narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume One

By narrator INTERNATIONAL

narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume One is a collection of more than 190 poems and short stories from 75 emerging and established writers around the world.

Every piece in this book was published on the narratorINTERNATIONAL blog during the period 1 June to 31 October 2104.

Contributors are:
Kylie Abecca, MC Alves, AA Anderson, David Anderson, John Arvan, Samantha Ashton, Irene Assumpter, David Atkinson, Rachel Branscombe, C. Lloyd Brill, Frederick Lee Brooke, Jean Bundesen, Shirley Burgess, Robyn Chaffey, Michael Cooper, James Craib, Myfanwy Dabner, Demelza, Arthur Derek, Panos Dionysopoulos, Bob Edgar, Ella, Fantail, Mark Fowler, Alexander Gardiner, Felicity Ghazy, Peter Goodwin, Virginia Gow, David Grigorian, Dee Harrison, Andris Heks, J-L Heylen, Veronica Hosking, Connie Howell, Paul Humphreys, Joanna Jensen, Henry Johnston, Rose Jones, Jenny Kathopoulis, Amir Kiani, Kelly Lawn, Adrian Levet, Ramon Loyola, Nikki Madden, JH Mancy, Julie Martin, Mary McDillon, Vita Monica, David Newman, Judy J Newman, Tom O’Byrne, Frank O’Shea, Greg Parker, Andrew Pitcher, Paris Portingale, Robertas, Patricia Robinson, Beatrice Ross, John Ross, Madeline Ross, Jane Russell, Lorraine Sanderson, Emma-Lee Scott, Anneliese Senn, Corey Siemens, SR Silcox, Elle J Simpson, Winsome Smith, Graham Sparks, Craig Stanton, Sunrise, Aurora Torchia, Nigel Usher, David Velasco, Ann Whitehead, Katrina Wirth, Edward Witham.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoshPit Publishing
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781925219371

narrator INTERNATIONAL

narratorINTERNATIONAL is a compilation of short stories and poems by writers from around the world. All the pieces are published online at www.narratorinternational.com before being published in the book. The blog includes competitions, author community support and much more.

Book preview

narratorINTERNATIONAL

Volume One

1 June to 31 October 2014

This compilation is brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

http://www.narratorinternational.com

Copyright 2014 © Various Contributors

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the original place of purchase and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover image: The Verge by Amir Kiani, Toronto, Canada.

Main Sections

Foreword

Editor’s Pick

Copyright Reminder

Submissions

Bios and Contact Details

Index

MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

Copyright Statement

Foreword

Welcome to our first edition of narratorINTERNATIONAL.

We at MoshPit Publishing are always changing and adapting to make smarter and superior publications and this is what prompted our complete overhaul of the narrator series. You may remember our humble beginnings as a hard copy, quarterly magazine with exclusively Australian, regional authors. We then moved to including authors state-wide (New South Wales) and not long after we went national, on a daily basis. By this time the format had changed to a blog with hard copy and ebook volumes published approximately every six months. Our growth and diversity continued with the introduction of ‘new flavours’ of narrator, such as narratorFAITH, narratorROMANCE and narratorUSA, just to name a few. This expansion would make any company proud but didn’t bring the results we had anticipated. So this year we opened the channels to all our international authors with our unveiling of narratorINTERNATIONAL, complete with a new, user friendly, stylish and modern WordPress blog. This book is the product of all the hard work, passion, ingenuity and talent shared by the many authors alongside the team at MoshPit Publishing who lovingly compiled it all.

As the Editor of narratorINTERNATIONAL I have to say, there is never a dull day at work. The creativity and imagination that comes to me on a daily basis is truly inspiring and so I thank all our authors, both national and international, for their consistent passion, talent and enduring patience – especially during our narratorINTERNATIONAL launch. For those of you who have read our previous narrator publications you will appreciate the development of our authors: with each new submission comes more sophistication, refinement and progress. I cannot forget to mention the variety of submissions that come in, from geographic location, to theme, to style – narratorINTERNATIONAL has it all. It is evident when reading this book that there is an art to writing and we all work together in order to showcase and publish the many creations that are borne of such art. Whilst compiling these great works and seeing them all side by side you can better judge which pieces really ‘stand out from the crowd’ and as a result many ‘Editor’s Picks’ have been awarded post-publication on the blog.

However, what is a writer without their readers? As such I would also like to mention the many loyal readers who make narratorINTERNATIONAL possible. Thank you for sticking by us throughout our continuing modifications, for supporting our authors worldwide and, of course, for reading. I take immense pleasure from seeing the positive feedback shared between our authors and readers online, as well as the intelligent conversation that is prompted and the new perspectives revealed.

Another fantastic side effect of being a part of narratorINTERNATIONAL is the opportunity it presents for authors to ‘test’ new writing skills and ideas, combined with the chance to build confidence, which often results in authors publishing their very own books! It is very rewarding and exciting being able to facilitate such growth in authors and I (as I’m sure our authors will agree) am grateful and proud of the chance that narratorINTERNATIONAL offers to all authors. One author in particular needs mentioning because not only have they submitted text but they won the competition for best cover submission, so congratulations to Amir Kiani for his magnificent image: The Verge

I must thank everyone in the MoshPit Publishing team, including work experience student, Eloise Sladden. Thank you Eloise for your efficiency and enthusiasm. My next thank you goes to the worthy Ally Mosher, who is our technical ‘Wizard’ an endlessly patient sounding board and creative genius; without her our brilliant and beautiful new narratorINTERNATIONAL blog simply would not be. Last, but certainly not least, I bow down before Jenny Mosher, the creator, main supporter, fundraiser, PR officer, facilitator, sourcing specialist, community liaison and much more. I am not exaggerating when I say that without Jenny and her boundless creative energy there would be no narratorINTERNATIONAL.

