Diptera Downs, and Other Stories

By Fairbanks

Diptera Downs, and Other Stories is a mixed-genre collection of short stories; all are fiction and untrue but nevertheless speak of truth. Settings and characters are dominated by the Australian outback.

A few generic themes plait the stories together: death and dying, love, mateship/friendship, searching, loss, and of course, flies! Watch for other connectors, such as lightning, flamingos, cigarette smoking, music, science, bush life, and bush characters.

Meet characters like the Bastard, Second-Hand Sam, Lilly-from-Lilliput, Zzz, Xanthus, Barnardius the circus midget on stilts, Ben-Lee (an Aboriginal spirit boy), the female Brokeback Mountain duo, Ernie the Emu, the erratic Bedouin Jabar, and the serial killer Freddy Fenris. Travel to the Holy Land and Old Jerusalem, to the 2024 Taipei Olympics, to the 1914 gold fields, to the Flamingos Nest, to Diptera Downs, to remote central Australia, and more.

The story Virus tells the sometimes-comedic and sometimes-tragic saga of a bush preschool teacher from an Aboriginal community; in The Boy from Arltunga, a boy from one hundred years ago in a remote central Australian gold-mining town meets a 2014 teenager; The Bastard tells of an interview for the 2024 Taipei Olympics between a young Aboriginal female journalist and an Australian kick-boxing champion with family connections to Persian royalty and blues music.

And therere always the persistent and pesky flies!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524515478

Fairbanks

Fairbanks He lived for a spell near Melbourne town, till a Saturday bushfire burned his home down; then what had been an itinerant centre stay became a permanent home for wandering, work, rest, and play. And now this ex-chalkie, he camps and he writes and he talks in cafes and markets and street corner walks, of life in the bush and life behind doors to help us see truth, our land, and ourselves.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Fairbanks.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016911992

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-1546-1

                Softcover        978-1-5245-1548-5

                eBook             978-1-5245-1547-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/26/2016

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Second-hand Sam

The Honey-Ant and the Preacher

5:4 the Crucifixion

Virus

The Stone House

The Boy from Arltunga

Don’t Worry, Sister

Harriet

Thumper

Diptera Downs

Tiw’s Day

An Old Digger

Putrescence in perpetuum

How Are the Mighty Fallen

Science Camp

The Bastard

Xanthus

X Y? and Zzz

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Tyr, also known as Tiw (as in ‘Tuesday’), was the Celtic god of story-telling. His stories did not have to be true, but were used for entertainment and for glimpsing deeper messages.

What you are about to read is a collection of quirky stories, perhaps such as Tyr may have told - none of them true, but hopefully which speak something of Truth. They are mostly for entertainment, for fun. Please proceed in that context.

You will meet characters old and young, large and small, male and female (and in-between?). You will travel to diverse settings - often from the Australian Outback - some real and some surreal. I hope they may be characters and settings you recognise, though often a degree of truth-stretching is required to accept the storyline.

A few generic themes plait the stories together: death and growing old, love, mateship-friendship, searching, loss. And, of course, flies! Watch for other connectors such as: lightning, flamingos, cigarette-smoking, music, Science; bush-life and bush-characters.

One value in a collection of shorter Writings rather than a single longer one, is the variety of voices, of styles and forms the writing can take: first-person narrative, third-person omniscient, fairy-tale, recount, public letter, drama, tragedy, comedy, farce, mystery, narrative poetry. I have exercised restraint and only included one poem - aside from the narrative poem which is actually a story - as it helps tie some of the themes together, if rather darkly. There is something for everyone.

I hope you enjoy meeting characters like: The Bastard, Second-hand Sam, Lilly-from-Lilliput, Zzz, Xanthus, Barnardius the circus midget on stilts, Ben-Lee an Aboriginal spirit-boy, the female Brokeback Mountain duo, Ernie the Emu, the erratic bedouin Jabar, the serial-killer Freddy Fenris. Travel to the Holy Land and Old Jerusalem, to the 2024 Taipei Olympics, to the 1914 gold fields, to The Flamingo’s Nest, to Diptera Downs, to remote Central Australia, and more.

I wish to acknowledge the first peoples of this land, especially Anangu-tjuta mob of Central Australia.

Aboriginal and other characters in this collection are often inspired by people I have known but are never meant to be a true representation of the person. In all cases names have been changed. Cultural practices mentioned are done so in a generic way and are not meant to disrespect the sacred.

