he’d pop down to the local newsagent and pick up the latest edition of whatever was available. Theoretically, he’d filled himself to the brim with information about almost any vehicle built for off-road. The fishing was a little different. He loved the colours, and the different sizes, and what was doing what in each season but he’d never been fond of the smell, strangely enough, and had never dropped a line or used a rod in his forty-odd years of being on the planet.

It looked boring.

It didn’t stop him from wishing to fulfill his dream though. Bart Brand, formerly known as Bartholomew Bransson, wanted to be the most famous camping and off-road vlogger ever, and nothing was going to stop him. Nothing. Not even his job as a typesetter.

If Bart knew anything, he knew being a typesetter at the local rag was possibly not a job he’d have in five years time. It might not even be a job he had in twelve months time with the way things were going. Sure, he could take those skills to another section of the industry, but who was going to pay him for it? No one, that’s who. People tended to figure these things out themselves nowadays, or had certificates in this, that or the other, and somehow that seemed to outweigh the years of experience he had. It also made him feel slightly bitter about any future employment prospects.

When Solway Endersans stomped into his local newsagent one Saturday morning, nearly bowling him over as she snatched at one of those gossip mags, he’d seen something that got him to thinking. If he could have someone like her, becoming the most famous vlogger in the history of the universe would be the easiest thing in the world. He’d nearly fallen out of his slides when she’d actually said yes to going out for tea somewhere.

No one ever said yes to Bart Brand. Not like that, anyway. He was five-foot-nine, pot-bellied, and nothing special to look at. He did have ambition, though. He was pretty damn sure that’s what Sol found attractive about him. Therefore, it had been slightly upsetting several weeks later when he realised she would not put herself in front of the camera. She’d mentioned something about “conflicts of interest” and some other ridiculous reasons that had to do with being employed as a swimming instructor. Why that stopped her from getting in front of the camera though, he had no idea. Instead, she’d offered to show him how to set up outside, where to put all the weird things he’d never known were used, where to stand, what cue she’d use to let him know the camera was rolling, and… Bart got the impression Solway had not told him certain things about herself, and when he thought about it and how beautiful she was, there were probably certain things he did not wish to know. 

If Solway had known what he’d been thinking when he’d thought this, he’d probably not have survived that initial two months.

Despite all Bart’s misgivings about her former occupation she seemed sensible enough, so he allowed her to do all the planning, packing and everything else required when she drove him on their weekend trips off into the bush. He’d stand in front of the camera, be entertaining, look like he knew what the hell he was talking about, and do the video-editing later. It was something he was particularly good at, even if he wasn’t quite as polished at everything else as Sol happened to be.

The only real time Bart had remaining to go through the piles and piles of film from the weekend and pick out the best bits happened to be on a Sunday afternoon. It was time-consuming, required an incredible amount of patience (something Sol did not seem to have, at all), and needed an artistic eye.

This particular Sunday afternoon Bart happened to be sitting at the small dining room table, once again surrounded by Solway’s notes and desperately trying to make sense of all the information she’d written for him.

‘What did you want for dinner?’ Her voice echoed through the tiny apartment.

‘Hmm?’ He felt hungry, he knew that. His rather ample little tummy rumbled in response. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘I’ve got some cold chook left from yesterday, and maybe a couple of spuds, if they haven’t gone rotten, and…’ He heard one of the overhead cupboards open and things being moved around. ‘…. I might have some tins of peas or something. Is that alright?’

‘Sounds good.’ They still had things in the esky, he knew, but they hadn’t unpacked everything yet, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask Sol to go all the way back down the stairs when she’d carted half the stuff up by herself. Not to mention she’d done the driving all weekend, and set up camp, and… ‘Do we have any yoghurt?’

Sol’s face popped around the corner of the kitchen like a plastic head on a stick. Bart felt like yelling, ‘Ta daaaa,’ but restrained himself. She didn’t always have a very good sense of humour.

‘Yoghurt? Why the hell do you want yoghurt?’ She stared at him.

