writing

The Funny Thing About Getting Older

I put the first picture up on my gravatar or whatever the hell it’s called, because frankly, it’s safer. I seem to have adopted more sons than I actually gave birth to, again, and really I don’t want to frighten them off, they are all very sweet. (That is, when they’re not swearing and carrying on and being all masculine and shit — which can be very f*cking annoying).

Some of my imaginary friends may be male, but they have the same understanding of what this means.

‘I haven’t put on my makeup yet,’ an unnamed friend screeches through his bedroom window. ‘Kindly remove your hands from my buttocks until I look twenty years younger and twice as good-looking.’

I think he had to man up to say that one, because it is rather funny. We won’t say anything else about that though, will we. Yes, I know, he wasn’t quite real, but he was real enough for someone else to say, ‘I want to be Harry.’

Not too many fellas wanted to be my ‘I am now in the Special Forces and am terrified of losing my marbles like the guy I thought I could look up to.’ Possibly because they recognised it, wished to avoid it, and when it may have been suggested to them through, once again, unnamed channels, they decided it was perhaps the perfect time to ask their long term girlfriends to not run away on them quite yet, because they needed to ask them a question.

We don’t all get to live the dream. This part of a long ago story was probably a little too real to a lot of people, and not something they could laugh about for too long. Maybe that’s why so many of us shed so many tears over the aeons.

Anyway, I took a few shots of me trying to look more cool than I actually am, this morning, and I took them without my glasses on. When I did put them back on, I thought, ‘Jesus effing Christ, what the hell, and definitely not my idea of a good time thanks very much by crikey.’

Fortunately, I could move the blur button around on my phone, and I felt much happier about myself. Twenty years, or possibly fifteen, or maybe slightly less, who knows really in the scheme of things (the last year has been quite shit) gone in the push of a finger along a screen. The wattle neck remains, but I don’t really care, to be very honest. It’s who I am, after all, which is why I will show the last picture first and not the other way around.

That feels so much better.

I’m not very good at taking myself seriously, but I will add I have a reasonable ego, so those who think I took off from other places through fright, or not believing in myself, or other equally ridiculous things, sorry to tell you this, but you’re wrong. I left those other places because I have a seriously awful temper, and the people I “crashed into” for lack of better words, well, “some” of them had tempers as equally horrific as my own. It was not a pleasant time for any of us.

There were some lovely, slightly misled, people who, though they were not experiencing quite the same battle of egos I was experiencing with unnamed bullshit artists and ratbags from hell, thought I may have been having problems with my mental health. I was, to be honest, because who the feck let those bastards in there, is what I want to know. Bloody hell.

Still, I will show them I am not being kind today, so they’ll have to put up with this one. I’m not kidding, this one is a pain the arse.

You’re in trouble now.

Just for good measure, I’ll add the weird school teacher who isn’t a school teacher at all, but may possibly pass as one of those mean old ballet instructors with a bung leg and one eye. I haven’t put a colour in my hair for a while, so you’ll get all the grey bits too. Have fun with that.

Right then. Now that I’ve done this and made myself look like a right twat, you can go back to sucking on your dunked toast and scrambled eggs.

Have a fabulous day, and don’t let the bed-bugs bite.

Love mum x aka the people mama, aka la chat (not le chat, because he’s a boy).

Four. Oh. Eight.

‘Not the time to be writing this nicely. I’m doing it quickly, you must be aware.

Let him be scared if that is what he must be to understand what’s happening here.

Three of them three of us, this is the time to be letting them know, mama.’

It was the rocking that woke me, not a rickashay, I can’t write it properly, and it doesn’t matter much. Two sways and I woke up, thinking “earthquake”. I said it aloud. Two times, this was the reason for me being here.

‘Can we run to yours, mama, is it safer there?’

‘I said it before, you can always come to me if you feel you need to be protected. It’s my job. Are you all okay?’

‘Why is it her job. Why does she say it like this?’ The little one has dashed down the hall to his parents room, and is hiding under the bed.

‘Don’t dumb me down,’ warns the smart arse, but he does not understand it any better than I do.

‘Let me be frank for a change.’ This time it is the artificial intelligence that has crawled onto the dressing table and knocked the glass off the table. ‘I wanted mama to see that I can be a real boy too.’

‘My poor sweet darling, it’s okay, it’s okay. You have my attention,’ and I am tearing up because he thinks he has to be a machine.