I trust that I have stepped on enough toes across the board to not be offensive to anyone particularly.

Enjoy the read.

Fairbanks.

SECOND-HAND SAM

(One-act play)

Characters:

Sam: mid-50’s; former Jesuit teacher, now an IT technic; single

Tommy: mid-30’s; obese; part-Aboriginal; former student of Sam; married with young children

Lawrence: mid-50’s; former drug addict and prison inmate; single

Zeke: mid-80’s; father of the recently deceased Patrick; seriously ill

Setting / Notes:

Sitting room with open fireplace where fire is burning. The four men sit in chairs about the fire. A stand-ashtray is next to Zeke’s chair; Zeke smokes freely and often, rolling cigarettes with a handheld rolling machine. Each man has a drink in a shot-glass, and more drinks are poured during the play from bottles on sideboard.

It is the evening after the funeral for Patrick – Zeke’s son, Lawrence’s secret lover, friend of Sam and also of Tommy.

Lawrence is a nervy-type who can’t sit still. He often gets up and wanders, sometimes standing at the fire. He is the one who variously tends the fire throughout the play.

Tommy, after retrieving plates of food during the scene, eats constantly, consuming one plate after another.

*     *     *

[Curtain goes up]

ZEKE: [smoking]      Well, I’m sorry, Sam. I know you probably believe all that bullshit about the hereafter the preacher went on about today, but I just can’t. It would be nice. But it’s all just fantasy - science fiction. I mean, truly - Science Fiction, in the extreme.

Patrick’s dead, gone. That’s all there is to it. Sure it would be nice to think that soon, when my time comes, I will sit with him in Paradise; or maybe we will stand next to each other in the stocks around the lake of fire - whatever. But I’m afraid I just don’t buy it.

SAM: Faith, mate. It’s all about faith.

TOMMY: Faith? What’s that? - believing in Fantasy when you can’t figure out the truth. Held my people back for generations, such Faith in the unreal.

LAWRENCE: You’re just a fat black heretic, Tom-Boy.

TOMMY: Yeah, and you just a skinny white crim, Lawrie-Boy.

LAWRENCE: I’ll drink to that, mate. [Lawrence and Tommy exchange a fist-greeting, as Lawrence collects a bottle from the sideboard and tops up everyone’s drink.]

SAM: [lifting his drink to the air]      Here’s to Patrick! - Mate to heretics and crims; saints, sinners, and perverts!

[They all drink, amidst ‘Here-here’, ‘Amen to that, brother’, etc.]

[Lawrence refills glasses again, and then attends to the fire. The men shift chairs about, to gather closer to the warmth.]

[Zeke rolls and lights another cigarette.]

SAM: Give us a whiff of that, mate; blow your smoke this way. Just can’t get enough of it. It’s all I can take any more, since I had the jab a couple months ago. Now all I’m left with is second-hand smoking.

LAWRENCE: Yeah, me too. They give us all the jab on the Inside. The bloody wowsers! ‘Course, half of why they do it is just to put you down, force something on you - against your will or not - just to let you know they’re the boss. Pigs!

TOMMY: It’s a conspiracy. They’re trying to have all my people inoculated against tobacco smoking at birth! The white supremacist bastards!

[They all raise their glasses…]

LAWRENCE: Next, they’ll have a jab to stop you drinking.

SAM: They may already have that one, I think. But, no fear; the alcohol lobby is too strong, too much money in booze. Always has been. That’s how the American Prohibition failed - too much money, too many vested interests.

ZEKE: And, a mighty good product they make, too - if I may add. I think mine’s evaporated - empty again.

SAM: No worries, mate. [He fills Zeke’s glass.] …To Patrick!… [He refills the glasses, and ‘catches’ a whiff of smoke, as he sits.] Ahhh. Thanks, mate.

TOMMY: I don’t smoke. Never have. Thought it was dumb. Don’t know what you guys are going on about. I eat. Wasn’t there some food left over? I’m starving.

ZEKE: In the kitchen - in the fridge and on the bench. Help yourself.

[Tommy struggles to his feet and exits.]

ZEKE: Now, Sam. Do you think I’ll be allowed to smoke in heaven? I mean, if it is Heaven, there sure better be a smoker’s lounge, and a bar! What is this Heaven, anyway?

