Featured

redemption s2e1

By Posted in ... on writing, Craig and Ellie Tagged Leave a comment

He stopped in the doorway opposite the bar and looked around. The inside was dimly lit. Pools of light seemed to barely lift off the tables, only just illuminating faces shaded in various stages of inebriated animation. He looked up at a laughing shout from a table near the back and he recognised the bulk of Darren. Anthony was next to him. He took half a step forward then stopped. They’d turned their heads towards the bar and were grinning. He followed their gaze; they were looking at Ellie. He watched her, heard her calling to them, saw the half-smile on her face. Darren and Anthony laughed, and their eyes followed her back to the table. Craig watched as Anthony stood to help her with the drinks, Anthony’s hand reaching out to touch, yet not touch, her back. Darren made room for her and she sat down between them. Shouts, and jumbled conversation, and above it all, he heard her laugh. He saw her face in profile, saw her push her hair back from her face. He felt the distance between them and knew that he was no longer in on the joke. Time to go.

He turned and let the bar door wing shut behind him. His phone rang. He looked at the caller ID.

Karen.

‘Hey,’ he said abruptly and walked away from the pub, turning into the laneway to the carpark.

‘Where are you?’ Her voice was low and deep; it sounded like she’d been drinking. 

‘On my way home.’

‘Oh…really? I heard you were at the pub.’

He moved the phone away from his face, swore, and looked around.

‘I decided not to, Karen.’ He was tired of this new take on the relationship. ‘Why do you care?’

‘You know why, Craig,’ and there it was again, that something in her voice. It irritated him.

There were muffled noises on the other end of the call. He was suddenly alert. ‘Karen? Is someone there?’ But he knew who was there. A muffled struggle, Karen cried out and then Mirko spoke into the phone.

‘Ahhhh, Craig. My favourite son-in-law,’ Mirko drawled. ‘I’m not sure I believe it, but my daughter might actually have fallen for you. It’s not good for business, Craig. Unless…’ 

Craig caught Mirko’s tone. This he definitely didn’t like. Wary now, he wondered what the hell was going on. Was Karen now part of this? Somehow that first trimester had changed things, changed Karen, and god knows what would have happened if she’d carried to term. Who knew whose it was? He sure as hell didn’t have patience for the change of heart that followed. Mirko’s husky laugh came through the phone.

‘Mirko, you-‘

‘Craig. You know you should be home with your wife. You should spend some time with your father-in-law, too. We have things to discuss. There’s no time for work drinks…so what if it’s Ellie’s first day back.’

The blood in his veins turned to ice. In a terrified frustration, he slapped the side of his head. He looked up and down the laneway, to the street, to the carpark. He could see no one. In his panic, he felt his heart beat through his rib cage, felt the sweat break out on his skin. 

Ellie was back from leave. Of course Mirko would know. Mirko knew everything. Knew she’d been hospitalised, knew she’d nearly died, knew she’d been diagnosed with PTSD, the endless counselling. And now he knew she was back on the job, knew where she was, and he realised: she was in trouble. And it was all his fault. It all came rushing back, came like body blows and he cowered under each one. Craig shut his eyes, trying to shut it all out. Frustrated, enraged, he roared his anguish into the phone and then threw it against the wall. It fell in pieces to the gravel. Shaking, blinded by anger, he stalked through the fading light to the carpark.

He didn’t see them coming. The hood went over his head, he was hit in the stomach then on the side of his temple. Groggy, he went to ground. They dragged him behind a D-Max and took turns kicking him: head, face, stomach, groin, chest, back. They were efficient, wasted no breath or effort on words. It might have lasted for only five minutes; he started to feel as though he was drifting away along the gravel, away to the edge of the carpark, away to the edge of time. Finally, one of them grabbed his chin and his hair through the hood, pulled the side of his head close to their mouth. ‘Fix it,’ the voice grunted, ‘or this time she’s done.’ They lifted him higher off the ground before a rush of vertigo and the hard gravel of the car park rushed up to crack the back of his skull.