Looking to the future of narratorINTERNATIONAL I hope to see many submissions from new and existing authors around the world, more writer growth and increased creative writing success.

Sarah McCloghry

Assistant Editor

Editor’s Pick

Throughout this volume you will notice certain items will have received an Editor’s Pick. In many cases we’re sure you’ll agree with us but in other cases you may wonder ‘whatever were they thinking?’ And this is the beauty of creative writing and art in general: we all have different tastes and ideas.

In the past we awarded Editor’s Picks as we were posting items to the blog each week. But when it came to compiling the book, re-reading the submissions often highlighted entries which we felt should also have had an Editor’s Pick. As of this issue we have made the decision to award additional Editor’s Picks after they have been posted on the blog.

There is no formula for achieving an Editor’s Pick and we don’t set ourselves a quota. You will also find that while one piece in a certain style may get an Editor’s Pick, successive pieces in the same style may not; it’s the unique quality that sets the original piece apart.

Ultimately we’re looking for quality, creative writing no matter what form it takes.

Copyright reminder

Please remember that every item in this book is the copyright of the attributed author.

Please do not even think about plagiarising these works or using them without permission.

If you wish to gain permission to quote from these works, or to use them elsewhere, then please contact us via our MoshPit Publishing website at www.moshpitpublishing.com.au if you can’t easily find contact details for the author in question.

The above also applies to any images supplied by the authors to illustrate their artworks.

Thank you.

The Suburban Banshee – Part 1

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

1 June 2014

Raelene and her boyfriend, Cory, were red hot for each other, not to mention ‘inventive’. They had taken to regular consummation in what could be termed ‘interesting’ venues. Previous couplings had taken place in the back section of Cory’s ute beside the motorway; an alleyway behind the pizza shop; on the back veranda of Raelene’s parents’ house (with an ear kept open in case either parent blundered upon them); and once in the darkness of the local picture show whilst Harry Potter waved his magic wand. On that occasion, Raelene had remarked afterwards – much to Cory’s embarrassment – that Cory had waved his magic wand, too. At the crucial moment, Raelene was known to give out with an ear-splitting scream. Cory, in fact, called her ‘the Banshee’. For that reason, Raelene had actually stuck a gag in her mouth when they were hard at it on the back veranda of her parents’ house. Fortunately for them, on the last occasion, Raelene’s orgasmic shriek had coincided with other screams from the audience as Harry battled the forces of evil.

Not content with their nocturnal naughtiness, Raelene and Cory were intent on ‘doing it’ in a retail outlet; specifically, a bedroom furniture and bedding shop during business hours. The target for their next tryst, ‘Beddy-Byes’, was situated in a large, suburban shopping mall, where most of their friends could be found milling about and generally making nuisances of themselves. They ambled in and carefully took note of any other customers and the proximity of the staff. After wandering about for around ten to fifteen minutes and being asked by a bored, pimply salesman (barely older than themselves) if they needed any assistance, the randy duo finally discovered a bedroom setting in the vast store that was remote enough from the sales desk. The salesman immediately returned his attention to his iPad. They were fortunate also that there were very few people in the shop that afternoon.

Cory had his phone-cam ready and so they quickly removed their obligatory track pants. Raelene spread a towel she took from her backpack. Cory jumped on the mattress and Raelene straddled him on top. With a minimum of foreplay, they began copulating like rabbits on speed. Before long, Raelene let out her customary loud scream, which, of course, was duly recorded as part of the ‘evidence’. Cory had a hard time (no pun intended), holding the camera position with one hand and keeping up his end of the transaction at the same time. Naturally, Raelene’s hair-curling scream attracted the immediate attention of the young salesman, who cursed as the sudden noise caused him to fudge a move on the game he was playing and forfeit 10,000 points. ‘Aw crap!’ he exclaimed, and came running.

By now, Cory was oblivious to any anything outside his immediate area of awareness. It was then that he felt a hand touch him on the arm. He turned his gaze and stared into the livid face of the young salesman. ‘Jeezus, what do you two think this is – a knocking shop or something? You should get a room; bugger off before I call the cops!’ The two rando-philes hastily replaced their tracksuit pants and hurried out to the acclaim of their mates outside. The phone-cam was handed around amid much smirking and guffawing. Their latest escapade was soon circulated on YouTube and Raelene’s scream was thought by some to be the loudest and most piercing so far. ‘The Banshee’ had outdone herself.

The fear of being caught is a powerful aphrodisiac and so too is the thrill of sex in forbidden places. One of their envious friends suggested that their next encounter should be in a graveyard at midnight. Raelene was gung-ho to do it, but Cory was somewhat reticent. ‘Aw, I dunno Rae, seems a bit disrespectful to go bonkin’ where people have been buried – my Granddad’s there ya know!’

‘Come on Cory love, it’ll be a hoot; nothing will happen. You’re not afraid of ghosts are youse?’ She pulled up her T-shirt, revealing her left breast. ‘Not scared of me are ya?’