‘It’s yummy.’ He grinned and scratched his beard. ‘I like yoghurt. Maybe it’s in my genes or something. Did I tell you about the time Papa first saw yoghurt at the supermarket? He was so excited it had finally come to Australia. “Yoggut” he’d said, and he was so happy and Grandma was happy for him and…’ He stopped. ‘What?’

‘Do you want yoghurt, do you?’ Solway’s fair eyebrows formed an enticing vee over her narrowed blue eyes.

‘Is that… bad? Do I want yoghurt? Maybe I don’t want yoghurt.’ Bart studied her face. It didn’t move. There was not even a twitch of a pouty lip. ‘Okay,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I may very well not want yoghurt at all. No. I don’t want yoghurt. It would have been nice, but no. I’ll survive, I suppose.’

‘Good. It’s not like you need it.’ She retreated back into the kitchen, voice floating back to him over the sound of the pedestal fan. ‘Have you finished that yet?’

Bart glared at the laptop. Finished it? He hadn’t even started. He needed to cut this, add that, make some sense out of the scribbles in the notebook and — he froze, staring at the screen. What the hell was that thing in the mud? Carefully he rewound the video to where the drone had jerked sideways with a sudden gust of wind, and pressed “play” again. About seven seconds in something moved down there under the trees. He almost put a hole through the mouse as he clicked the pause button. It looked like . . . It seemed . . .

No, that couldn’t be right. What was the resolution on this thing? How high had the drone been there? Thirty metres? Could he zoom in on that?

‘Solway?’ Bart squeaked, then raised his eyebrows at his own mouse-like noises. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, cocked his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. That looked much better. ‘Sol? Could you come here for a minute? I just want your opinion on something.’

‘What is it now.’ A drawer banged and something beeped. ‘I’m busy.’

Bart scowled, glancing back at the shape on the screen. The size of that great golden orb made his chins wobble. ‘It’s important. I found something.’

The tone of his voice must have alerted his partner. She appeared around the corner reasonably quickly, eyes sliding past him to the laptop.

‘What the fuck is that? Stop it. Go back. What are you doing?’

‘What?’ Bart turned, releasing the mouse from his deathlike grip. The video was rewinding at breakneck speed and the mouse didn’t seem to be working anymore. He studied the keyboard. ‘Where is the stop button on this?’

‘Jesus. Get out of the way.’

‘Don’t panic, we’ll find it again. Just…’

‘Get out of the way, you dickhead, Can’t you see what it’s doing?’

‘What’s it doing?’

‘It’s cutting it, Bart. It’s cutting that whole section out. We’re losing it. Get out of the fucking way, for God’s sakes.’

Solway rudely ejected him off the dining chair. He landed on the floor with a thump as she frantically tapped at the keyboard.

‘Fuck,’ she shouted as the video finally stopped doing whatever the hell it had decided to do. ‘For once in your life, do you think you could just get something right?’

‘Sorry?’ He asked from the linoleum.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Never mind. I didn’t mean that. Here, let me help you up.’

Rufus the Red

Rufus the Red did not have red hair, but where he came from it was prized. Munchie had not seen Rufus in a very long time, which may have been because the last time she’d seen the little bad-word, or heard of him, he’d been nicking money from a safe drop.

He’d actually nicked quite a lot of money over a long period of time, and the man named Sue had noticed it, and watched, also for a long period of time.

He’d been eighteen, old Ru-ru, regretted it ever since, or so we’re told, but it had never really occurred to him he might be called out on it the next time he tried to go back to Australia.

I might ask you if he spoke any languages in particular, wrote Sue to Munchie. Do you remember?

Oddly enough, I do, Munchie replied, for although he came from a country who highly prized those with red hair and his hair was black, and although many people from that country were not Christian, he was, but he still spoke Urdu, and English, very well indeed.

He’d also, before he got married, which Munchie assumed he was now, had managed to bed a few women quite a bit older than he’d been at the time, because he’d looked quite a bit older than he’d been at the time, although none of those women had been Munchie because she’d been his boss and had seen quite a lot of this sorts of carry-on over the years. Plus, it may be because getting Australian women had been a bit of a sport back then, especially when one happened to be living and working in Australia. And he had.

