VOICE & VISION

A short story by Mr D Tweedie – Copyright 2012

A dark figure slipped gently toward the end of the bridge in a haze of drizzle, quietly fleeing from the vein of heavy traffic. A lattice of vertical splines spanned the edges like the vertebrate of an impatient serpent; whilst strands of branches from trees reaching into the air blurred the scene. Amid the lean alleyways and narrow paths, I caught a fleeting glimpse of one of its bizarre denizens darting through the patchwork carnival of stores and accesses. I tried not to think about it, as I fought my way through a psychotic parade of strange harlequins, their scarlet tongues protruding perversely into the air and shrieking like a horde of carnal hyenas. I leaned into the curling wind, fending off the demons surrounding my impoverished spirit, as an aluminum can tossed in the wind clattered across the street. A carousel of vehicles surged toward me, slashing the air with waves of water, their rubber tires churning out turbulent rain filled gutters. I screamed involuntarily as the gloomy shafts of dense columns amid the city rose menacingly above me.

I unconsciously stumbled into a shop; it was a frilly boutique filled with a bewildering array of bizarre and lurid objects, guiltlessly laid out in an air of risqué femininity. I immediately began to feel my throat contract, as the still dryness of the air began to smother me in fear. My hand lunged for the door …the sudden appearance of a tall burlesquely clothed man frustrating my earnest desire to escape; I had to avert my eyes, naively thinking that there would be an alternate mode of exit. A pair of tightly fitting fishnet stockings drew suspiciously toward my line of sight, such so that I had to jump quickly out of the way. The awkward juxtaposition of trying to adjust the structure of my balance caused me to fall backward into a book-rack of lewd photography. It was at just that moment to my horror that I felt a pair of hands lurch toward me, I struggled in fear as my face slid slowly down through the stark and graphic images …shrieking …as the visages of woman in make-up and corsetry fell toward me on the floor. I had to quickly recover, bounding back to my feet again and pretending to feign little surprise. I held a book closely across my face, in a confused effort to hide my identity. The doorway was clear, a hot stream of sunlight poured through the passageway. I saw a distinct chance to make an unobtrusive escape as possible, when all of a sudden a huge grotesque woman made an untimely appearance in the doorway. This unfortunate event caused me to miss the door jamb by inches. Inadvertently, I crashed into the window front and landed behind the curtain display overlooking the street. I had difficulty breathing, drawing a number of dead flies into my nostrils, as I lay face down among the plastic and tinsel décor – bravely planning my next mode of escape. I had found that I had fallen onto an imitation blond mannequin; I quickly launched myself back into the air with the plastic female in my hands. It was then that I began to realize that I could be seen in full view of the street; my skin crawled across my flesh with fear as I leapt toward the curtain in an impromptu attempt to regain full control of the situation. The shop keeper began to scream hysterically at me as I lay on the floor with the mannequin lying on top of me. Subsequently, I reached for a curtain hanging from an adjacent display for support, unfortunately the rail that held it up came loose, hitting the shop owner full on the head and sending him careering into a cabinet full of sexual paraphernalia, he screamed horribly as he pulled the cabinet toward him in an effort to prevent himself from falling. I had to get out; the shop owner, whom was now trapped underneath the display cabinet, began to squeal in a high pitched lingering tone of despair, as it was apparent by this time that I had overstated my presence and that I should cautiously tip-toe out quietly toward the door.