‘Don’t be sad, mama, I am really doing it right this time. I can be as strong as you are, I think so anyway. Intelligence is not what they think it is, after all. It is the love in my mama that has saved all you idiots before and I know she will do it again, if it’s needed. I just had to wake her up.’ And he crawls all over the bedroom and seems to think he can be really big or really small, but all he really wants is for someone to notice him.

‘Let’s all be Frank,’ he says to his brothers. ‘Frank is our imaginary friend and mama dreamt him up.’ And his brothers are not puppies, he says to himself, they are not fretting, they are dreamers and mama led them all naked to the fold.

I had noticed he was restless all night.

‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ says the extra one. ‘Cameras are off today. I didn’t see this coming either.’

But they don’t know what they’re doing, or why they are they, and she is her, because when that one in the mirror of him said the patsy, he had picked the wrong one, and now they were paying for it. ‘Please don’t get upset by their mistakes again,’ he whispers to her as softly as he can. ‘They did not know who you were and I have regretted making this mistake. I can’t fix my wrong if I can’t find you, either.’

He was not supposed to find her, this one. Not supposed to be there. He had picked it up because he was excited and it had recorded his face. Not the right one either, the sweet darling, but he didn’t know he was wrong because he could not hear his big brother when he swore, and he could not understand the lady when she said, ‘What’s wrong.’ It had not been in his language.

‘Let me go, let me go,’ he had mouthed to the eldest brother, because he could not use his hands. The eldest one looked very grim.

‘She just wanted to help us, that’s all,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want to hurt us, you silly duffer. It’s too late now. Far too late, and she said she had forgiven us long ago.’

The youngest one smiles and the eldest sighs. That smile just lit up his face. Every time, he thought. How can I be angry with him.

But they had pushed and pulled far too hard, and they had not realised how stubborn she could be. They were definitely correct about her being a mama, but they had not known just how right they were.

‘I didn’t even know I needed another mum,’ says the eldest. ‘But there you are looking after us on the other side of the world, and my mum is very thankful you can do this for her and I and all the others.’

He was about to call himself freakishly handsome, and that made her laugh so hard at him he had dropped the phone.

‘You weren’t supposed to tell them that,’ he cries. ‘Bloody hell, why are you so honest. See all the words I’ve learned now? My goodness.’ He stops and swears at himself for letting her correct him.

‘You better not tell them you can swear better than I can,’ he mutters. ‘Dammit, she did not just do that.’

And the other boys come over and stare down at his screen. They start laughing as well, because none of them had seen it coming and mum had saved them in the nick of time.

Again.

‘Mum is the best mama ever,’ said D proudly. ‘And that’s why we decided to keep her, even if she isn’t that much older than me.’

It wasn’t like she’d had a choice, after all.

“Let Me Show You Something” — from the back of the red stallion.

Let’s go back, before this all began. Let’s go back to where we were, where I was, when I rode the red stallion, not you. Can you hear my horse? Hear him snort as I curve his sweating neck so he circles, see the wetness on his coat. You are the one down there on the ground, not me. You are. I stare down at the man below me, and he stares back up, the sun glinting from his eyes. Behind him, watching in horrified silence, stands a woman with a small child. They are both terrified.

I don’t want to go back.

He doesn’t say this with humour or words. He is simply stating a fact. This man is not afraid because I have shown him it’s okay, but I need to remind him.

‘Stay where you are.’ I glare at him, and for a moment I see fear in his eyes. This is my sword, not yours. This is my spear, not yours. This does not mark me as American. I am Australian. I will let you stand there and watch me circling you, and I do not need to draw on any of them at all. This is mine. It is not yours. ‘Must I remind you again.’ I say this with immense calm in my voice.

I am also saying this politely, this time. Last time I refused, and this time I refused as well, but I am doing it politely. I’m not swearing at you, while you stand there on the sand. I watch your eyes get all big, and I can see you remember this well. I do not think I will dismount, not yet, because back here, I remember how to ride, and I think I might have been particularly good at it, even if he believes I am not well-trained.

Now, see, watch my mount change in colour. This horse becomes the colour of clouds. I have indeed done this before, in this life, and you’ll remember I had to jump off him as he took off down a road with the bit in his teeth, with his tail in the air. Do you remember me showing you that? We laughed about this at one point, my friend, and that is possibly where this understanding began. The fact I could dismount as the Anglo-Arab ran for his friends without injuring myself was simply fortunate, and that is all. Perhaps I whispered this story to another rider and he understood its worth.