He lay there, unmoving, the night air coming down on him. The D-Max was parked against the brick wall of the realtor’s office. He was invisible to anyone else in the car park, anyone in the laneway, anyone on the highway. He started to come to, felt something welling in his mouth and coughed blood against the inside of the hood they’d left over his head. There was a searing pain in his chest. His head swam. Nothing coherent occurred to him for some time except the sound of Mirko laughing, then Mirko’s face taking shape before him. How he hated that face. He could feel his own face constrict in a rictus of hate and cried out in pain. His jaw was on fire. From somewhere far away, he realised it was probably broken. Just like Ellie’s jaw had been broken. He had found her. And them. They’d beaten her. She’d been shot. She was lying on the floor, her face was a bloody mess. He’d told her not to go there, he’d given her false leads…he’d lied to her, time and again. How had he done that? How had he lied to her? Her? He moaned and tried to move towards her but his ribs were on fire. ‘Fucking bastards,’ he tried to say to her. ‘Fucking Mirko,’ and Mirko’s face filled his vision again. Blood welled in his mouth again, and again he spat it out. Gingerly he raised he hands to touch the hood and groggily he remembered the gravel of the carpark. How he had got here…

Mirko Sofka.

Mirko had given him an out. A well-orchestrated but simple way out of his gambling debts. He’d lured him in with Karen. Had prostituted his own daughter. To get a cop. A cop on the inside. Put me in his pocket, he thought desperately, and he grimaced at his own desperate choices. But it wasn’t about him so much anymore. No. It was about…he had to call someone. He had to warn her. Slowly, he moved his arm again, this time looking for his phone. His phone. Fuck. Then he remembered, and realising, he stifled a hopeless curse. His phone…back in the laneway. The only way would be to go find his car, get in it and go. He tried to sit up and a wave of nausea pushed him back against the brick wall. Got to get into the car, he thought, and winced again. Groggy. So groggy. She’s so groggy, he thought. ‘Ellie. Stay with me.’ He was hoarse, now. He kept repeating it over and over. ‘Ellie, stay with me!’ Now he was running, carrying her in his arms, to his car, racing the blood that was leaving her body, ‘Ellie, no, don’t do this, don’t die, don’t die, it’s all my fault.’

In a rush of pain, he pushed off the wall and shouted, ‘it’s all my fault!’

He heard something close by, a noise. He struggled to focus, tried to listen. Yes. Footsteps. Maybe. He strained to hear. He tried to look to see where he was. For the first time, he realised he was slumped against a wall, a hood over his head, next to a car. A big car. No, not a car. A ute. His ribs hurt. His head swam. The pain in his groin and abdomen…it hurt to breathe. But no, there it was again. Footsteps, now. Coming towards the ute, coming around the back. He started to shake his head.

No, no, no, no – 

‘Anthony! Anthony! I found him,’ a hoarse voice, Ellie’s voice, shouted back into the car park and then she was there, and she was on the ground beside him and she took his head in her arms, lifting the hood away, used it to wipe blood from the gashes on his face, across his cheekbone, over his eye, in his hair. She said his name. She said it again. He turned his swollen eyes to look at her, her face a shadow framed against the night sky, her eyes finding his.

‘Craig,’ she said again. He saw Anthony loom up behind her. He looked back at her, wanting to touch her face. He blacked out.

He opened his eyes in a hospital ward. Gray light and shadows filtered down through the blinds and onto the bed. Light snores came from the bed next to him. He had the feeling of being watched. Probably not uncommon in a hospital. He turned his head slowly towards the sounds of snoring, testing out his range of movement, and wondered bleakly about an ambush there on the ward. His gaze strayed past the next bed to the door. No ambush: Ellie. Standing against the doorway to the room, coffee in hand.

Looking at him.