In truth, Cory was a trifle leery of Raelene. Whilst he loved the fact that she was ‘up for anything’, she could be a bit intimidating. With her pale skin, pale blue eyes and long, white-blond hair, she was a formidable presence, scary even. But Cory was helpless to resist; he revelled in those times when with head thrown back and eyes closed in ecstasy, she would scream her head off whilst riding him like an Amazon. Cory would struggle to contain his own excitement to no avail. He capitulated (as she knew he would) and a date was set for lust gratuitous in a graveyard.

The graveyard was very dark and whilst there was a full moon, it hid behind a heavy cloud cover. Cory had refused point blank to ‘do it’ on or near his Grandfather’s grave and so they wandered about fitfully, shining a torch on possible suitable locations. On the point of giving up, Raelene discovered an old mausoleum and called out, ‘Cors, over here, how about this?’

‘Jeez, keep your voice down wilya?’

‘Why?’ she sneered. ‘Who’s gonna hear us – Granddad you reckon?’

‘Aw, I dunno! What have you got?’ Cory was rattled and anxious to get it over and done with.

The lock on the door of the mausoleum was broken. They pushed and the door gave quite easily though the hinges squeaked so loud that even Raelene jumped. Cory grinned and threw down the foam rubber groundcover sheet he had brought with them to put a barrier between themselves and the hard floor or grave. He shone the light about and noted the small brass plaques around the walls that denoted each niche where individual’s cremated remains were stored. He also noticed a few empty beer cans strewn about. Cory shuddered involuntary. ‘I must be out of my mind,’ he thought to himself.

‘You’re not out of your mind, love,’ said Raelene, who appeared to have read his mind. ‘You’re just a bit kinky – like me!’ Raelene had already stripped down and she posed provocatively. Cory didn’t need any further encouragement; he divested himself of his clothes in seconds, grabbed his camera and lay down on his back. ‘Oh … aren’t you a nice big boy!’ Raelene cooed and lowered herself down on him.

Soon all of Cory’s misgivings were forgotten. Raelene rocked back and forth and raised her arms above her head. ‘The Banshee’s on her way’, she cried. She threw her head back and let go the loudest scream Cory had ever heard her utter. ‘Aaaaggggghhhhh!!!’ The sound reverberated around the mausoleum and with his own climax close at hand, Cory inadvertently dropped the camera and the torch suddenly expired. The Banshee’s scream became more distant. Cory became aware that Raelene was no longer with him. He heard the door slam and he was plunged into complete darkness. Cory screamed out loud, at one with the Banshee.

It was then a hand touched him on the arm. ‘Jeez, wake up love, you were screaming louder than me and that’s saying something.’ Cory immediately opened his eyes. He wasn’t in the graveyard or the mausoleum; he was lying in his own bed, staring up at Raelene who was fully dressed and smiling madly. ‘Gotta go sweetheart, I’ll be late for my shift and me olds will be wonderin’ where I am.’ Then she added slyly, ‘Weren’t you the tiger last night? We’ll have to give the Banshee a run in that graveyard soon if you’re up for it!’ She kissed him quickly and left. Cory lay back relieved and a huge smile spread across his face.

Loss

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

2 June 2014

See

kind

Grandma

bends to sew

her hidden stitches,

to restore this rent in her heart.

The old sofa where he would sit and smoke his long pipe

after dinner, taking pleasure in the smell of pungent odour of tobacco,

watching white wisps tumble out of opened bay window,

to mingle with steam from the train transporting

busy workers home from the city.

Night croons a Robeson melody on the gramophone.

Sofa and the old man snuggle down.

Fold the day away.

Such quality! Built

to last

for

life.

Of Friends And Insanity

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

3 June 2014

Between me and insanity stand my friends.

Worldly demands for us the living ends.

Times out with ‘me mates’ is my saving grace

When insanity springs from eternal rat-race.

To walk with the dogs or travel a train

Is gentle relief from eternal brain-drain;

But … tea and talk, coffee and chatter …

These with friends is a far nicer matter.

In the death of loved ones they’re a comfort;

Through antics of children oft’ cheeky support.

In the sleepless exhaustion of juggling life

Friends are the reason girls don’t need a wife!

Getting together with kids in the park,

Inviting each other to ‘act kid’ … a lark.

Play in the sand, swing side by side …

How many girlfriends can fit on a slide?

With friends in my life I may call

There’s always a soft place to fall.

When the world is at odds and insanity looms

The trees of life bud and friendship oft’ blooms.

When insanity rises from life’s rat-race

Spending time with my friends is a grace.

A world of demands is the living end

’Til ’tween me and insanity stands a friend!

I’m Mars and You Are Venus

David Grigorian

Arvada, Colorado

USA

4 June 2014

I’m Mars,

I’m barren and abandoned,

I hide myself under miles of blood red sands,

I’m a cold, ancient, and mysterious existence,

I zoom thorough the void of blackness,

All alone, all unlovable, and presumably dead,

My only company,

Are two shards of my broken heart,

Orbiting me silently.

You are Venus,

You are a world of rage and fire,

you have scorching oceans of lava,

I hear volcanoes rip and tear your world,

You hide below your impenetrable miles of toxic clouds,

Powerful gusts of winds envelop your surface,

Your protection against this brutal existence,

Nothing will ever get in or out,

I get it, I see it crystal clear, and I hear you,

You don’t trust anyone or anything.