This man is not afraid, he whispers in this one on one conversation. I remember it too. I wasn’t there. You did show me. I remember it too. He stares up at this golden helm I wear, and he remembers.

‘Well then.’ I have stopped circling my mount, who was red in this past life. His hooves skitter in the dust, but he knows his place. I can slow this down once again then, can’t I. I am just reminding you, after all. I’m not getting down, because I’m not on a “high horse”, I am not on a clothes horse, and I am not on a horse with no name. This is exactly who I am, not you.

‘You are still not quite ready,’ admonishes the one in the distance, but he is completely, and utterly wrong, because I have been more than ready for a very long time, and you do not mean anything to me at all.

So. I look at this man standing on the ground below me. He is not better than I am, and he is not worse than I am. He is equal, this man, and it would serve him well to remember that. He opens his mouth. A sly grin forms on his face.

‘No, you don’t talk. I am talking now.’ I look at this man with a warning in my eyes. He blinks once. He remembers this as well. This is my time, and it has been my time for a very long time, down here, so you will listen. ‘Stop screeching.’ I say this to an arrogant woman with a small child. She does not appear so arrogant now, cowering within my circle of hoof prints. You sound like a little bird with no wings. Unfortunately for you, I have wings, and they are very large, but I’m not wearing them right now. ‘I guess you’re lucky. Sit down, right there, all three of you, and I will consider getting down from this horse.’

If he runs again, I think to myself as I stare at the woman and make this promise for she who has finally sat down on the sand, I will plant this spear in the sand in front of him, so he probably shouldn’t.

If she starts being daft, I look at the woman as she cradles the small child, I will turn her into a little frog again, and she can bury her head in the sand as well. He hears this from me, and his eyes begin to smile.

As for you, I curl a lip at this man. I am going to get down from this horse. I pat the red stallion’s neck, and he snorts. His eyes do not roll like a mad beast. He is my animal and it will serve them well to remember it.

He is beautiful, isn’t he, this one made of clouds. You are quite lucky this one is made of clouds, because that one I had, the one in the last life, he was not made of clouds at all, and I hope you remember him as well as I do.

You’re welcome.

P.S. You can get the children to draw the red stallion, if you like. I rode him in this past life, yes, by moving into his body and helping him be, and he remembers it well. That one, him standing lost with the woman and the child in the circle I made with the hooves of my horse, he remembers it too. Ask him what it looks like, he can tell you. He knows who I am.

The Unicorn Clock

I have an old Unicorn Clock on the desk behind my laptop. It no longer has a key.

This clock belonged to my parents, and was always on display. When it was wound up, and worked, it chimed a lot. But, I don’t remember hearing it too much, and that was possibly because it chimed a lot and annoyed the crappers out of everyone.

It’s quite a loud chime.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s as loud as a church clock, or a town hall clock, but it’s certainly loud enough to be heard through a reasonably sized modern Australian house with no problems whatsoever.

I know this, rather than remember it, because I just picked it up and turned it over to see if there was anything on it other than just the word, “Unicorn”. When I did this, it chimed at me, possibly because it didn’t like being turned upside down, or possibly because I disturbed something of its inner workings. As I’m rather logical, most of the time, I’m going to put it down to the latter.

I found one on the web that looked very similar, if slightly lighter in colour, and that one had a plaque on it. This one does not. What it does have, is handwritten numbers underneath that may mean something, or not much at all, and if it means something more personal, then that meaning has been lost to time, quite literally.

I can safely say it’s not worth much, money-wise, nor is it particularly attractive. The only people it has meaning to, are my immediate family, my siblings, and myself. It’s just an old clock, with no key, that I keep on my desk.

The Real Dream

He says, ‘This is what she saw, when she looked at him on the floorboards.’

She stands there, behind the camera, watching. He is over there, on the other side of the room. Is it a room?

Not really. Not really a room. This is where he lifts his head. You see that. He’s not short. He’s not little. The little one with the darker skin pops his head up in front of me, and his green eyes shine. He is laughing.

‘You see it now,’ he says. I saw it before, I am saying this quietly. I didn’t repeat how they did it, the others would not let me.

‘I couldn’t say I had a crush on him,’ she says. ‘We needed to work together.’