On his first day, she’d looked at him like this. Gary Sutton, Captain, had walked him up the stairs and the first person he had laid eyes on was her. Ellie. Her desk was close to the windows, and the fresh morning light was falling on her head as she bent over the keyboard, black hair hiding a pale face and dark eyes. Gary had said her name and she looked up, then stood. There was something in her features that had caught him off guard, caught him by surprise – same thing that caught at him now, here in the ward, here after everything that he had done, when there was no longer any hope. Always something wild and bright and frank in the way she looked him up and down. She had nodded to him, had reached out her hand to shake his, and those dark eyes had locked on him, taking him in– 

‘Craig.’ She was beside his bed now, and touched his hand, lightly. 

Slowly, he focused on her face. Their eyes met ‘Ellie.’

They were quiet for long moments. Finally, she sat.

‘It’s, it’s um…’ he started. ‘I tried, Ellie,’ he added, and then stopped. He held her gaze, for as long as he could.

He faltered, looked away, weighed down by more than the pain of the welts and bruises. ‘I can’t,’ he said simply, hoarsely. ‘I’m in too deep. I don’t know how.’

Ellie looked down at the coffee cup in her hand, and began shaking her head. ‘Craig-‘

‘Ellie, he’ll kill you this time.’

‘Look at you, Craig!’ She slammed the coffee cup into the bin and gestured at the tubes and the machines and the bandages. ‘He almost killed you! This was him!’ 

‘It doesn’t matter about me, Ell-‘

‘Noble’s not your colour, Craig,’ she snapped back.

He was stung. ‘Yeh, well thanks, but it’s me he needs. You’re just a pain in his arse.’ She caught her breath and looked down at him. The light and the shadows hung between them, dappling on the bed, the shadows growing darker. Realisation dawned on her face but it was long moments before she spoke.

‘You don’t want to leave,’ she breathed.

‘No, that’s…Ellie – ‘

‘Wait. Anthony said something about Karen. Is this about Karen, now?’

‘Ellie, for fuck’s sake – !’ he reached out and grabbed her wrist. ‘Ellie, because of me you almost died.’

She stopped and looked at him and he could hardly face her. The pain faded to nothing under this fresh hot wake of self-loathing. But he needed to push to the end. He was here now, it was this moment and this moment only where it could happen. He took a breath and it burst from him. ‘Ellie, they knew you were coming, they knew because of me. They had everything they needed, and they – ‘ he stopped, his chest was bursting, he gasped for air.

She just stood still, looking at him. Her face was paler than usual. The tension in her wrist scattered. He watched her face, felt her sway for just a second, then she steadied herself. He dropped her arm. It fell slowly to her side.

‘Ellie, I’m…I’m so sorry.’ She looked at him. Her face was smooth, her expression unreadable. God his chest hurt. ‘Ellie…’ and as he reached out, she nodded noiselessly at him, and backed away, hands in her back pockets. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then changed her mind. She stopped still for a moment, looking at him, and held his gaze. Her eyes were shining in the fading light and the corners of her mouth turned down. The shadows and the shadows and the shadows fell between them. She pressed her lips together. She turned and walked away.

untitled

By Posted in ... on writing Leave a comment

Thomas. Thomas. We have to go.

Wind rolled through the trees and the canvas stretched and vibrated against the ropes. Her head swam.

Thomas.

Thomas grunted, half-turned; exhausted, he didn’t wake.

Thomas!

The air inside the tent was cold and she shivered. Her waters had broken, the blankets were soaked. She was glad little Frankie was at Drapers’. She reached clumsily for her coat, swallowing down fear. The baby had moved this morning but not since. Now this. Her stomach heaved and she quickly turned and retched into the sheets beside the bed, the sour smell stinging her nostrils. She closed her eyes, breath ragged, head swimming. She clutched at Thomas’s shoulder and hardly unbidden, she remembered the others. Two tiny souls, each had come, had come all the way, and each had died in that moment. She closed her eyes, tried to fight it, tried to fight the anguish, but the tears welled of their own. Her grip tightened on Thomas’s arm. And then –

A high-pitched keening, wailing above the sound of the wind, riding the pain of the first contraction. Her fingers bit into Thomas’s shoulder; awake now, alarmed, he came to, to the sharp odours and the cold in the tent, his wife in pain.