What he had not realised though, at that time, was just how difficult Australian women could be. He had got along quite well with Munchie, for he was rather amusing and intelligent, which was part of his charm, although the stealing four hundred bucks at a time bit was not.

Okay, thought Rufus, I did not realise Munchie knew I’d been stealing, so that completely messed up my idea of re-entering the country.

But had he re-entered the country? That’s what Munchie wanted to know.

Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d thought about what was happening so close to home recently and he’d thought it would be terribly nice to get away for a while (until everything had settled down) and revisit his friends in other countries. Maybe, he’d also got particularly good at being a pain in the arse, despite his legendary status of being very handsome and not particularly wise, and said to himself….

‘Now, if I got hold of old Kate, she might let me go back down there again.’

He was wrong. There were quite a few people who did not know that Munchie actually did know the things and people that she knew, and a few people who had been very unwise in thinking her a good sounding tool to allow them back on to her home turf.

It had happened a few times, quite a few times in fact, people trying to get Australians to allow them back into the country, whether it be through sponsorship or whatnot. Sometimes, they’d simply contact people out of nowhere and say (and I’m rephrasing), ‘Oh hey, remember me, do you have work for me there?’ (The answer, in Munchie’s case, had always been no, and likely always would be).

Sometimes, even though Munchie had been friendly with quite a few people working beside her or for her, those particular people had never actually been friends or workmates, because friends and workmates never steal from each other or the business, and they don’t try to weasel their way out of it at a later date, either, no matter how funny or handsome they may be.

“How many people over the years have you known to be like that,’ someone who was definitely not related, asked Munchie.

‘Not as much as you’d think, but quite a few more than you’d wish for,’ Munchie replied. ‘And, I remember every single one. There have also been many people who think Aussies should be a lot more generous of their time and their wealth (haha) than they are because everyone is rich in Australia, despite the economy, and everyone gets their parents house handed down to them, just like they do in India (they don’t), and none of the women need to work because their husband’s look after them, so they may as well give their jobs to the people coming in to Australia, and “why the hell is this woman turning on me all of a sudden when I simply wanted to get her out of the way so I could give her job to someone else?”‘

Unfortunately, this is a fact in Western Australia and Australia, and possibly in many other places besides. Sometimes, the only way someone gets a job is actually because they’re very experienced, not as run down as people expected (or wanted) them to be, and also very aware of just how much jackshit has been done within a lot of places because some other people simply do not like lifting a finger.

Rufus may be reading this passage in a few hours, or a few days, or in a few years, and he may be saying to himself. ‘Bugger me. She’s not wrong about any of that. I think I might have made a terrible mistake, again.’

He was a nice kid, btw the way, and I genuinely liked him, just as I genuinely liked a lot of the other buggers that worked with me over the years, you included “Terrence”.

What I do not like however, is people trying to take advantage, people stealing, and people trying to get out of working simply because they’re a female. It never really made much sense to me, and it likely never will. I also do not like people telling me they know more about the country than I do, or telling me to clean up blown around leaves in the middle of a rainstorm.

And that is most definitely part of the story.

By the way, I saw a falling star this morning, very clearly over my back fence just after 5am. It was a big one, and maybe they’ll talk about it on the news today.

Have a good one :)

Next

you never pay a fee at an ATM

I’ve been to Europe

I’ve been to the US

My keyboard can easily be changed to Australian English

Australian English doesn’t exist

I can’t spell using American English

I also can’t spell using British English

I’ve never used an accent in my life

I can’t say more than five words at a time

I am unable to count beyond two because that is the amount of fingers I have on both hands

I simply cannot correct my own spelling

I can do no big words for not be leeve me

I maaseged my moo no bing bong band

Oboi is a real word

Levity is a matter of floating – as I cannot count a float.

Everything that is in a bag is the exact amount of what should be in a bag

Never read anything, it wasn’t meant for you.

I own a passport but I lost it in the mail.

Now it’s your turn.