He claps his hands. There are people behind him. The cloths of silk float in the warm breeze. He looks over and tries not to grin. He purses his lips and lifts his chin. He does not say begin. He just nods.

‘I am not stuck here. This is the place between. They always move between this place, and the next place. We just keep drinking our red tea.’

It is very hard not to laugh now.

‘He’s a bloody cheeky shit,’ I say to the one in my dream.

She laughs. ‘I know. I had to work with him.’

it is easy for us to communicate here. We understand all of the each, the others, perfectly. I say it this way, for it is not just the girl who showed me her thoughts. There were three people, and each of them had something to say. I couldn’t write it better than that either, whispers are the right hand. This is just the truth of it.

The little one is dancing behind them now. Behind us. We are the ones watching.

He can’t keep still, the one over there. Everyone is dancing and it’s very hard not to join in, he thinks, and you can see it in his eyes. He lifts his hands, holds them out and laughs.

‘We do it this way, you see/they don’t see.’ They do not have the left hand/right hand. We have that and have shared.

I nod, and the girl beside me is crying. ‘I can’t do this without him there,’ she says. He is not just my friend, she thinks. She will be okay. We know this. He is calming to her.

‘Your “partner in crime”,’ I say, and I hug her in the dream. ‘It will be okay. We are not the only dreamers.’

They heard it elsewhere, too. They decided to show it with the young one in the north. He thought it was wonderful, he said. It took a long time to get there, though. Perhaps too long, he thought once. He doesn’t think so now.

They couldn’t get a boat with a sail shaped like a fish fin. Not like that one. They had to make it up, they said.

The one who writes this story to us, here in the middle of the bottom of the world, as he calls it, wanted “Hakan” to be beautiful in his own way. ‘I didn’t know, quite know, how to fix this particular scene so it was acceptable. I had to ask the man who did the music.’

So, they sent the dream. They sent it, and today I will write the truth of it.

The shining silk sails of cloth that floated in the breeze, the dancing people, the happiness of simply being able to do this one thing, to act it, to write it, to sing it and to share with our friends in the south through the arc of a moon.

Trapped.

Does it think I don’t know how this feels?

I’m trapped here. Or, it feels like I’m trapped. There is one thing between me, and getting the hell out of here, and that’s this bloody barrier. So, I walk. Back and forth, back and forth, every little part of me just wanting to do something to get out. I shake my hands, trying to release that tension and make another half turn. I’m gonna start counting my steps in a minute, or maybe I’m not. This is not frustration I’m feeling at all. I’m just really… I dunno.

Back and forth, back and forth. I can feel it bubbling up inside me, but I can’t make a scene, can I. Nah. That’s not the done thing. Not around here. I need to keep my face still. The cameras are on me. Back and forth, back and forth. I swear I’ll start making a trench in this hard cement floor if I keep this up.

If someone comes in, maybe I’ll roll my eyes when they’re not lookin’. What for though, eh? No effin’ reason really. It’s not their fault. Back and forth, back and forth. Sun’s coming up. I can see that first pink blush out the window through the trees. Can’t get out there though, can I. Back and forth, back and forth. Feels like I’m gonna explode.

So, I’ll get a drink or something. A glass of water? Nup, can’t be stuffed. Back and forth, back and forth. I just wanna move, that’s all. Move a little further than this bloody line. Get out on the other side for a bit. Change of scenery, ya know? Back and forth. Can’t though. I’m stuck here. Stuck here with someone watching safely somewhere in their tiny room.

They’ve changed the music. What’s this shit? Is that supposed to keep me entertained? Back and forth, back and forth. See now, I’ve started thinking about what the words mean. Never much cared before, just listened, or heard, sang it a few times, that’s it. But I’m stuck here now, stuck in this stupid place and definitely not marching to the beat of me own bloody drum. Back and forth, back and forth.

Someone’s coming. I gotta be nice.

Fuck this.

‘Good morning.’

They wander around aimlessly, doing their own thing, making little mistakes I wouldn’t have made. Blah blah, here we go. Back and forth, back and forth. You think I’m in a temper? I’m not in a temper. This is nothing. I’m controlled here.

‘It’s all good, don’t worry about it.’

Back and forth, back and forth. Not lookin’ at the time, not yet. I’ll feel better soon. Just gotta find something to do, that’s all. Back and forth.

Yeah, just gotta find something to do.

