Ageing
by Doreen Pascal-Murray
Discussion time
But the flighty word
Plays hide and seek
Around unlit corners
Crouches and giggles
Allows the glimpse of a consonant
The silhouette of a vowel
Before retreating into obscurity
My mind used to be lemonade
Sparkling in thin glass
Words babbled and bubbled
Burst to the surface
Exploded
In crystal sentences
Now my mind is soup
Slushy in thick mug
Words slither and slide
Ooze to my lips
Dissolve
In messy spill
English Rose
by David Campbell
It’s the small things I notice when he hits me: the fingernails, bitten to the quick on a hand poised to
strike; the curl of his mouth, spittle slick on bruised lips; the sudden veins ridging his cheeks as a river in
blood bursts it banks to gouge the deep red soil; his eyes like black stones in a salt-crust claypan. I can
taste the dirt on his fingers.
“Shut up! Just shut your mouth, okay”
His voice is that of an angry child. He cannot hear my silence.
Afterwards, the bed engulfs him in a sprawl of limbs. His dust-caked boots foul the satin sheets, limbs
spidering in alcoholic thrall. The booze streaks his face with sweat and bloats the body that once, leanmuscled and hard, had trembled to my touch. Those were the days when I dreamed of children, the
nights when I curled my body to the rhythm of his heartbeat and dared to whisper our names, hope
spilling from mu lips like tears on sand.
His animal stink hangs heavy in the muddy air. A blowfly fizzes against cracked glass, and in the distance
crows flicker like ash at the dying of the day. I close my eyes, and for a moment there is the hiss and
crackle of a bonfire on a midwinter night, toasted marshmallows, and flames dancing above a carpet of
snow. I see hedgerows shrouding quiet lanes, daffodils on a spring day in Green Park, and peonies
carefully painted on a scrapbook card. I remember the drift and smoke-scent of them around the pond
on the common, and his words, like threads of spun gossamer, as we walked. Now there are only curses
in the slow fall of days: careless laughter at my foolishness on the horse; scorn when I gagged at the flyblown sheep; anger as he torched the starving beasts in the pit.
“Christ, woman, get used to it! That’s the way it is out here!”
Hope is buried deep on broken ground. Reality is a straggle of weeds beside the rutted path, a dawn like
blue ice, and water in buckets from the creek. The pump is broken again. There’s a red-bellied black
under the tank waiting for the slow leak of rust.
I am an English rose cut before time, thrown among the rough voices machine-gunning four letter
words. My mother’s words on delicate paper are tiny blades, each one slicing soft flesh. She said it was a
terrible mistake.
Dragonflies flicker and dart in the fickle shade. I see an ancient willow folded as in prayer, trailing lank
frond-hair in the still water. A red gum, scarred where the old ones cut a canoe, heaves it’s tortured bulk
from the earth.
I bow to the only mirror that remains and a face shimmers like a mirage. For the moment, there is a
flash of beauty. A smile leaps from the past, but is caught by truth and vanishes.
Blood ripples the surface and is gone
The New World
by Oliver Watt
My eyes opened, the overcast sky was mottled with dark, sunset red hues and swarming with flying,
spectral like dragons. I stare at this intimidating spectacle with awe, but I’m not afraid. After all, it’s just
a dream, isn’t it?
I can see the outlines of their legs as they drift effortlessly through the sky and I ponder on how much
they represent a Tyrannosaurus Rex, only with wings. I look around scared, trying to make sense of my
surroundings. I look to my right and then over my shoulder. My eyes eventually fall upon a very
beautiful meadow filled with assorted variegated green and yellow flora.
Amongst this picture perfect landscape I am beset by the sight and stillness of two tall and magnificent
horses that are looking intently back at me. A mare and her stallion are all alone amongst this setting
and I cannot help but become mesmerized by their beauty as I gaze upon them.
The mare was shining like silver as if she was the reflection of the moon itself. The mare was standing
elegantly by her mate whose own body was iridescent and swirling with amethyst and sea green hues.
As I’m running toward the horses my heart suddenly leaps with fear as I realize that I am in another
world.
“Where am I?” I yell at the horses. “Neigh” the horse responds. I break down into tears.