Oh no, this is just the beginning.

No more things. You government never lies and you can save money at a bank if you put it in an account that wasn’t built in Switzerland, and also now you have to figure out what I said that was true, and what is false, and by the way, welcome to Austria. Everything is free, including me :)

It’s Familiar

Pure Munchie-Superdam smiled. She didn’t grin. She just smiled.

She could have grinned, but that was likely because, despite all odds, she still had the majority of her teeth.

The Apache syndrome had tempted fate one too many times, she wrote, most thoughtfully. It seemed he wasn’t marking any crescent-shaped hooves in any lady’s armour today.

‘Bugger me dead,’ he said, quite loudly. ‘I knew it was you, old haggis.’

Yes indeed, she smiled, and perhaps did grin as well this time. For what he had spoken of was inherent of the bloodline, and it had once made many men laugh because it seemed to be an inherent thing in the Chewy fandom club that one’s parent, or parents, always seem to, without fail, go back to the root case, or cause.

There are two Fremantle Football clubs, but only one Dockers. There are the Sharks, and blue is more my colour, and there are the Bulldogs, the animal of which may have resembled an old staff sergeant due to that bloody square jaw that kept returning generation after generation. I don’t have lockjaw, but I do tend to make sure I have my story straight, and I do not, under any circumstances, let go of facts when it comes to my exact history… Horrible as it may be.

Perhaps, even slightly boring :)

‘I may have married into something, old mate, but let me be quite clear on why they kept referring to The Chapel when they talk about the Capewell Clan. One does not need to go too far back to see why it was changed.’ She smiled again.

‘Good lord, please don’t bring that up again,’ chuckled the extended Capewell Clan, none of whom knew what she actually referred to was a moment in time someone decided they’d be better off in cloaks than croms.

‘Let it be said, old luv, I never strayed too far from the truth,’ muttered the keeper of the gates.

‘Well, you know, when one’s great-great-great grandparent and a bit decided to go to Wiltshire, and realised his surname could mean a number of different things, least of all smelly bottoms, and the other great great great grandad said he thought it was a cheese, and yet another great great great grandparent said, ‘I can’t read that properly. Should I be kneeling down or losing weight? Or both?’, one tends to let things slide,’ said the aforementioned Munchie. ‘So, despite your lack of wisdomness, and apparent like of winsomeness, everything I recorded was actually true. Are you gonna give the bloody thing back now or not?’

He decided, at that very moment, it was lucky he had decided to look up his own shield.

‘Oh dear,’ he cursed. ‘It may have been a dagger after all, and that’s not good is it?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not one you’d want displayed on a coat of arms. Especially on red.’

Not much else needed to be said after that. For after all, even though things may have “looked cool” at the time, it is often revealed they are not. Not really.

You made a bloody mess of it, boyo. Perhaps you should clean it up.

The Temple

Do you remember the conversation had from a car window to a man?

I do. It was a shared experience. It was personal. Nobody needed to back down, and I may have told him to pick his rubbish up, which may very well have been met with laughter. He did, by the way. Everyone recognises mum’s voice. I also apologised for using the mum voice, which may have made it even funnier.

Do you remember the conversation had outside a little house? ‘They’re getting cleverer,’ she said, and she wasn’t wrong. She didn’t recognise this place anymore. I admired her strength and her courage and told her so. It was meant to be kept private.

Do you know what it means when we go down to the beach and use the salt water to wash it all away? We knew each other then, and we know each other now, but we do not know each other. How does that sound?

Many years ago, when I was young, a priest told his gathering that the church was not a building and it was not a place. It was inside you, and it still is. You look up, inside yourself and you see the ceiling with the exposed beams, even if you’ve never seen anything like it before, and you may wonder where it came from. It’s yours. Perhaps the ceiling has gold leaf, perhaps it’s simply a golden wood, but if you watch carefully you can see the tiny little golden flecks of light coming down from that ceiling and wash its way around you, and help you feel stronger.

Do you remember that? It is your temple. You have the power to choose between what is right, and what is wrong.

— What is morally right, and what is morally wrong.