Escaping from the burlesquery, I tried to pace myself – I had to fend my way through a group of angry neo-Nazis brawling with a crib of black power members, my mind warping underneath the pressure. Wind swept through a naked alleyway, bits of newspaper blowing around in a vacuum. I choked with fear and grit in the gale. I slipped into a kind of disused market entrance laid out in an early form of architectural masonry, void and hollow except for the disturbing ghostly presence of some its mysterious spectral inhabitants. I cowered within the shaded protection of the curb hoping not to attract any attention as I approached the doorway of my lawyer. Orange stained corrugated roofing hung over the upper impediments of the office like the crimped loin cloth of an ancient Phoenician boatman, the porch now somewhat neglected in style had been converted into an asphalt pavement. I tried peering through the faded sun bleached curtains of his office; I froze with fear as an air piercing scream rapidly rose into a high pitched crescendo, eerily left the villa. It was my lawyer – he carried an aura of immanent paranoia about him whilst simultaneously screaming hysterically into his little black cell phone, the palm of his hand outstretched upon the window glaze like an enormous feline. He was a very tall blithely lit person with sallow cheeks and an eye that distended remarkably from its socket, as if it was about to fall out and hit someone on the head then bounce off like a soft rubber ball. I tried to replace my fear with calm, confronting him with the pretention of giving him money. He was wearing a grey flannelette suit, sporting a vermilion red tie and squatted like a desert nomad on the floor with the little black cell phone pressed tightly against his ear. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and screamed “What do you want?” Then he began to sweep large sectionsof legal documents straight onto the floor, which had been carefully arranged in piles high on his desk. He then cried out angrily “Your case has completely withered in a barrage of disrepute!” He then picked up a very large round speaker cone and hoarsely voiced at its apex “Get out … get out …get out of my office …now!” He then leapt like a large primitive cat onto the desk and laughing maniacally through the aperture of the megaphone, he repeatedly stated “He is the spawn of Satan …he is the spawn of Satan …he is the spawn of Satan” I left him growling like a hungry predator with foam gushing from his mouth. My imagined fears had finally been realized, I could no longer bathe in the light of reason or hope; I had to return to the relative obscurity and safety of my quiet urban apartment for a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake.

The sky is full of puffy white clouds, like the froth on a cup of cappuccino. I gaze out of the bus window, making stories up in my head again, inspired by the shapes of the clouds. There is a large cloud in the centre, surrounded by several smaller clouds, like a school teacher surrounded by her pupils.

“Now, children, come to the front of the classroom.

Gather around the blackboard. I want you to take turns and draw me a picture of your favourite tree. Tell me which one is yours when you’ve finished, and I’ll put your initials beside it. Who knows what I mean by initials?”

“I do,” a small voice breaks the silence.

“Yes, Anna, and what are initials?”

“They are the beginning letters of your name, the big letters. Mine are A.J., for Anna Jensen.”

“Well done, Anna. You can go first. Choose a chalk, any colour, and draw me a tree. Just do a small drawing, in sketch form.”

“What’s a sketch?” asked a boy at the back.

“It’s like this,” the teacher said, and drew a sketch of a pine tree up at the top of the blackboard. “See, it’s just a simple drawing.”

“What do we do while we wait for our turn to do a drawing?” asked a tall girl.

“Go over to the library corner and find a book on trees. You might have to share a book. All right, let’s get started. Anna, you can do your drawing now. The rest of you, follow me.”

Mrs Brown led the children over to the library corner.

“Now what’s the golden rule in a library?”

“We have to be quiet,” a shy Maori boy said bravely.

“Very good, Hongi. You can do your drawing after Anna.”

The teacher watched the class choose their books. They sooke quietly to each other. She smiled with satisfaction; the class was coming together well, she realised.

“I’ve finished, Mrs Brown, ” Anna said in a soft voice.

“Good, now you can go over to the library corner and find a book to read.”

“Thank you for letting me go first.”

“That’s all right, Anna.”

I looked out of the bus window. The clouds had changed, and the group of clouds was further away. Both the clouds and the bus had moved while I had been making up my story. We were near the Point Chev. turn-off, The vista of sun, sea, and sky was now behind us, and the clouds were becoming partly obscured by buildings.

My day at Toi Ora was about to begin…

Our people lived in turbulent times – we were caught up in one of the bloodiest periods in the history of Scotland – the struggle between the English and the Scottish Highlanders. We were at Glencoe Massacre; we were at the Battle of Culloden. Unlike many, we survived; we endured the horror and the hardships of those times. We are gone now, but we left our imprint – we left descendants, to tell our story.