I’m Mars and you are Venus,

You are too hot to touch,

I’m too frigid and rigid for love,

But I do know,

We have been both brutally betrayed,

You and I shed tears and screeched in agony.

For millions and millions of years,

It is no wonder,

You are a world of fire and ire,

And I’m a realm of emptiness and coldness.

I’m Mars and you are Venus,

But do know that I’m soothed,

When once in a couple of years our orbits meet,

I know I can never touch you,

And you will never love me,

But I will always adore you from the distance,

I’m terrified of the thought of not getting a glimpse of you,

I’m always tortured to watch you fly away from me,

I’m Mars, a world of scars and tears.

Author’s note: This piece was inspired by the book ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ by John Gray.

Editor’s note: We are always looking for well-written yet creative ways of expressing traditional themes, and this work ticked all those boxes for us.

Phobia ІI

Greg Parker

Orange, New South Wales

Australia

4 June 2014

Phallus

Hiatus

Oedipus

Bulbous

Ileus

Agnes, too

Editor’s note: We believe that this is the shortest poem we have ever published at narrator!

Panhead

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

5 June 2014

The 1957 Harley Davidson Panhead slid off the road at 140 kph and rammed into a fifty metre tall angophora tree at the side of the slippery back road, leading from Angola Drive to the Pacific Highway. Ben Deevers felt the impact and saw his hands melting as the fuel tank exploded and flames enveloped his body. He felt his skull crack open like a dropped Easter egg, then he mercifully shifted into blackness.

He climbed upwards through the vertigo as voices swam around his head, and visions of people flickered before him. They finally settled into a meaningful fusion of dialogue and images and he saw he was surrounded by doctors and nurses discussing his injuries. The oldest of the group, seeing him awake, smiled and gently spoke to him.

‘Mr Deevers. How are you feeling?’ Ben answered, but his voice was strange; his mouth seemed sewn slightly shut.

‘I haven’t got any pain. I think I had an accident on my Harley.’ Then Dr Lang’s face grew solemn.

‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news. I want you to brace yourself. But first, I feel I should tell you of the extent of your injuries.’ Ben steadied himself for the news. The doctor continued.

‘Your arms and legs are gone I’m afraid. Your central body was completely crushed from your neck to your pelvis, and your back is totally destroyed. As for your head … it … I’m sorry, but it is very badly burnt. You are very lucky your brain was not exposed. Now, having said that, are you ready for the really bad news?’

Ben stalled for a minute to count up the cost. This was the price he paid for his stupidity.

‘Go ahead, doctor. I think I know what’s coming.’

The doctor let out a breath and looked around at the conclave of sombre faces. ‘Mr Deevers …’

Ben shut his eyes and interjected. ‘Doctor … Ben, if you please. After all you’ve done for me.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Very well Ben.’ He paused, then continued. ‘I’m afraid the really bad news you need to hear is that there can be no recovery of …’

Ben interjected again. ‘No recovery? But … you know if that’s the case … I’ll never be able to ride … that was the only …’

The doctor held up his hands in acknowledgement of Ben’s grief and loss. ‘Yes Ben. The police say your Harley was completely destroyed. And I remember you telling me it was the last of its kind. Now we should talk about you. With all this expense on exotic cars and motor cycles, have you enough for another operation? The massive Wall Street crash of the last few days – it has affected everyone.’

Ben looked worried for the first time. ‘I know doctor. It hasn’t been easy. The underground petrol tank kept things going. I can always get a Harley replicated, but … it isn’t the same. A bit like … ’

The doctor rolled his eyes in frustration. ‘Mr Deevers … Ben. What about you? Have you enough? As I told you there have been many modifications and improvements lately. Do you want the original or something new?’

‘No doctor. I can afford it. Give me the latest. Maybe a little less imposing would be better, and a few defects would be okay.’

The doctor looked around jovially to his assemblage and clapped his hands. ‘Well everybody. Roll out number 467. I think that will be suitable. Doctor Emery, will you please see to Ben’s previous hologram and do a head moulding for me? Maybe a very slight bulge on the nose, and a little receding of the temples. Thank you. Well Ben, we should have you out of there soon and into … well … into your old self, really.’

Ben smiled and chatted to the doctor for a while about the modifications. These included some that made him delighted that he had indeed had his accident. The latest humanoid robotic body now included a fully workable sexual system to ensure satisfactory orgasm. Recent developments now ensured other functions had caught up with other organs. This meant that defecation and urinary systems were identical to human structures, making his daily storage duct emptying obsolete, and adding toilet paper to his grocery list. Hair would now grow on his face and head if he wanted.

The doctor also had upgraded taste systems and enabled moderate alcohol intake to actually affect Ben’s android brain which held the vault for his ID. Senses of pain and skin sensation had also been upgraded. This was essential for Ben’s immersion of his ID into a natural, though robotic, working body.

‘Now if you are ready for transfer Ben, we’ll start shutdown and begin transferring your ID tomorrow morning. So good night for now Ben.’ The doctor grinned down at him. Ben beamed back.

‘You know doctor, I’m so glad my late father put so much money into computer robotics, and I’m so lucky a great neurosurgeon like you joined the team.’

The doctor held out his palms and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well Ben. If you hadn’t crashed your 1971 Ford GTHO and ended up as our first patient, our project would never have gotten off the ground. And Ben … ’ The doctor wagged his finger. ‘No more riding one hundred year old motor cycles at dangerous speeds, my boy.’