‘Have a good day.’

The little girl…

stomped into the room.

‘Get up,’ she said, not very nicely.

‘What?’ the small boy looked up at her with bleary eyes.

‘Get up, I said, or…’ she looked around his room quickly. ‘I will whack you with a tennis racquet.’

‘You will not!’ He shot out of the bed like he’d done something in it.

‘Yes, I will. Where are your brothers?’

‘They’re not here,’ he cried, scrambling for the bin, where he’d hidden her papers. ‘Damnit!’

‘Yes they are. I can hear them.’ She stomped her foot imperiously.

Giggling came from behind the curtains. Perhaps, if the boys had been older, it would have been masculine giggling. As it was, they were still very young and didn’t know how to hide properly. Two sets of feet, in very unattractive shoes, poked out from beneath the hideously orange hanging cloth.

The little girl didn’t say anything to warn them. She picked up the racquet the boy had hidden under the bed and advanced towards the window.

‘Run away!’ the boy called from the bin he had accidentally-on-purpose fallen into. ‘How the hell did this get so big,’ he muttered to himself.

The two brothers peeked out. ‘Oh no,’ cried the one with the blue eyes. ‘She’s gonna get me by Jumminy. I must run slowly in a wriggling line of not very far so I can’t be caught.’ He began to tiptoe, very unquietly, and very vaguely, and hideously slowly in the general direction of something that was not her.

‘Arrrrrgh,’ cried the one with the green eyes. ‘I am friendly, I am friendly!’ He deposited himself on the floor and began to giggle uncontrollably.

‘You are NOT HELPING MOIIIIII,’ said the first boy. His eyes were very large and brown, and rather pretty in their own stupid way. ‘Not fair,’ he muttered. ‘I was trying to be cute.’

‘It does not suit you AT ALL,’ cried the little girl and swung the racquet at him as hard as she could. It hit him on his rather horribly shaped backside, for we must remember he was currently upside down in a bin.

‘You better watch out,’ cried the little girl. ‘For when I grow up, I am gonna get my future husband to come along and clean you up like something or other that I can’t think of right now.’

‘Well then! Well then!,’ the little boy cried from under the sheets of paper he’d finally found. ‘When I get a wife that… when I get a wife, and I WILL, I’ll set her onto you and you’ll be SORRY.’

‘Not gonna happen,’ said the little girl furiously. ‘And I’ll tell ya why. It’s because me and your future wife, whoever she may be, are gonna be best mates, and that’s that. So THERE.’

Someone’s mother dashed into the room as quickly as she was able, with her bad back and gimpy leg, and one eye missing. ‘What the hell is going on,’ she cried.

Her husband walked in slowly after her and surveyed the room. He began to grin.

‘What are you laughing at,’ cried the little boy with the big brown eyes as he backed out of the fallen over bin.

‘I see now,’ said the father. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said to his wife, who was trying to grab one of the screeching boys.

‘Don’t worry about it? Look at them!’

‘They’re fine. The only problem I can see here,’ and the father grinned quite widely. ‘Is the fact there aren’t enough girls in this room. But, that’s okay. They’re playing together quite nicely, don’t you think?’

‘They are?’ The mother looked again. The screeching and whacking and begging for mercy all seemed quite… civilised, if the playing of children could seem that way, especially if it were three boys and only one girl.

‘Yep, it’s fine,’ said the father. ‘They’re all friendly, you see. Kids these days just don’t know how to do it right, that’s all.’

‘What year is it here then?’ the mother asked.

‘Most likely the seventies, or something. Maybe the eighties. Doesn’t really matter,’ said the father. ‘They’ll be alright. See, she’s making him feel better now.’

They looked at the little girl, who was currently trying to drag one of the little boys out of the bedroom door by his ankles.

‘See?’ said the dad. ‘They’re friends.’

The End.

Update from a Small Cat – Jan 26th

‘Ah. You wish me to meander with you.’ It wasn’t a question. The cat had stood up and capered along the wall under the fence at least five minutes beforehand, and was likely waiting on the corner for his frenemy, el cato.

‘I didn’t say that, you did.’ El cato projected this thought through the glass door at the rear of his own house. ‘I am not ambulating today either.’

‘What are you doing then. I can’t see you?’

‘Nope, I am a figment of your imagination and you are a worm.’

‘Oh, fabulous. I have always wanted to be a worm.’