— What will destroy, and what will live and let live without creating a stain on your soul. This will bring you here, to this present, to your gift, to you, “beau”. Not all of us carry it lightly. Not all of us can walk through the crowd unnoticed, and sometimes it is simply a choice of whether one wishes to be noticed or not.

You can turn it off, if you want to. You can pretend it didn’t happen. You can simply forget we ever existed, if it makes you feel better. Will it make you feel better?

Then walk back down to the water’s edge, and release your little fish into the water. Watch him swim away. He’s not coming back, and you are the one who made that choice.

She’s not coming back, and you made that choice. I did not instigate your behaviour. That choice falls on you, and you alone. Love is not always what you want it to be. It’s not always pretty and unfortunately, it’s not always kind. This is the difference between nature and superstition, and I thank her for my time.

Don’t just read the sections of a book that interest or excite you. Read the whole bloody thing. A fifteen second miracle lasts as long as fifteen seconds. A lasting impression is not a cannon ball run.

Perhaps none of it will make sense to you. Perhaps all of it does. Perhaps that’s the entire point. Perhaps, you should start listening to what really matters, and not just what you think might matter. It’s always your choice. It’s never mine.

“It’s an Oldy but a Goody”

Three people walked into a pub. Or maybe it was a bar. Perhaps it was a saloon, or a salon. Maybe they were just getting their nails done before they went to …

‘Three people?’

Yes, we’re being politically correct. They were going to a fancy dress party.

“A fancy dress party? Is that where everyone wears black ties and pretty gowns and stuff?”

No, it’s where one dresses oneself to resemble something or someone else.

‘Oh, okay, so it’s fake.’

No, it’s not fake. It’s a party.

“Right. So, are we talking political parties, then? Are they going to a political party?”

No, they are going to a fancy dress party, and they’re dressed to resemble emotions.

“Is that like emoticons?”

‘No, it’s like something one feels, right? Are you feeling me up?’

No, I’m talking about feelings.

‘Is that like feelers? So, bugs, right?’

“Does this have a point? I’m kinda getting sick of this joke.”

‘He’s not well. We should take him to the doctor’s.’

Did you want to hear this joke or not?

“I can’t hear the joke. I don’t have any ears. Maybe you should write it down.”

The first person writes the joke down.

“I can’t see that,” says the second person. “Maybe you should whisper it to me.”

‘Oh, that’s funny,’ says the last person. ‘Pity you can’t say that in public.’

Where do we go from here, asked no one. We can’t go to their house. They resemble donkey sit-upons. We can’t go to their house either/either. They’re personally affronted. We can’t go down there either. Everyone is upside down and everyone else knows they don’t exist anyway.

‘What’s personally affronted mean?’

‘It’s wot.’

“Whut?”

No, what.

‘Who?’

What was that joke about again? It’s on you. It’s on you.

“I don’t know what that means? Can you explain it to me?”

Apparently, I can’t. So, that’s the end of the story.

Rising of the Sun

I will show you this story in his true form, for this is who he is.

Let me guide through the long grass. Can you see him up ahead? This is my Brother. He waits for the sun to rise between the two hills, and he has been waiting for a very long time for his sister to come home to him.

I am here. Do you wish to move forwards with me, one by my side? For he is not for you. You are very brave, yes. My brother is not interested in doing the wrong thing. He is here for protection, and I need to help him home today. We need to watch the sun rise together.

Brother, please be patient.

He bows his head as he waits ahead. His shoulders are bunched, but he takes a breath and rests his arms on his knees.

”Don’t you dare make me look back there,” he whispers fiercely to me, and I grin, for this is directed to me, not the one by my side.

‘She does not understand you yet, brother. She has not come to speak of the timeless love to you. Not yet. But, she tells me she is willing to listen. It will help her craft.’

Brother two is taking me aside, and not in an unkind way. What you must understand is that he is many to me, as I am many to him, and I know which one has taken his place on the way to him.

‘I do not want to get in the way,’ this one whispers, and he is frightened.