Ben smiled. ‘Yes – I promise – goodnight doctor.’

‘Goodnight Ben.’

Outrageous!

Robertas

Drummoyne, New South Wales

Australia

6 June 2014

Moira is a shy young girl; teased at school for being a bit of a bore.

But there is a boy she often sees at the bus stop. She works up elaborate erotic fantasies about him, based on the things her school friends tell her about their sexual exploits.

One Sunday, she is waiting for her bus. The boy is standing nearby. There are just the two of them at the bus stop. Moira furtively eyes him. Fantasies flood her mind.

Without thinking, almost as in a dream, she walks boldly up to him.

‘Would you like an afternoon of unbridled passion?’

He’s flustered. He reddens. An unreadable expression washes over his face, ‘Er … yeah.’

Even having said it, and seen his reaction, she is not deterred or embarrassed. It’s all very strange. Just as strange was her use of the term, ‘unbridled passion’. She didn’t even know she knew that term. Must have seen – heard – it in some corny film, she thinks.

Still bold as brass, Moira says, ‘I like oral.’

She’s not quite sure what that means, but some of her friends had told her everyone was doing it. Now was her chance to find out.

‘I’ll do you and you do me. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Come to my place right now. No-one’s home.’

The bus comes. They sit in silence side by side. Then Moira says, ‘I’ve seen you at the bus stop before.’

‘Me too.’

That’s it for conversation.

They get to Moira’s.

No-one’s home.

He follows her to her bedroom.

Next day at school, Moira’s mind is filled with her adventure. But nobody would guess it.

‘What’d you do yesterday Moy?’

‘Not much.’

Her friends trade looks, telling each other what a dull life poor Moira leads.

Moira knows what they’re thinking, but couldn’t care less.

She decides to catch her bus from another stop in future.

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

7 June 2014

‘So you play, a little, eh, Billy?’ says the spiv with the sliding ginger rug.

‘Nah, we play a lot, and we’re bloody good.’

‘Ow comes, I never heard of ya?’

Billy watches the rug slip ever so slowly forward, as Johnny Red leans toward him over the table. Billy wants to tell him it’s coming loose, but he doesn’t want to lose the gig either.

‘It’s ’cos we haven’t been in these parts before.’ He resists a snicker as he watches the thin line down the centre of Johnny’s cheap toupee.

‘So where did ya play?’

‘We played Basra,’ replies Billy.

‘Never ’eard of it. How big were the gigs?’

‘Usually about 5,000 or more. We used to be the filler bands for Elton and Cliff when they came out.’

Johnny Red’s rug leaps off his head as he gets up in surprise. He’s seems to have forgotten it’s up there. ‘You know Elton? You played with Cliff? Ya, must be famous. I’d give my bloody right arm to get them geezers to play at the Fox Club. What’s your name, then?’

‘Me. I’m Billy Shears. We call the band Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.’

‘Bit of a pansy name, son.’ He scoops the rug off the table and subtly plonks it back on his head.

‘Well, the guys in Iraq liked it.’

Johnny seems to only half hear. ‘So, are you one of those poofy outfits? … Bet ya wear them big dresses and wigs and stuff, like that Marilyn Monroe and Boy George.’

It occurs to Billy that this fool shouldn’t be scoffing about wigs, but a job’s a job, and the boys haven’t had a gig since they reformed. Iraq was two years ago, but no-one’s wanted to think about music since Jack’s accident.

‘Nah, Mr Red. We were a band in Iraq. Sergeant Jack Pepper got a band together. Was two years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. We were just regular troops who were in bands in high school. He formed the group and we practised whenever we got a chance. The command found out. We played a couple of gigs in the canteen and before you know it, we were involved in every concert put on by those visiting stars.’

‘Aw, I’m sorry son. I didn’t know you were soldiers. Are you sure, you’re not poofs? All that time together in the army; ya know what I mean?’

Billy is close to walking out. The boys have been rehearsing for two months. They need this opportunity. No-one in London is further down the food chain than Johnny Red. So, it begins here, or they pack it in, and go back to the lives they haven’t been leading since they left the forces.

‘No, Mr Red. We are good musicians; we’re bloody serious. Jack, I mean Sergeant Pepper, used to play for the Bowling Roans up in Sheffield before he joined up. True musician and a great leader.’

Johnny Red sits back at the table. His speckled hen appearance turns slowly crimson. ‘One more thing, Billy. Why the lonely hearts club name?’

‘All of us were single, all bar Jack Pepper. He had been out there on three tours of duty. Missed his missus something fierce. When he found out none of us had girlfriends, he came up with the bloody name. He was Sergeant Pepper. Had no choice. But, we wouldn’t change it for quids.’

‘Tell ya what, I’ll do this much. Monday night’s a slow night at the Fox Club. You get your boys in here about seven thirty. I’ll give you ago. You know, for old Blighty, and all that. No money of course. If you can get that mob of drunks and low-lifes that come by Mondays to wake up, we’ll look at a proper deal.’