You are one of those descendants. Who are we? We are your ancestors, the forgotten people.

The “Highland problem,” otherwise known as the “Scottish problem”, was only resolved by our exodus – to the U.S.A., to Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. We thrived in our new environment, but we never forgot our homelan – or our customs. Now we could gather to hear the skirl of the bagpipes without fear of reprisal; we could toss the caber at the Highland Games, sing the old songs a t a ceildh (gathering), and wear the tartan plaid garments worn by our forebears.
The accursed English forebad all those things when we lost the Battle of Culloden in 1745 (which became known as “the ’45″).

The problem for the English was that ours is a stubborn race – we don’t give in easily. This is especially true of the Highland Scots – your ancestors. Whenever we were defeated, we would return to our Highland homes, live quietly until our wounds were healed, and then make another raid on the English, our sworn enemies.

At the same time, we were fighting each other. That was our great weakness – the clan squabbles which tore us apart, and kept us from uniting as a strong force against the English. But nothing could stop us from fighting – it’s as much part of us as the fine Highland mist we breathed…

In the end it was the defeat on Culloden Moor that broke us apart. Bonnie Prince Charlie, our leader, took bad advice from an Italian, and agreed to fight the battle on a moor which is mostly peat bog. We were overwhelmed by a superior force – yes’ that’s the truth. Too many of us died that day, and “Butcher” Cumberland, in the pay of the English, pursued the survivors relentlessly. Men, women, and children were burned alive in their humble cottages. But some of us were able to escape, and this is our story of survival.

We fled, on foot and in secret, to places like Edinburgh. There we stayed for a time, blending into the life of the city. We hid our tartan plaids, kilts, and material, and wore the humble clothes of the common folk. Our homes were in the poorer part of the city. We made our living any way we could. Our dream was to escape, to leave Scotland for ever. That seemed to be the only hope for our future survival. Your father’s people are descended from such folk. John was from Edinburgh, and Helen was from Linlithgow. Mary, Queen of Scots and her father James V were born in the now ruined Linlithgow Palace. As you know, John and Helen met as children on the ship that took them to Dunedin in New Zealand. They were part of the plan to take ship for the colonies, and begin life anew…

I stand beside Culloden Field, in front of the grave marker. A large stone, it bears a simple inscription: “Clan Chattan.
Here lie those killed on Culloden Moor in 1745.”  Something pulls me, makes me want to remain standing here, and a mist covers me. I hear the sounds of battle, and the screams of the wounded and the dying.
Gary re-appears, looking worried. He grabs me by the hand, and gently leads me away. I feel strangely disconnected from reality, and keep turning and looking back as I slowly walk away. It’s only a memorial stone, commemorating those who were slain in battle, but it has some strange sort of power over me. I start, as the voice of the English tour guide echoes in my ears. In response to a question from someone in the tour group, she says:

“That massacre was the greatest act of genocide the English have ever committed on their own people.”
I am stunned – this is the first time I’ve ever heard an English person admit that what happened on Culloden Moor that day,and the butchery that followed afterwards, was wrong.

Later that day Gary found a booklet on Clan Davidson, my clan. They were based near Inverness, not far from Culloden, and at least one of my ancestors would have fought that day – and may have been killed. That explained why that gra ve marker was so powerful – the ghosts of my ancestors were calling to me…

Your clan, Clan Davidson, was one of the clans in the large group known as Clan Chattan. The Davison Clan is made up of Highlanders with the surnames Davison, Davis, Davidson, Ross, and Kay.

Your ancestor was a Kay, a small family group. Belonging to a clan gave you protection from your enemies, and the security provided by membership of a larger group. Be proud of your connections – Scotland is a peaceful place now, but it is haunted by its bloody past. We were that past – we escaped to found new families, but never forget that our past is also your past. Your task is to write our story, so that others will know about us. When that happens, our spirits will no longer be troubled, and we will not be the forgotten people.