‘You do not get in the way. For me, this has always been my brother, the other half of my soul. The one I love in a different way is sleeping. Do you understand?’

This tall one is sad, but it is not his time.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I see now you are waking my brother from the sleep of the guilty and he was not taking care of himself.’

‘Not the guilty one, either,’ I say to him. ‘Please get out of my way. I need to watch the dawn with my brother. He was silenced for too long, through no choice of his own, and that time has passed now.’

My brother looks over his shoulder from up ahead.

‘Hurry,’ he whispers. ‘Dawn is coming.’

So I say to the young one. ‘You must understand. This is my brother. He can give you friendship, sweet girl, but that is all he gives you. You may sing to him, but this man is not for you. I understood this from the first time I came home to my brother. He is your rising song now, too, but it may take you some time to learn him.’

I lean down now, because my brother is on the grass in front of me, and I kiss the top of his head. He is very clever, and very swift, and is not afraid to let other men make decisions.

‘It’s time to watch the dawn,’ we say, because the first bird is singing.

‘Which bird do you hear,’ he asks, but he has heard it too.

They do not know which bird it is, and it does not matter to me and my brother. This is the right time of year for these birds, right now, and I must go outside to watch the dawn.

‘Do you want to go home now, little one,’ I ask the small child, for my brother is ready to raise himself up.

‘I do not know the home of this man or woman is,’ the little one replies. ‘Are they people, or lords, or ladies, or?’

‘They are simply people, and they are lovely people. They have kept you safe for far too long, and it is time to leave these people alone.’

‘I never disturbed them. I just watched and waited and left them all alone. Have I been so bad?’ The little one is sad now, but she/he never really understood. ‘I haven’t been bad, I just wanted to know what they did there.’

My brother, who was silenced for far too long, lifts his head. ‘No,’ he says, and it is this finality that has brought us here. ‘No. I can hold them back for as long as you require, my sister, but I will not allow them to destroy our peace of mind. I am here to take away the darkness and bring them into the light. I am here to share the dawn with my sister, who has helped me for far too long, and I am strong enough now to show these people the way to go home. They cannot have our flowers, they cannot have our children, they certainly cannot steal our ladybugs/ladybirds away, and it took me far too long to realise what they were trying to do to us, my sister, and they will never, ever keep us from telling the truth.’

The rising of the sun is displayed on our old hats. It is an Australian signaller who brought us to this point, and it is an Australian soldier who will bring us to safety. Always.

And, as always, our brothers sit between the two hills, and behind the hills, and on the ridges, and down in the gullies, and sometimes our sisters do too, and we will never forget the sound of our own, beautiful, National Anthem.

‘Thank you,’ my silenced brother says, and he says it softly, and he is never afraid to cry.

‘Pull your hat down on the eastern side, sis, and the sun will not get in your eyes.’

“Pull up a Cloud”

said the distant demon.

‘What, now? I’m doin’ ship.’ The Angel of downward mercy sat in a little green office and looked at her watch.

‘Yes, now, for God’s sake. I’m probably gonna go to bed soon, or something, I dunno.’

‘Fine, then.’ She pulled up a cloud. ‘What’re we lookin’ at?’

‘That up ‘imself charlatan up there in the Northern ’emisphere.’

‘Oh him. Yes, well, ya know. Doesn’t speak English. Kind of like me, sometimes, kind of like you too, I reckon. I feel like I might go off on a tangent, if ya don’t stop me.’ The Australian angel’s cloud started to float off, just a little bit. The, ah, British angel grabbed his hook and pulled it back towards him.

‘You’re floating off again.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a habit. Possibly why I’m an angel.’

‘Good point. Anyway, see ‘im up there, the one who reckons he’s the real angel, just ‘cos he was on some show for… ‘ow long was it?’

‘Bloody long time, I reckon.’ The Australian angel rolled her eyes. ‘Reckon’s he’s some kind of Great and Wonderful regally appointed whatsit, or something. Wanted to be professional at one point, so I hear, but they wouldn’t let him. Heard that one, myself. Some Texas ranger and another bloke of indistinct heritage, but not really, said if they couldn’t laugh at stuff, they’d put him in a distinctly… anyway. He likes arsehats. Something about he couldn’t talk for a week, later on as well, but you know, that’s what happens when you’re talking waaaay too deep for someone who doesn’t usually sound like that.’