Billy should be insulted, but agrees to the terms.

~~~

‘Ya agreed to what?’ says Scotty. ‘We’ve been practising for two months. Surely you can do better than that?’

Billy looks at his drummer with intent. ‘Listen mate. Do you remember why we got together?’

‘Yeah, ’cos we’ve all got nothing better to do since Basra.’

‘Nah, Scotty. It’s about the Sergeant, remember. You can’t get off the sauce, and Tom’s window cleaning business went broke in three months. Jonesy can’t get off the anti-depressants. And you know, I can’t sleep.’

Scotty nods. ‘Yeah, since the Sarge blew up, none of us are worth a cracker.’

‘Well, Scotty, let’s do this for Jack Pepper. He was proud of us, and you know he gave us the ride of our lives in Iraq.’

Scotty nods, sinks his Jameson’s, and reaches for the sticks. The band rehearses as if they’re playing Wembley Stadium.

~~~

‘So, you can set up over there,’ says Johnny Red, pointing to a small lino covered space in a dingy corner.

‘We might spill onto the dance floor,’ replies Billy.

‘No-one dances here. A fox trot is a wobbly dance to the Ladies. Eeeh!’ says Johnny, chortling at his funny and straightening his rug.

‘Can we have some tables set up close to the floor? We’re expecting some visitors.’

‘Good work, boyo. Been drumming up trade, have we? Yeah, they’re stacked in the corner.’

Twenty minutes later, the Fox Club is buzzing. Johnny Red is flushed with success. ‘And I haven’t even heard them,’ he thinks. ‘What a deal!’

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band warm up.

‘It’s the boys from Basra, Tom,’ says Scotty as he realises who’s watching from the half darkness.

‘Billy?’

‘Yeah, thought you might like some company. Jack would want them to be here.’

‘Well, we couldn’t do much for Sarge in Iraq. Let’s do him proud tonight.’ They all nod in agreement.

The boys slip into a riff. The audience break into a polite clap. Billy stands astride the microphone and surges into the band’s signature tune. The crowd cheer.

‘We’re Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

We hope you will enjoy the show …

You’re such a lovely audience

We’d like to take you home with us … ’

Billy leans into the mike. Tom strums softly. A small spotlight focuses on the front table.

‘We’d like to thank you for coming to night. I’d like to introduce you to our very special guests. I didn’t tell the boys. I wanted it to be a surprise.’

Elton John and Cliff Richard stand and applaud the band. Jack Pepper’s wheelchair rolls onto the dance floor. Jack raises his hands above his head and adds his applause. The audience erupt and Billy signals. Scotty and Jonesy show off their prowess on trumpet and trombone. The Fox Club heaves with excitement.

‘I don’t really want to stop the show … So let me introduce to you

The one and only Billy Shears

And Sgt. Jack Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.’

Johnny Red straightens his hair. ‘I knew they weren’t no poofs,’ he thinks, counting the cash.

Mercury With Freckles

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

8 June 2014

For Nathan

Crouched at the blocks,

Alert as he’s been taught.

The starting pistol’s crack

releases all his body’s springs.

Thighs and knees

work with heart and breath and will

to lift and swing and push

as feet fly above the track.

Cheers unheard, the crowd a blur

until the winning tape

snaps across his chest.

Another hundred metre sprint

over, done and won –

another win, another prize.

a few more steps of discipline

closer to his golden dream.

Relax now, grandson, buy a chocolate bar

Sip a Coke and mingle with your mates.

Take off your running spikes.

In fantasy I’ll watch you,

Mercury with freckles,

to see on your swift young heels

a pair of shining wings.

Author’s note: In mythology, Mercury was the messenger of the gods. He was able to fly swiftly because he had wings on his heels.

Secret Trove

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

9 June 2014

My love for you was as intangible, as it was sweet and perfumed

You teased my fragile sensibility, playing me … as if cartooned

My eyes would devour my reflection, my spirit caress your soul

We cavorted through the years, romped … as would stallion and foal

You toyed with my heart; tore it apart, oddly … sharing my pain

The years have seen us drift apart, the love for you … I no longer feign

You needed me, as much as I loved you … beyond comprehension

You invade my dreams still, but no longer have my undivided attention

Am I wrong to long for a reunion, to renew and embrace life’s wealth

Am I not within my inherent rights as a human, to desire one’s self

Am I not worthy to once again worship the entity within this shell

If not, then I reserve my God given power, to condemn us … both to hell

Smoked Awesomeness

Panos Dionysopoulos

Maylands, South Australia

Australia

9 June 2014

So, there was this magical guitar and it was made of wood from the enchanted Woden tree. Whenever anyone played it, birds would sing along, rivers would surge harder, deer would stop to listen and horses would make sweet, violent love while Van Halen soloed along with the sweet enchanted music with killer runs and the sun head-banged.


Also, volcanoes would erupt but that’s a given with guitars of this magnitude.


Toward the end of spring, an elderly wizard who was slightly senile limped towards the local Woden tree to gather the enchanted fruit for his mother’s foot boils and saw the guitar leaning against the tree. ‘Muse!’ he yelled happily, drool dropping off his bearded chin, and raced towards it. As the wizard approached, the guitar twitched. A creaking sound emanated from its strings. Its headstock separated from the side of the tree as if being pulled by an invisible roadie. A single note resonated and the wizard stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Buh?’ he said.


A deer a kilometre away stopped and cocked its head. Van Halen powered up his amp, a volcano burped and a horse two farms over got a semi. Everyone was expecting a show.
The wizard took a step closer and the guitar whirled up into the air and hit the wizard on the head, knocking him unconscious, then fell to the ground. After a few seconds the guitar caught on fire.