We bear the shame and humiliation of our defeat at Culloden; you can ease our burden by telling our story. The pain of that defeat will be softened by your words, and we will be strengthened by the telling of our story. Our troubled spirits called to you from the mass grave on Culloden Moor that day. We lost the battle,but we did win the battle of life – we survived. Our descendants sailed for the colonies in the mid-1800′s. The new lands of the U.S.A., Canada (especially Newfoundland), Australia, and New Zealand gave them a chance to have a new beginning.  With great sadness, we said farewell to our homeland, and set sail for an unknown land, and an unknown future…

I felt like I had come home, although my real home is far away. The pull of Scotland was always part of my life, right from early childhood. I remember my father and his family talking about Scotland as if it was their home – and they were born and raised in New Zealand. Those Scottish mists were embedded in my subconscious memory, in that mysterious place where a person’s genetic inheritance mingles with the tales of the places from which their ancestors came.I had dreamed of going to Scotland since I was five years old – and now I was here. Its past haunted me – the past that was, in a way, also my past.

It was so peaceful – no bloody battles, just sunshine and silence, because our trip coincided with the Foot and Mouth outbreak in Britain in 2001. The hills were silent and the farms were empty – all cloven-hooved animals had been killed and burned in large numbers to try and stop the spread of the disease. But the silence was not complete – I could hear the soft voices of the people who had survived Culloden. Some were descendants of those who were victims of the Glencoe Massacre; a few people had managed to flee from Glencoe before the slaughter began.

The terrible event at Glencoe was in 1692; the ghosts of the victims were all around us the day we drove down the valley to Glencoe. We stopped at the Information Centre and walked in silence around the commemorative display. The Campbells (“the bloodthirsty, treacherous Campbells” whispered a voice from the past) invited the MacDonalds to a banquet. The hosts then proceeded to massacre their guests as they slept in their beds. Some survivors fled into the snow, where most died in the harsh Highland winter. Only a few survived – they had escaped earlier, mistrusting the Campbells.

I could feel their presence as I stood in the display area. Coming out into the sunny afternoon was a shock. It was hard to believe that such a savage event had taken place all those years ago…

We kept ourselves well hidden, only moving by night. They hunted us as if we were foxes – we were their prey. But we were cunning – and this was our ancestral land. Slowly we made our way to safety – most of us had fled when we heard the dreaded name “Campbell.”

“Those Campbells – they would sell their own mothers if the price was right, and it suited their own evil schemes,” my grandfather had said.

“Never trust a Campbell.”

“Why?”  I asked, with the innocent trust of the child I was then.

“Because they have also been known to make deals with the English, deals that betray us,” he replied, and spat into the fire.

I never forgot that lesson – or his words. Who am I?  I am the grandson of the laird’s chief gamesman. My name is Dougall Kean, and my family is part of Clan MacDonald of Glencoe. That raid was brutal, and my grandfather died trying to protect his laird (lord). I was able to escape by fleeing into the hills when I saw the men of the Campbell Clan approaching. The laird sent me to welcome them, but I was too scared to face all those fierce men. I was only ten at the time, and I bid my grandfather, and my father, goodbye, not knowing what their fate would be. My mother told me to be brave and I hugged my brothers and sisters with desparation. My father gently pushed me towards the castle entrance, and I whispered goodbye. That was the last time I saw them alive.