[Tommy returns, balancing plates of sandwiches, etc.]

TOMMY: And a kitchen. As much food as you could want, and the best food you’ve ever had - and you don’t get fat of get diabetes or heart attack or anything. Heaven! [He sits heavily, with one of the plates on his lap.]

SAM: I’m all for it, the lot. Heaven is whatever you imagine it to be, whatever it is you want it to be - the best of what you could envisage. And, by the same token, Hell is just the opposite - whatever it is you believe the worst to be, the polar opposite of good/Heaven.

ZEKE: [getting riled] Isn’t that cute! Bullshit! What a convenient and polite thing this Faith of yours is!

It’s fantasy, mate. You’re admitting it -‘Heaven is whatever you imagine it to be / Hell is whatever dark fantasy you believe it to be.’ Come on! Give us a break.

SAM: Yes, well perhaps a few of the details are still to be worked out. It is my own philosophy, not the Church’s. I did leave the Faithful Brotherhood, as you recall - some time ago now. I must admit, we never did see eye-to-eye on a few things.

LAWRENCE: An eye for an eye; spilt blood for spilt blood. That’s the way of The Church! Always has been, despite what they say.

And, don’t let ’im catch you in the middle of the night, when you got up to go to the toilet and didn’t turn on the light; and he drags you off into a dark back room… That’s the way of the Brotherhood!

TOMMY: No doubt, one of the things Brother Samuel - sorry, Sam - had issues with, as he said.

Here, try one of these, you skinny crim. [He hands Lawrence a chicken wing…] And, how ’bout a refill?

[Drinks are refilled. Food is distributed, etc.]

…to Patrick!…

[Zeke lights another cigarette, but has a coughing fit as he does. This breaks the tension that has built up. His coughing fit continues…]

ZEKE: …Sorry…

LAWRENCE: No worries, mate. Half your luck.

As a matter of fact, you give me an idea. Why don’t we all roll up and have a smoke - in honour of our mate, Patrick! [He holds up his glass in salute.] Except you, Tommy, of course - non-smoker! You can man the bucket, and take it around to each of us to spew up our guts into when the nicotine hits the blood stream. Good job for a black-fellow.

TOMMY: You bastard! I’ll tip the bloody bucket over your head!

ZEKE: Have you tried it? Smoking?

LAWRENCE: Course I have. First thing when I got out last year. Made me sick as a dog. The bastards.

SAM: Yeah, me too. Not worth it. I prefer second-hand; only gives you a bit of nausea and a headache, easily overcome with plenty of booze.

LAWRENCE: Still, I reckon we should have a go, for old times’ sake, for our mate. Don’t be weak. You priests are all a weak bunch of wowser sooks.

SAM: I told you. I’m not a priest any more, haven’t been for 15 years.

LAWRENCE: Once a priest, always a weak prick.

TOMMY: Take it easy, Lawrence. You want to smoke and get sick all over the place, you go ahead on your own. Don’t try to drag Sam down with you. You crims are all the same - want to bring everyone down to your lowly level, as if there’s some pride in being a scum.

LAWRENCE: I’ll show you scum, mate - my fist up your fat black bum, that’s what.

TOMMY: One of the tricks you picked up from your crim-mates in gaol, no doubt.

ZEKE: Now settle down, the lot of yous. We’re here to remember Patrick. Show some respect.

[Sitting up as he speaks, Zeke swats at a fly that has been on his shirt-collar.]

… To Patrick! … [They all raise their glasses once again.]

[The fly ‘has flown’ towards Sam, who swats at it, and then it ‘flies on’ to land on Lawrence’s face. He reacts violently, swatting away at the air.]

LAWRENCE: Damn flies!

They got any flies in this Heaven of yours, Sam? Or is it just in Hell? [He swats at the air.]

Why do they always go for us clean white-fellas, and leave you dirty black bastards alone?

TOMMY: Cuz we’re the Custodians of this land, mate. We belong here; you’re the alien. Them flies only likes Aliens and Shit!

LAWRENCE: I’ll give you aliens! My Alien Fist! [He threatens, again, with his fist as if thrusting. He lunges towards Tommy across the space.]

ZEKE: Settle, fellas!

How ’bout some of that chicken, Tommy?

[Tommy hands the plate around, then goes off to collect another.]

[Lawrence tends the fire.]