It burned for four days and three nights. Vikings made passing pilgrimage to it. Feasts were roasted over it (‘It tastes like smoked awesomeness!’ people were known to exclaim after eating a haunch cooked above the flaming vigil). Once it stopped burning, the guitar burst into ash. And then, the wizard woke up. He stood and surveyed the pile of ash in the shape of a guitar then wailed, ‘I'll never be rock star!’ and ran home, crying. The horse never managed more than a semi again.

My Mother’s Eyes

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

10 June 2014

When my mother sang me Irish songs *

Each word became a dream

Her heart would sing a melody

Through tears of emerald green

On velvet notes she’d carry me

To where her heart belongs

’Twas my mother’s eyes I saw through

When she sang Irish songs …

My mother is the last person I expect to see as I gaze at my reflection. Yet here she is, my mirror image – or am I hers? My hands fly to my face, seeking. Solace?

It is somehow comforting to be looking upon the face of my mother. Yet it saddens me. There is an eternal ache in my heart. A deep longing.

I reflect again on the reflection. We are merged, she and I. Same remembered expression. Similar features. She had the most expressive big brown eyes. My eyes are brown, but small and lacking her spark.

Close your eyes and listen *

And close your hand in mine

Can you see the shamrocks

Can you smell the mulling wine?

Come dance upon a fiddle and

Fly within your mind

To the smiling eyes of Ireland

Long before they cried …

I recall my mother crying only rarely. She had a difficult life, and certainly had reason enough. One occasion which springs vividly to mind was the day she received news of the death of a brother – my Uncle Lindsay. He was forty seven years old and a chronic asthmatic. It hastened his end.

My mum was easily hurt. She found it hard to let go of grievances. We loved her dearly. She was the glue which held our family together.

’Tis my mother’s eyes I see through when I sing Irish songs …

* Lyrics adapted from When My Father Sang Me Irish Songs. JH says: I’ve changed the word ‘Father’ to ‘Mother.’ It is more appropriate to my journey.

Emily To The Rescue

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

11 June 2014

There wasn’t a sound in the building’s underground car park. Creepy too.

Emily wished someone else were there making a noise to keep her company. A quick look round showed her that no-one was about, but she had an uncanny feeling she was being watched.

Now very wary, she hurried to her car but as she unlocked it an arm came round her neck, she was jolted off her feet, and dropped her bag onto dirty white sneakers that were trying to kick her to the ground. She had swivelled the car key round so that the key was now through her fingers, pointing outwards, and as she was forced on to the ground she lashed out with a huge lunge at the man’s face, and she knew she had made contact.

‘You bitch,’ he screamed clutching his face.

She yelled, ‘Help me’ at the top of her lungs over and over until she was rewarded with a huge punch to her head that scattered her wits.

As she began to collect them again, she was aware that a short scuffle was going on beside her. Two young Asian men were present and one of them was applying some expert martial art to the owner of the dirty white sneakers. As she watched, her defender gracefully completed a body turn, and sent a flying leg tackle that hit her attacker’s head with marvellous accuracy; she watched her attacker sink to the floor.

Both young men were softly spoken. One was phoning the police, and the other helped her up.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Yes thank you. I think I’ll have a headache after that punch he gave me, but thank you for your help. What was that marvellous martial art you were using? It was very graceful, and pretty accurate. That move, when you ended up with your back to him and your leg came out of nowhere, finished him completely.’

‘Yes, that would have earned me three points in a competition,’ he laughed. ‘That’s top points in Taekwondo.’

His companion added, ‘You’re looking at a black Dan here. He trains people for competition work. Your attacker was a bit unlucky really.’

‘P’raps I should learn some of that myself for self-defence?’

‘We heard you yelling, and rushed over. So well done. You’d already done some damage, so that was good, too – and, yes, I think if you took a course in Taekwondo it would be a lifetime investment in safety for you.’

‘I couldn’t help noticing that my attacker was much bigger than you, but we can all see what happened.’ Emily thanked them again.

The would-be attacker was just stirring back to consciousness while the police were putting on handcuffs.

Emily related all this when she arrived home. Reaction had set in by this time. Very shaken, in tears, and with a tell-tale headache, she told her family how scared she had been, how kind the young men were, and how helpful the police had been when they arrived.

‘I wish I had been able to defend myself better,’ she said to her dad.

‘You did extremely well,’ he commended her. ‘Whoever he was will remember his sore face for quite a while.’

‘Just lucky though that I had a free hand for that two seconds,’ Emily said soberly. ‘Our gym instructor at school, Mr Bennett, taught us that trick. He also teaches Taekwondo, but I think he only takes competition students. P’raps he can recommend a class for beginners.’

‘A good idea,’ said Dad.

And that is how Emily found herself occupied each weekend, becoming very competent. But when she entered teachers’ college, she realised there wouldn’t be time for any more martial arts work. Besides, she had a good grounding by now and that had been her original aim.

Four years later Emily, Meg, Andy and Lincoln decided to have a meal at a favourite restaurant to celebrate their graduation. The friends were on top of the world now that their studies were finally over. All were small drinkers, and when they came out of the restaurant they were talking and laughing on the way to Andy’s car. They rounded the corner near the car, and suddenly became aware of a group of five youths, crossing the road to form a barrier in front of them. Their intention was plain. A confrontation was certain.

The five advanced slowly towards the group, now stationary on the footpath.