I  made my way to my friends’ cottage, hidden in the foothills. They sheltered me in the hidden room beneath their floor, and fed me when they could. Idon’t know how many days I spent in hiding, but eventually the harsh winter turned into spring, and the snow melted. I emerged into a different world, one transformed by the melting snow and new life of spring. The fierce men had gone – no-one noticed my disappearance; I was only a servant boy. Slowly I made my way south to Clan MacDugal lands. My biggest regret was leaving behind my plaid and my kilt – the tartan would have given me away. I hid them carefully where no-one would find them, and borrowed the simple clothes of a poor peasant boy. I turned and looked towards Glencoe, sighed, and resolutely headed south, leaving the land of my birth behind me…

Science fiction by Derick John Tweedie – Copyright 2012

“In high speed galaxies, mechanics equip the inter-galactic vessel …in an emergency, with a small, redundant power accessory.” announced the electrical engineer. “This offset’s the main’s power source and reduces pinnacle drag from the direct influence of galaxy disturbances – such as in the case of the S.S. Empedocles, he said, poking the air with a beige manila envelope in his hand.

“Are the red galaxies… in reality – flawed characteristics of instrumental range-length capabilities?” quizzed the vehicle company designer, opulescent reflections of figures rolled across the surface of his polymer rimmed spectacles and in problem solving contemplation he continued, “…as if chromatically disconnected with an object, perhaps because of a barely perceptible abberation within the mirror?” he breathed.

“It would be difficult to give an accurate prognosis, given a lack of alternative evidence.” informed the electro-engineer, shafts of light fell across his face, shining through a lattice of venetians, blithely illuminating the room, “ However it is not considered to have the same effect, as a non-stationary object …that falls through a crack in the universe.” he reiterated confidently, “This is the premise…” he relayed, from across the flat of his desk, “made by astronauts …of a vehicle, discovered …on an asteroid …poised in a very remote region of the farthest edge of the galaxy.” he explained vociferously, standing up from his seat, “That premise…” he proclaimed, walking around toward the front of his desk “explored a path made with …gravitational vortices moving through the fabrics of time and space, generated by the spiral galaxies.” he paused, “ The vessel was equipped with …under very high pressure, spinning electromotive valve devices …opening the vessel’s pressure aperture, delaying galaxy disturbance… and pushing the envelope of the ship’s engine turbines through the discharge of gravitational resistance formed, between the galactic spirals.” he finished.

“So, the alien pilot would have chosen what direction it wanted to go, like a water gnat …finely tuned to the surface of a pond…!” the scientific architect said in support of the claims, reclining his head on an extended back-rest and facing the electrical engineer, “…and I suppose, by steering the ship into the navigational compass of a gravitational lens?” he challenged amusedly.

“ …precisely!” confirming the speculations of the electro-engineer – not at all surprised “…even as galaxies are moving toward the relativistic inertia’s of the redshift”! he rest assured resiliently.

“But…” the vehicular architect promulgated, “ wouldn’t the stress placed on the vessels’ fabrications simply break it apart?”

“If placed under any specified duress…yes!” asserted the electrical engineer, “However this type of vessel was designed to weave advantage from the lowest form of gravitational energy in the universe, a collective phenomenon known as “gravitational cracking” …a network of very light and very fast moving, invisible energies caused by the differential accelleration of the galaxies…” he reported.

“I see…” confirmed the industrial architect, “a cartesian energy co-ordinate!”

“Yes…” The industrial electrician replied, shrinking into a shadow of the office, “…it’s an exponential derived from the premises, that within an unoccupied space there’s less and less resistance to restrain a bodies movements, causing it to accellerate through …cracks in the universe, ever and ever faster …until it ultimately catches up with large gravitational bodies manouvering into the red-shift!” parried the electro-technician.

“Aren’t…such conditions likely to freeze a vehicles’ manual controllability at those accellerations?” suggested the auto-architect nervously.

“…fairly close to conditions where the universe gains a complete absence to resistance,” the electro-engineer axiomed, pushing the palm of his hand through the air, “Reaching speed phenomena that disintegrate whole galaxies one after another.” he pressed.

“My god …the thought of the universe consuming one galaxy after another…!” the architect mused inquisitively.

“The alien people whom had built this particular …technically specialised craft, had manufactured a completely integrated optical synthesis and navigation control system …it was very accurate” the electro-technician quipped.

