Unsettled

By Sean Q Lee

Contrasting rural and urban communities through storytelling and poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Q Lee
• Release date: Jan 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215888841

Sean Q Lee

Sean Lee is the editor of Short Stories Unlimited, a webpage dedicated to encouraging creative writing through short story and poetry competitions.He has spent many years writing about Australian Rules football and pro-cycling, providing colour pieces and expert opinion to various websites and publications including Conquista cycling magazine and Australian sports website ‘The Roar’.In 2011 he won the Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award for his depiction of the indigenous Australian game of Marngrook.

Book preview

Unsettled

- a short stories unlimited collection -

Edited by Sean Q Lee

Published by Short Stories Unlimited

http://www.shortstoriesunlimited.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: This collection, Sean Q Lee, 2024

Copyright of individual stories and poems remains with the authors

Cover design by Sean Q Lee

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 Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Proudly compiled on the lands of the Wadawurrung people.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

URBAN

The Guy with the Weird Shirts that got Stabbed in the Arse by Chris Sammut

Field Trip to the City by Margaret Owen Ruckert

A Realisation by Michael Murphy

Arriving in Paris by Stephen Smithyman

1145 Night Train by Paula Wilson

Concaves and Convexes by Agi Dobson

Out of Square by Janeen Samuel

Low Voltage Cafe by Margaret Owen Ruckert

Microscopic Journeys by Karin Costenoble

Perth's Northern Suburbs, 1984 by Scott-Patrick Mitchell

Late by Sally Bussolati

Echoes of Connection by Margaret Owen Ruckert

Bourke Street, 5pm by Karin Costenoble

If You Were God by Ravenna Bouckaert

The Metro by Hannah Joy

Pigeons of Paradise by Paris Rosemont

RURAL

Island Pine by Connery Brown

A Country Lunch by Peter Lingard

Eyes in the Dark by Sarah-Kate Simons

By the Eumerella by Janeen Samuel

Birdbrain by Stuart Campbell

Fred by Paris Rosemont

Been There Done That by James Kent

Goldtown Cemetery by Jill Cobb Dwyer

Luck of the Irish by David Vernon

On Seeing a Picture of Home by Norman Stevens

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by James Kent

One Sock by Alan Bryant

RU2 Rural Residential by Booker T

The News by Rhonda Cotsell

Milking by Wendy Rappeport

Learn the Lingo, Mate by James Kent

About the Authors

About Short Stories Unlimited

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Introduction

With the advent of the motor vehicle, the divide between rural and urban communities is not what it once was. Ease of travel in the modern era has resulted in suburban creep, blurring the lines between country and city. Farmland has been concreted over. Country towns have become 'satellite cities'. True remoteness is being pushed further and further away.

And yet, there are still differences. It's getting harder, but you can often still tell a city person from a country person (and vice versa). Sometimes its an attitude thing, or the way someone speaks, their turn of phrase. Perhaps its the weathered look that gives it away, or the soft hands, even the choice of clothing. It could even be the way someone looks at the sky. Are they looking earnestly, hoping beyond hope for crop saving rain? Or are they just wondering if that storm will hold off until the final session of the cricket? It's a different type of look. It makes an interesting contrast for the astute observer.

The collection of stories and poems in this volume highlight this contrast. Different outlooks and different lives still exist in what is fast becoming a generic world, and nowhere is this more evident than within the urban/rural demographic.

Sean Q Lee (Short Stories Unlimited)

URBAN

The Guy with the Weird Shirts That Got Stabbed in the Arse

by Chris Sammut

"The inside of his tiny apartment looked more like a garage than a home and stunk of Glenn 20. I carried two car batteries, an alternator, a towbar, a radiator grill and two milk crates of miscellaneous parts down the stairs onto the street."

After my separation, the first place I could afford that was close to Emily, my nine-year-old daughter, was this single-bedroom social housing unit on the railway lines, just next to Toongabbie station. It's on the second floor of an ugly, yellow brick four-storey complex in a street full of them. There's an underground car park, sold to me as a feature, plus a putrid concrete stairwell perpetually scrubbed by dispirited cleaners and graffiti removalists. Whenever someone visits, which I've repeatedly lied to avoid, I find myself apologising for the grim atmosphere and the newly single maleness of the décor, including no blinds on the glass doors overlooking the train tracks, the mismatched op-shop furniture, and the blue sleeping bag on my bed.

Driving back to her mother's place after her first sleep-over at my unit, Emily was silent and deep in thought.

What's up, Em?

Dad, she said, you seem too nice to live in that ugly place.

It's okay, I said. It's only temporary until things settle down and we all adjust. You don't have to sleep over if you don't like it. We can hang out together during the day if you want.

No, no, I don't mind. Then she looked at me like it could be the last time.

Unfortunately, this is how some people have to live. It doesn't make them bad people. They don't have the opportunities or support many other people have. I've started my new job, I'll have money soon, and I'll be able to move somewhere nicer. But it's important to be respectful of people's situations.

She nodded at that.

Next Sunday morning, Emily was with her mother, and I returned from Woolworths to find my shirtless neighbour struggling to carry a rusty muffler and car battery up the stairwell.

I'm Kevin from across the hall, I said. You need a hand?