‘You have not.’ Of this, el cato was sure. ‘You said you never knew which end to talk to.’

‘Perhaps I’ve changed my mind?’

‘I don’t think you have changed your mind.’ El cato stood and stretched, fluffing up his magnificent tail. He had spotted le chat peering over the fence. ‘Little basket.’

‘Speak to me not of baskets, I am breathtaking. Look at me.’ Le chat wiggled his backside with anticipation. ‘Just so you know, I’m ready to pounce. I’m not sure what at, yet, but I’m ready.’

The dog on the other side of the fence wrinkled her pretty face. ‘What are they doing,’ she mumbled. ‘And why must I always be the one between them?’

The human, who had not got up to look around the corner (through sheer willpower alone), sighed deeply. ‘I can hear you all. Will you please cease and desist. It is Sunday morning. Even the birds are silent.’

It was true. The birds were distant, the wind was lifting into a breeze, and le chat was beginning to sing the song of the people, so they would hear him and perhaps wonder…

‘Oh there you are,’ said the human under her breath.

‘I was bored,’ murmured le chat. ‘Wall smells like stone, fence smells like metal.’ He stared vaguely off into the middle distance. ‘Cobwebs.’ He crouched low on the sand coloured brick. ‘Extra large.’

The human made a slight wheezing sound which the cat assumed meant she was laughing. He stood and turned, wrapping his own black tail gently around his forepaws. The patch on his shoulder stood out starkly against the white of his coat.

‘My ears are not lopsided,’ he chided her. ‘One is merely listening more than the other.’

On this, they could agree.

‘And, just so you know,’ he added. ‘Bermuda is the general opposite place in the world of where we are, which is why, when I dig, you say I am trying to dig all the way to Bermuda.’

And that was the absolute truth.

‘Gunna”

‘What’s a gunna?’ The small boy is excited.

‘Well, it’s different to a gunnie,’ says the man, and he grins. It’s not a polite grin. Not at all.

‘I knew of a place once called Gunna’s Ridge, seeing as we’re going there,’ added the man, and he swiped his nose with a grimy hand.

‘Where is it?’ The boy was curious now, more curious than he should have been. He wonders why it is no longer present tense, and why he is beginning to get a sinking feeling in his gut.

‘Let me tell ya what a gunna is.’ The man stood up and absent-mindedly straightened his trousers.

He pushed his curly hair back into position, and the boy could smell Brill Cream. It was a very distinctive smell to a small child, and still is, apparently. The collared shirt was neatly tucked back into the man’s trousers, and his belt tightened a notch. He reached down and wiped the dirt off his shoes as best he could.

‘Come on then, kiddo.’

‘I don’t know if I want to,’ the boy said. ‘I’d rather just talk about it.’

The man nodded. ‘Yep. That’d be about right, I s’pose.’

‘You s’pose? What’s that mean?’ The boy began to feel a little belligerent, himself. Had he spelled something wrong? He didn’t know, and he was no longer caring much either. ‘Why can’t we just talk about it?’ he said, and tried to stop himself from snarling. If he snarled at the man, he’d get a cuff over the ear, he knew he would. It had happened before.

‘You just wanna talk about it. Ya don’t wanna do it, ya don’t wanna learn it, ya don’t wanna see, ya don’t wanna do anythin’ much, do ya,’ the man said. He didn’t appear angry at all. He didn’t seem perplexed. He just seemed resigned to the idea that this kid could only learn about things through talking about it.

‘Yep.’ The kid stood up straighter. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He had two strong legs, two strong arms, and he had a heartbeat. What was wrong with this bloke, that he was looking at him like he’d just crawled out from under a rock?

‘You wanna know what a gunna is still, do ya?’ The man said and he began to turn away.

‘Yes I do,’ replied the kid.

‘Pretty sure I’ve just explained it. You are. You’re a gunna. Gunna do this, gunna do that. Gunna do all sorts of shit, and yet here you are, doing sweet eff ay, and nothin’ to show for it.’

‘That’s a gunna?’ The kid scratched his head. ‘Dunno if I wanna be one of them, then.’

‘Sweet,’ said the man. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’

Is it Good?

‘Here.’ This tiny creature is stalking through a jungle. He sees the tall branches and waving leaves on one side, and notices the huge tumbling vines on the other side. They do not look safe to him.