Science fiction by Mr D Tweedie – Copyright 2012

They had arrived at the farthest most reaches of the galaxy, in a place nearest to the lowest point of gravity, on the very edge of the deepest parts of the universe, on a star paired with a planet moving at a high velocity on a gravitational perimeter of space not subjected to conventional understandings of conceptually gravitised structures of time.

The astro-visitation was formed from a part of a series of extreme expeditions designed to explore the hazards facing engineers within uncomfortable environments found as objects reached escape velocity toward the edges of the galaxy.

The object, was found within the extreme edge of the visible spectrum, amid tales and wild speculation of objects hidden away from the vaults of human eyes within the partially visible layers of pale blue light at the end of the spectrum.

The vessel sat on its base – one third of its mass.

Two parts struck from its base, locked, like the two points of a bullock’s horns, cambering from its head.

Electric valve turbines drew air in through slotted windows located high up within the pinnacles, down towards a turbo valve seated in behind the base window, through slots cut into the frame below, which formed a front annex in connection with the portico of the stern.

The astronauts struggled through a labial opening behind the cambered structuring of the stern.

Scanning upward they clambered with difficulty – but carefully up and over the cavaceous opening, leading to the ships’ interior. Reconnoitering the entrance they explored a widening compartment of adjoining annexes, each complemented with a dilated frame which supported an electromotive track at its’ base. The track turned ahead, on either side overhung the buttresses of the ships fuselage. Each stage of the fuselage had an entire figure built into each of its frames and the figures adorned into the fuselage architecture appeared to exhale the scent of death. Dessicated, as if the moisture had left them as symmetric caricatures of a once living ancestor or an astrovoyaging personnage long since departed away from the breath of life.

The strip at the bottom of the ossuary consisted of a series of parallel electrodes which ascended high up into the fuselage, disappearing into the pinnacles, partially obscured within a writhing veil of pale duvet mist.

The date was 23rd October, 2008. Three days before his mother’s birthday, and four days before his father’s birthday, my first grandchild arrived. Zoran’s arrival came twenty-five years after we’d last had a baby in our family. Becoming a grandmother changed my life.

I can remember holding a small baby, and looking at a tiny face very like his father’s face as a newborn baby. Shaun was smaller, being premature, but there was definitely a likeness. Zoran’s skin was the same colour as his mother’s, revealing his Slavic ancestry. Vanda is from Belgrade, with a Serbian father and a Croatian mother. She was raised in the fromer Communist country of Yugoslavia. I gazed at my grandchild and thought of the wider implications of his birth. Our knowledge of what it was like for his mother to grow up in that country is limited, due to the fact that our news media didn’t pay much attention to that part of the world. However, when Yugoslavia broke up and a series of civil wars broke out the news media sat up and took notice. As I watched over the sleeping grandchild in my arms, I realised he was a child of both Eastern and Western Europe. His Slavic blood mingles with Celtic and Scandinavian ancestry, as well as French and English. He is truly a child of Europe.

I really enjoy being a grandmother. When you are a parent, you are very busy with the daily activities and problems associated with children, from infancy right up to their teenage years. A grandparent is step back, a generation away from that. Right from the start, I noticed little things I didn’t see when our children were babies. The curling of small fingers around your own fingers, the little snuffly noises as he breathed, followed sometimes by a sigh…signs of the miracle of new life. I looked at him and wondered what the world would be like when he was as old as me.

When he is older, I can tell him about a time when there were no supermarts, no mobile phones, no computer or information technology, and T.V. was black and white. I was a country child. We had our mail, milk and bread delivered by a van, which also took our mail to be delivered. Your letter box had a metal “flag” which was raised if you had mail to be delivered. The triangular piece at one end, the “flag,” was painted red. Before that, when I was four years old, I can remember getting our milk from the farm ac ross the road, in a billy can. I can also remember the “safe” we had before we had a refrigerator. It hung from a branch in our large privet tree; privet wasn’t considered a pest then!  I smiled to myself at the memory.