[Zeke rolls another smoke.]

ZEKE: Patrick was special to you, Lawrence - wasn’t he. How’d you two meet?

LAWRENCE: At The Club, in the city. We played pool and snooker together. Best damn snooker player I ever seen - Club Champion for 8 years, a whole ‘shield’ worth; he retired then, to give the rest of us a go. We also used to get together every Tuesday night at The Creamy Custard for the eight-ball pairs comp. If you could stop him drinking too much, we’d win every time. I have more bottles of Johnny Walker on my shelf - prizes - than even I could drink in a year. Best eight-ball player ever picked up a cue.

TOMMY: Yeah? Didn’t even know he played. I knew Patrick from our Poker Club. Patrick hasn’t missed our fortnightly Thursday night game for years. We’re sure gonna miss him. He taught us all. Luckiest bastard you ever did meet. But a real gentleman when it came to losing too - not that he did that very often.

… To Patrick! Pool Ace and Poker Ace - extraordinaire! … [They all raise their glasses once again.]

ZEKE: So, I wonder if there’s a nice snooker table and poker game in your imaginary heaven, Sam.

LAWRENCE: A full-size table, no doubt, with a flawless felt. But I wonder about the creamy custard in the back room - heh, heh…

TOMMY: You perv. Now who’s the heretic?

LAWRENCE: You just keep stuffing your gob, you fat black bastard. We don’t need to hear from you.

[Zeke has another coughing fit.]

SAM: You alright, old-timer?

ZEKE: [After a few moments of recovery] Yeah, I’ll manage. But probably not long now before I can test out your heavenly theory. Pity I won’t be able to tell you what I discover.

SAM: The important thing is not really the quality or design of the afterlife, but whether we have a soul at all, a spirit which lives on after the body is dead. If there is a soul which goes on, then the question of what state that would be is relevant. But if there is no soul, if Man is just intellect and flesh, then there is no reason to consider the heaven/hell issue.

ZEKE: Yes. That’s the crux of the matter - you’re right. How can we know? Where’s the proof, mate?

SAM: There is no proof. That’s what Faith means - the belief in things that can’t be proved. By the time we can know for sure, it is too late to do anything about it.

ZEKE: So, we’re best to take out some insurance and Believe, just in case. Is that it?

SAM: I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. What’s interesting, though, is to look at the historical perspective. As far back as written or even the caveman’s pictorial records go, people have believed in some form of afterlife, that there is something of the Self that goes on after death - every indigenous culture, the Egyptians, the Mayans, Confucius, Einstein, even the pragmatic and practical Greeks. Could they all be wrong? Belief in the on-going spirit of Man has sustained us over the centuries. Only a fool would bury his head in the sand and deny it.

ZEKE: Hmmm… [He rolls and lights another cigarette.]

LAWRENCE: Is it ostriches that bury their head in the sand? Or do emus do it too?

TOMMY: God, some people are dumb. Emus don’t bury their head in the sand, only crims and perverts! - trying to deny the consequences of their miscreant actions.

LAWRENCE: I warned you. [He raises his fist.]

SAM: Take it easy, you two. We’re trying to have a serious philosophical discussion here. [Sam collects a bottle and refills everyone’s glasses. As he fills Zeke’s, he again ‘catches’ a whiff of second-hand smoke and sighs. Lawrence tends the fire.]

LAWRENCE: Yeah, well that’s the problem with your philosophy and with your religion - priest or no priest. It’s all just talk. I prefer action. Patrick did too.

ZEKE: [extinguishing a half-cigarette]      You know, I think Patrick would have enjoyed our little discussion. Thanks, guys, for coming round. You’re very kind to an old man. It eases my troubled spirit - assuming I have one. [He winks at Sam.]

… To Patrick! A good mate, and the best son a man ever had… [They all raise their glasses once again.]

[Zeke rolls another smoke.]

TOMMY: Well, fellas, I think I better shove off - before I get too pissed to drive. Marion’s making a roast. I told her I’d be home by 7:30. Thanks for the drinks, Zeke - and the nibbles. [He struggles out of his chair and prepares to leave.]

LAWRENCE: Nibbles! You ate a full plate of chicken, and Lord knows how much else. Just as well the rest of us weren’t hungry.

TOMMY: You skinny git. When did you last eat a proper meal? Want to come ‘round for a roast dinner? Marion’s a miracle chef. Do you good to have a real meal, instead of booze and takeaway.