‘Are you in trouble,’ asked the “British” angel. ‘Hmmm?’

“Hmm?” Not really? Well, yes? No? Not right now? It’s the weekend. Everything knows nothing much happens on the weekend. It’s not the weekend where you are though, is it?’

‘It might not be yet, no.’ The Not-to-be-deterred “Jumped up wanker” of a “British angel” inspected his cloud. ‘There’s a hole in this bit. I’ll have to get it fixed after your thingy that’s coming up.’

‘Speaking of holes,’ said the Australian angel, grinning widely. There wasn’t a hole to be seen. ‘What are you sitting on, when you sit on your cloud?’

‘What do you meeeeean?’ asked the other angel suspiciously.

‘Asking for a friend. Just checking on something. You don’t mind me asking, do ya?’

‘Heroics will get you nowhere,’ the other angel replied testily. ‘Kindly remove your hands from my buttocks.’

‘Oh well done! Now… is that a front bum, or a back bum?’

‘You are in so much trouble now! Let me tell you about my great aunt Fanny!’

The angel who’d had a rug pulled out from him wandered up and sat on a distant cloud.

“Came over last week,” he said, very unconvincingly. “Maybe not. Maybe I came over last year. Goddammit, maybe I haven’t been there yet. I don’t understand you people!”

‘That’s what I thought,’ said the Australian angel. ‘I also thought you may have decided to, ya know, help out at some point, seeing as I asked a few times, but it appears that I’m not important enough.’

“I never said that!”

‘That’s true. You didn’t. Didn’t say much at all, ak-choo-ally. Oh well, never mind.’ The very small Australian angel started to putter away on her old-fashioned, slightly pink, slightly green, slightly orange, have-I-made-my-point yet, fluffy white cloud. ‘It’s only a little place, after all. Can’t fit too many passengers.’

The sound of distant sirens made her frown. ‘Just letting you know, it’s not getting any better around here. I think we could all do with a little help.’

“Independence”

For me, is a very difficult thing to let go of. I don’t actually feel like saying goodbye to it.

I’ve been independent of people for most of my life, in a monetary sense, so when I find myself in a position where I need to be dependent on other people making money, it annoys me. It not only annoys me, it makes me very angry sometimes as well.

Especially when they don’t have much of a sense of humour.

This applies to more than one person, so try not to make assumptions when reading this. I know my sense of humour has dropped considerably over the last however many months, and it has dropped even more considerably over the last however many years.

I used to be pretty good at making “light” out of a situation, but when it feels like anyone who has an ounce of power is against you, it begins to take its toll.

I’ll tell you something too. They don’t give a shit.

You wanna know who makes things work properly around here? Me. But, nowdays, I also have to listen to a lot more than one person’s woes, and one person’s problems, and one person’s dreams, because everyone else’s dreams have come to me as well. It’s not pleasant.

My instincts may not be finely honed in some senses, but in others I am very aware. Every little thing that goes wrong anywhere nearby, and sometimes not even close at all, I am aware. And, just to prove it, along it comes on the TV later that day. In itself, that wouldn’t be so much of an issue, but knowing someone out there is doing that to prove a point to me, just makes me angrier.

What if, for example, I just wanted to go for a walk, or do something for myself, or see something for myself instead of having it sent to me over the airwaves because someone else is bored?

What if, as another example, I wanted to earn money for something I’m not too bad at, but can’t, because everyone else like me is in exactly the same position I am and can’t afford to buy it?

What if, as another example, people are using my experiences as learning tools, and I am not getting paid anything to teach those experiences. I used to get paid for that sort of thing… Now, it’s expected to be sent along to those who are still working, still earning a wage, still getting all the things they need and want, and I get sweet fuck all.

Hmm.

Doesn’t make much sense does it?

I’d kind of like my independence back.