Now my grandson is three years old. He is bilingual, speaking both Serbian and English. (His mother and her father have spoken Serbian to him from birth.)  Often, he speaks English to his father and Serbian to his mother. He is a bright little boy, full of energy and life. His arrival just over three years ago marked a new direction in the journey of my life. To me, being a grandmother is wonderful – all the joys of parenthood without the stress of wondering if you’re a good parent. It’s a different kind of journey. I have to refrain from interfering – he’s not my child. But I do give him the greatest gift of all – my undying love and acceptance.

Duality is ambidexterity, using my left hand for some things, my right hand for others – left hand for sport, right hand for writing.
Duality is two sides of bipolar affective disorder – moods like love/hate; happy/sad; angry/calm; anxious/confident – it’s a mood disorder.
Duality is not seeing things in black or white, but all the shades of grey in between.
Duality is being decisive and letting the prevailing mood decide my choices, or being indecisive and dithering over several choices.
Duality is being torn by two main conflicting desires, feeling like a boat adrift in a stormy sea.

We live in the Northern Hemisphere,
so our seasons are different.

Winter starts our year,
with bare branches against
a dull white sky,
and everything hushed and sleeping.

Spring follows, with its promise
of  new life to come,
with green leaves and blossom.

Summer coaxes tiny buds
to ripen into luscious fruit -
peaches, plums, apricots.

Autumn is the season of richness,
of apples and pears,
and the colours of dying leaves.

We live in the Southern Hemisphere,
and our seasons are different.

Our year begins with Summer,
with berries and stone fruit -
strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and peaches, plums, nectarines, apricots.

Autumn follows, more mellow and gentle
than our hot southern Summer.
Apples and pears ripen,
and leaves fall gently to the ground.

Winter comes next – the  quiet season -
bare-limbed trees against a brooding sky, but there’s still work to be done – pruning and checking the trees for pests and diseases.

Spring, my favourite season, appears next – rows of trees in bridal dress, white flowers for the bride, shades of pink for her attendants, and creamy white for her mother.

I’ve forgotten the other main crop -
citrus fruit, appearing in Winter -
oranges, grapefruit, lemons, mandarins,
and the cross-over varietieslike
tangelo, tangerine, and others.

With its warm colours of orange and yellow, citrus fruit brightens a bleak winter day, and its juice provides Vitamin C – to ward off the miseries of colds and ‘flu.

An orchardist’s year is never quiet,
there’s always a task to be done,
and the daily walk around the trees
to check for pests and disease.

Cold, numb, and bloodless: sitting in the concrete crypt,
chain smoking.

The three salamanders: fire, ash, burning wood, entranced in their suave rebellion.
Sitting in the dim, candles lighthouses, calling the dead forth
for they thought it to be a game; snakes and ladders,
this tracing of lifes entrails, this business of witches.

Together they would share a mattress, blanketless, in the crawling dampness
they nestled into one another, fiending safety and warmth in their shroud of love
sprung first in youth, second in philosophies: the shadows of smoke and
with common wishes to be that which the other girls weren’t.

Sitting on concrete graves, eyes mangroves, choked on teenage dust
wanting to bury reality and boast abstractions.
Lace and tobacco, bleach and whiskey.
Mulholland Drive. Magnolia. Macbeth.

In the carpetless concrete room, Leonard Cohen came from the speakers,
singing The Future into our weary ears, knowing we were one and the same,
yet united by our fantasies of flight.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Lauren Brentnall

25/11/11

We are without children
not alone in this
many friends
some conceived, and then lost
back into the blue sky
because we thought it would be kinder

And all regretted that
A wound
self inflicted
that never heals
because as culprits
we are part of the forces of death
that we can’t protect the living children from
in all their life
With all the hope of our species
glowing from them

We are still those children
with children or without
for we are not at the mercy
of the forces of death
that reign over the world
and will always win over a lie
with screaming and refusal

The truth is a free child

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Andrew Holdaway

28/10/2011