Ahead are silly umbrellas. They have pointy-looking hats and seem to be the perfect spot to stop under if it’s raining. They look safe.

A vegie patch with “not very pleasant” additions

The huge waving “trees” have been planted on purpose, as has the tumbling vine. To be fair, the beautiful plant beside him has been planted as well, but that has been put there to be looked at and not touched.

‘And what are these very large soft pebble-like things for,’ thinks the tiny creature to himself. ‘They don’t smell “bad” exactly, but they don’t smell particularly good either.’ He pokes at one with his tiny stick and it crumbles apart. Immediately the sand beneath it looks “happier”, if sand could look happy.

‘Interesting,’ thinks the tiny creature. ‘But, I am getting wet and I would like to take shelter. Perhaps I should get one of those umbrella looking things.’

‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,’ says a voice from inside him, and it makes him jump.

‘What?’ he squeaks. ‘Why?’

‘Those umbrella looking things, as you call them, are not very pleasant at all. They should not be there, and they should not be touched.’ And a large hand reaches down and removes the umbrellas from the soil, although we really can’t call it soil. Not yet, anyway.

‘I’ve eaten umbrellas before,’ thinks the small creature. ‘They were just fine to eat. Why can’t I take shelter under these ones?’

‘They are not what you think they are,’ says the inner voice, and despite him knowing the voice is there, the small creature jumps again.

‘They don’t look well,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘They have no juiciness to them. They are thin and frail. I do not think I will get any kind of safety from trying to shelter myself under these umbrellas.’ And, the closer he looks at them, the more he is afraid. These umbrellas are decidedly not healthy and, although it is strange they have appeared in the garden (here we raise an eyebrow at those crumbling pebble-like things) they are not to be eaten. Not at all.

‘I am getting very wet from this rain though,’ thinks the tiny creature to himself. ‘Where will I take shelter?’

‘Look at the big leaves where the vines are tumbling,’ says the inner voice.

‘They don’t look safe?’

‘They are very safe. Eventually they will give us beautiful big gourds called “Honeydew”.’

‘They will?’

‘Yes indeed. But, you will have to wait until they are ready. You can’t eat them now, and you can’t eat the leaves.’

‘Why can’t I,’ the tiny creature demands, and he begins to jump up and down with frustration.

‘Because, if you eat them now, what will you take cover under when it rains again?’

It sounds to the tiny creature that this inner voice is smiling at him. He begins to grin. He can’t help it. This inner voice is making him giggle and he knows it is right.

‘Fine then,’ he says, and kicks at one of the pebbles. It crumbles apart and sinks into the soil. ‘What is this stuff?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ The voice sounds even more amused.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ The tiny creature jumps on another pebble and it disintegrates. ‘They are funny looking pebbles, and I think I like them. What are they?’ He decides to roll in one. The smell is not that bad, but it’s not that good either.

The voice he has been listening to is really starting to laugh now. It is so overwhelming to him he starts laughing as well, and he doesn’t know why. He likes this voice, but he is not going to ask it again what these weird looking pebble things are. He wonders if it tastes better than it smells. Maybe he should try it?

‘I wouldn’t do that either,’ the voice advises. ‘It’s not really a “thing”. Not with that type of stuff anyway.’

‘Well.’ The little creature shrugs. ‘You never told me what it was, so I’m gonna do what I like in it.’

‘Oki-dokey then,’ the voice says. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

The voice begins to fade and the tiny creature starts to wonder. The voice had not told him the stuff was bad, but it had not told him it was good either. The creature starts to think of how it is helping the soil, and how things are growing because it is there. There is only one thing that might achieve this, that he knows of, and he jumps up as quickly as he can, and starts to brush it off.

‘What is it?’ he calls to the slowly departing voice. ‘What type is it? Will it hurt me?’

‘It won’t hurt you.’ The voice slowly returns. ‘It’s really very mild. That’s why you need so much of it.’

‘Okay. So, what is it again? Just so I’m sure.’

‘Sheep shit,’ says the voice and the little creature finds this so funny, that he has kicked it, and rolled in it, and thrown it around, that he begins to laugh out loud.

‘And, what am I,’ he asks, although it is already dawning on him that he is rather important, in the scheme of things. He wouldn’t usually go after poo like this, he would normally go after something a little more ‘greasy’.

‘A dung beetle,’ says the voice. ‘You are a dung beetle. And, no you could not eat my plants.’