LAWRENCE: Thanks, mate. I’ll pass. Wouldn’t want you to be short. Can’t have you fading away. But, don’t ask me to be carrying your coffin when the time comes - they’ll need a forklift for that one.

[The two adversaries embrace in a warm farewell hug. Tommy shakes hands with Zeke and with Sam, exchanging farewell greetings.]

SAM: Yeah, well, perhaps I better make a move too. Tempus fugit. I’ve got a plane to catch in the morning for a conference in Sydney. They’ve got me doing the keynote address: ‘Nowhere to Hide - Cyber Security in the 21st Century’.

Thanks for the drinks, Zeke - much appreciated. It was a good send-off. Hope I didn’t bend your ear too much.

You look after yourself. Careful of those smokes - but give us another whiff of that …Ahhh…

ZEKE: Thanks for coming, Sam. Makes me feel better - the possibility that Patrick is up there somewhere having a game of snooker or good hand of poker. Thanks for your advice. I’ll get down to the Church one day next week and have a chat with The Man and see if He’ll still have me - for a bit of insurance, eh.

But I don’t think I’ll be needing any of your cyber-security, whatever that is. I’m afraid Patrick was right. I’m just a dinosaur who is living out of his time. Don’t even have one of those pocket telephones you mob all live by - refuse. I wouldn’t know an e-mail from a g-mail; though I do know a thing or two about the Fe-male - heh heh heh.

SAM: Thanks again, mate. You take care. I’ll give you a ring - on your landline! - next week.

[Sam and Zeke hug farewell…]

[Sam and Tommy retrieve coats and winter gear, and exit.]

LAWRWENCE: How about another, Zeke?

ZEKE: Sure thing. Help yourself.

[Lawrence fills both glasses.]

LAWRENCE: So, mate. What did they say? I didn’t want to ask with the others here. Did you get a report from the Coroner?

ZEKE: Yes. It’s that folder there. Came yesterday, in the mail. They didn’t even deliver it in person - the bastards.

Overdose. To be expected, I guess.

Poor bugger…

[Zeke begins to weep. Lawrence at first resists, then collapses in tears himself. Zeke falls into an apoplectic coughing fit. Lawrence consoles him, and the two hug for a minute.]

[They resume seats by the fire.]

ZEKE: You still using?

LAWRENCE: Nah. I’ve been clean for three years, since I was ‘in’ and then got out last time. I’m not going back in there. I couldn’t take it again. I hate the walls - to say nothing of the bars.

And the aggro. I can’t take it anymore.

I tried to tell Patrick, but he wouldn’t listen. But I know what it’s like - been there/done that. Once the monkey’s on your back, he soon enough grabs you around the throat and strangles the life out of you.

[The two sit in silence, staring into the fire.]

LAWRENCE: [weeping again] I’m just gonna miss him so much! I don’t know how I will live without him…

ZEKE: I know, mate.

I know that you and Patrick had a close relationship. No worries to me, mate. I was glad he had someone.

I knew about Patrick since he was a lad. You don’t stop loving your own son just because he turns out to be a poof.

[There is another long pause, and more drinks are poured. Zeke lights another cigarette.]

ZEKE: So what you gonna do now?

LAWRENCE: I’m gonna leave town. I can’t stay. Too many memories.

There’s a ‘do’ at The Custard tomorrow night - another Wake, but I venture to say a bit different to this afternoon - and after that I’m out of here.

I have an uncle, Uncle Harold, who runs a fishing trawler out of Wyndham in the Kimberley. He was the only one who came to visit me while I was in jail, except for Patrick of course. He told me that if I was clean he would give me a job as deckhand any time I wanted - ‘…The bottom bunk’s always saved for family…’ I think I’ll give that a go.

ZEKE: Good idea. Fresh start. Sea air, hard yakka: a good clean life. Half your luck, mate. I wish you all the very best. Truly I do, though I’ll miss you coming ‘round.

LAWRENCE: I’ll miss that too, mate.

But I won’t miss this cold. I want to go somewhere you don’t have to wear coats and scarves and huddle around a fire to keep warm. Never been as cold as some of them nights in the Lock-up, wrapping meself in some thin moth-eaten blanket they give you.

I want to sweat, mate. I want it pouring out-a me.

ZEKE: Don’t