My neighbour reluctantly nodded at the car battery, which I took off him. He remained silent, but I presumed his name was Jaxxon, which he'd tattooed across his shaved chest in green Old English text. Tattooed across his freckled back was his surname, Pickett.

Whenever our paths had crossed so far, Jaxxon was strutting shirtless in basketball shorts through our dimly lit car park and hallway. His shaved head, tattooed with two small dollar signs on his left temple, perpetually scanned for real or imagined dangers. His arms swung vigorously by his side, fists cocked and ready for the anticipated attack. This was more pronounced in the afternoons, which I’d learned from our shared social housing tenancy officer, was when he was most likely on meth amphetamines.

There had so far been a disconnect between Jaxxon and I that troubled me. Not fear so much. I'm a big guy, though admittedly lacking his desperate nihilism. It was more my desire to be seen as egalitarian. I had spent my teen years and early twenties in punk bands. I'd just started working at a community arts centre creating music workshops for at-risk youth and was concerned I was viewed as someone who felt they deserved better. On top of this, I was acutely aware that this was likely a temporary situation for me, so I took care not to reflect that attitude. And honestly, I admired how Jaxxon had embraced his fate. I wanted to learn something in my new, more frugal, depressed existence.

So, we climbed the stairwell together in silence, then down the narrow black hallway with only one light bulb, which created a particularly claustrophobic, dim seediness. The only decoration on these black walls is a small, framed painting of yellow flowers in a blue vase that looked like a high school student had painted. It seemed a half-hearted attempt to either add a homely touch or placate the inmates. Jaxxon nodded at a spot in front of his door, where I placed the battery with shameful precision.

Need a hand carrying anything else? I asked.

He looked me up and down, moved in close, smelling surprisingly good. I had the impression he showered several times a day.

I know you're a cop, he whispered, looking over my shoulder. The way he spoke, a quiet mumble, his mouth barely moving like he was wary of having his lips read, was at dramatic odds with his adrenalised body movements.

I'm not a cop, I replied, somewhat concerned but more offended by his observation. I lost my job and recently separated from my wife.

Ya look like a cop to me.

Most people probably do.

I can feel it in my bones. He looked me up and down again.

See you 'round, I said, entering my apartment bracing for a thump in the back of the head.

Jaxxon's car, an old white V8 ute with a sticker on the back window that said, If you can read this, you are too smart to be a cop, seemed his full-time job. He was constantly up and down from the garage to the second floor carrying car parts and tools.

After our initial contact, there was a concerning period of non-communication between us where I'd nod a greeting, and he'd walk silently past without acknowledging my presence. I decided forcing the issue would be the most cop-like thing to do, so I suspended my efforts. On one occasion, returning from work, Jaxxon was huddled out the front of our complex with some white-capped younger tenants I'd seen milling around the surrounding complexes and train station. They laughed at my Miles Davis t-shirt and made pig noises as I walked inside.

Then, four Saturdays later, Jaxxon Pickett the shirtless, begins removing junk from his unit, piling it all into the hallway.

Need a hand? I offer.

Girlfriend's moving in, he drawls. I need more room.

Poor girl, I thought. Cool, what's her name?

He looked at me suspiciously. Roxanne.

Don't forget to let housing know of your change of circumstances within 28 days. Otherwise, they'll back-date your rent for two people, I advised while wearing a Slayer South of Heaven t-shirt like an undercover cop.

The inside of his tiny apartment looked more like a garage than a home and stunk of Glenn 20. I carried two car batteries, an alternator, a towbar, a radiator grill and two milk crates of miscellaneous parts down the stairs onto the street. Roxanne's father, an understandably concerned middle-aged Filipino man with parted black hair dressed like he'd just left church, awaited us. He didn't introduce himself and looked disdainfully at my Slayer t-shirt. He simply nodded and grunted; arms folded defiantly at his misfortune. As the back of his black four-wheel drive slowly filled with random car parts, he added eyerolls and headshakes to his performance. White rosary beads and happy family stick decals were on his back window. I almost wanted to hug the miserable sod.

Roxanne seemed strangely lovely and intelligent. I wondered if a harsh religious upbringing had dampened her rebellious spirit and fostered romantic idolisation of someone like Jaxxon. At that moment, on the Toongabbie roadside, anything seemed possible. I recalled well-educated solicitors and prison counsellors falling for their murderous clients. What a short-circuiting, self-deceiving quagmire the human mind is.

Want me to give you a hand unloading at the other end Mr Oringo? Jaxxon offered with a previously hidden charm in his voice.

No.

The tension seemed palpable, so I attempted reducing it with inane small talk, which didn’t work towards the end of my marriage either. Where do you live, Mr Oringo?

Careful what you say to this bloke, Jaxxon interjected. There's a reason he's too nice.

Mr Oringo stared at me long and hard.

I'm not a cop, I said, rolling my eyes.

Mr Oringo jumped into his car, made a U-turn, and drove away. Probably to sit in a park and weep for an hour before heading home to blame his wife.

You won him over, I offered, turning back to the unit, but Jaxxon and Roxanne strutted off in the opposite direction, hand in hand.

Jaxxon and Roxanne were peaceful for a month, even returning cautious acknowledgements to my greetings. Then, slowly but surely, they became more manic and frazzled. One afternoon, Roxanne cornered Emily and me in the hallway, my daughter terrified but stoic in her school uniform while being manically instructed on how to dance to Bad Guy by Billie