‘Get behind me, Emily,’ said Andy. Emily didn’t move.

The largest of the five advanced towards Emily with an insolent grin on his face. ‘You’ll do nicely for a session,’ he hissed making a lunge at her.

Emily gave Andy a shove out of the way, shot out her hand in a rigid curve and cut down on the middle of his arm. The bully reacted as though stung. Immediately she did the same thing to his neck, and he staggered at the ferocity of the strike. Not standing still for a second she whirled around and out shot her leg in a flying head strike, but didn’t stop to watch him sink to the ground.

She was looking at the next attacker punching Lincoln. She lashed out with a chop to the back of his neck, and he lost further interest in the fight.

Two others had noticed and taken off into the dark alley nearby at full speed, while the last one, now finding himself alone to face two men and one woman with whirling arms and legs, immediately ran to follow his mates into the darkness.

Everyone stood still, in shock, looking at Emily.

‘I won’t have to be reminded to be very polite to you in future, Miss Kemp,’ Lincoln grinned.

‘Where did that all that come from?’ someone else asked. ‘Especially those flying leg kicks. They were wonderful, Emily.’

‘The flying head tackles? You know, they would have won me three points in a competition. That’s top marks in Taekwondo,’ she said impishly.

My Brother Jack

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, New South Wales

Australia

12 June 2014

Ah had a aulder bruther whin ah wis wee,

ah wis five then an’ he wis nine yea see.

A tendid tae follow him aboot,

bit bein’ aulder he widnae care a hoot.

Aw jings a remember wan day at school,

oot o’ ma pocket ma hankie a bullyboy did pull.

Whit arrrr’ yea cryin’ fur? ma brother Jack did say,

that big bullyboy pinched ma hankie whin ah wis at play.

Noo bein’ aulder an’ bigger he set aboot his bloke,

at furst the bloke thocht it wis a joke.

Bit no fur lang whin Jack grabbed this blokes wee wee parts,

the bully bloke screamed an’ had an involuntary fart.

Weel a gote ma hankie back an’ it stoaped me fidgin’,

as that bullyboy bloke walked away haudin’ his nether region.

Naw ma bruther wis no fond o’ playin’ wae me,

bit he wid a’ways protect me tae the nth degree.

Whin a wis nine an’ ma bruther wis thirteen.

Jack wis a’ways oot an’ never tae be seen,

Wan day ma faither came hame frae his workin’ day.

‘Alex,’ he shouted oot the windae, cum in this minit frae play.

Jings, crivens he wis in a blidy angry mood,

a wid hiv ran a mile if a possibly could.

‘Did you burn aw those window curtains doon?’

A looked up at the windae an’ blidy swooned.

The curtains wir hingin’ wae a wee bit charcoaly thread,

oh crivens a wished as wis blidy dead,

‘No me faither, naw it wisnae me,’

jist then, at that moment, ah hid an’ involuntary pee.

The door opened an’ Jack came in,

his face white as if he had done a terrible sin.

‘Sorry faither, it wisnae Alex that done this horrible deed,

oh so sorry faither I wis stupid,’ Jack did ’onestly plead.

It wis me as ah flicked a lighted match,

oan blidy fire those curtains did catch.

Aw a kid dae wis tae pull them doon oan the flair,

an’ smuther the flames wae the back o’ that there chair.

Noo, faither dinae explode – at aw,

even efter aw whit he had saw.

Faither said twa things saved yea Jack ma lad,

an’ fur those twa things you should be glad.

First wan, yea admitted yer firey crime,

saved yer wee bruther frae a hell o’ a time.

Second wan wis yer presence o’ mind,

actin’ sae quickly whin yea were in a terrible bind.

So ma lad, thank you for being so quick an’ true,

no punishment but a reward for you is due.

Sadly for me, noo baith have gone,

but niver have their lights so brightly shone.

Editor’s note: On the surface, and due to the author’s humorous use of the vernacular, this appears to be a simple tale of childhood mischief, but the underlying expressions of guilt, and love and admiration for the brother, were effectively yet subtly expressed.

Next Of Skin

Nikki Madden

Bell, New South Wales

Australia

13 June 2014

Next of skin, you’re my next of skin,

looking out and breathing in.

Just as each new day begins, you’re there beside me,

you’re my next of skin.

Blood runs thicker than water, love runs sweeter than wine.

I’ll take a cup of whatever you’ve got, drink to you only with mine.

So cheers to you, sköl and saluté, bottoms up, bon appétit.

If food is the fashion then you are the passionfruit,

must’ve been love at first bite.

you’re my next of skin, next of skin, lick your lips and wipe your chin,

and as every day begins you’re there beside me,

you’re my next of skin.

Where there’s a will there’s a lawyer, it’s not so hard to explain –

husband and wife doesn’t quite get it right, but still the fact it remains.

So they told me to put it in writing, employer, address, next of kin –

I said to the bank, ‘well thanks but no thanks,

here’s the position I’m in’,

you’re my next of skin, next of skin, bite the cherry, live in sin.

When you wear your silly grin, it’s more than sex,

you’re next, my next …

It’s never been touch and go you know,

maybe it’s the way that when we

say that ‘we do’ and we do and we do,

day after day it’s touch and stay .

Aphrodite and Venus, Cupid with his little bow,

what’s in a name when you burn like a flame,

face to the fire and blow oh …

Blood runs thicker than water, love runs sweeter than wine.

I’ll take a