He reached for her free hand; with his other, he dragged her coat around, put it about her shoulders, not moving from her grip.

Mary, he breathed, and if there was hope and despair mingled in the hoarseness of his voice, in the way he held her, she did not hear it, she did not feel it.

The contraction stopped; the wind drew back; silence. Only their breathing making a sound. She felt his hand move to her face; he felt the hot tears on her cheek.

Can you move?

Could she? She took a deep breath, testing her swollen belly, nothing more rushing from her. She nodded. She stopped nodding; the dizziness and nausea overwhelming.

He wrapped her closer in her coat, folded the blankets around her. He found the ragged towels at the foot of the bed.

Take these, he said Where’s your bag?

She looked toward the corner of the tent. They’re near the chair, she thought. He followed her gaze to the pile in the corner.

I’ll warm the car up, just wait, and he was at the tent flap when he stopped and came back. He took her head in his hands and held her eyes with a firm gaze. She could feel the rough skin of his hands, wanted to meet his gaze with strength. She took a breath. He kissed the top of her hair.

It won’t be like last time, he said. It won’t be like the last time. Then he pushed apart the flaps and went into the black night.

Like the last times, she whispered.

She may not have been building fences today but she was no less exhausted. She let her eyes close – just for a minute. She did not hear the car start; did not hear him come back to her, did not feel his arms slide under her, or place her on the cold backseat, did not feel him pushing the blankets close. It was blessedly dark and she was lost.

She came in and out on the long drive to Colac, but she did not see the dark shapes of the trees bending under the wind, wild, chasing them along the black strip of highway. She did not see the shape of Thomas’s face, a black silhouette against the lights on the road.

No.

She came out the other side, and saw instead the broad green stretch of bank that stretched down to the river. It was Spring along the Ovens and it had come in vibrant greens and tiny white jasmine. The water was clear, the air was clear. Delirious, she breathed it in, one more time, again, from the clear blue sky. It was marvellous. He walked ahead of her; he held the basket, the rug over his arm, and he held out his hand to her.

I can’t have you falling down this slope, and he’d winked at her. His voice, deep in its Welsh accent; she would never tire of listening to it. And when he sang, like they’d sung at home last night: she, at the piano, he at her left, laughing down at her as she played. Mother, Margaret, Agnes, their faces and voices blurring in the lights and the raucous noise. She joined in the chorus…run, rabbit, run, rabbit…

Out of the darkness of the front seat: Mary? Worried, concerned. Why Thomas? Why are you worried? It’s a beautiful day, she wanted to say but couldn’t make the words.

She decided not to talk and followed him, down the bank. Across the grass. To the water’s edge.

They would start a family when he got back, he said. They resettle soldiers, Mary, when they return. We know farming. This will be what we do, and his voice faded from her ears but she went on watching him speak, watching his lips move. She knew all these words for they had spoken them to each other so many times since that day in September. They had become part of her and him; their bargain. The words in her ears, the letters in which he’d committed them to paper. But the pain, Thomas, she whispered and she stirred and shifted and moaned against a new contraction. Again, the silhouette, unseen by her, looking at her. Mary, he said again, louder, hoarse, but she couldn’t hear a thing, only the voices on the bank of the Ovens, only the voices back in the front room of Templeton Street, whispering with Margaret, as they stayed awake long after dark. For Margaret was loved by Jack and they would wonder together about things they could never ask Mother, things Agnes had told them instead. Her cheeks felt hot. She reached out to hold Margaret’s hand, for she could feel her tears…were they Margaret’s tears? but her hand touched only the back of the vinyl seat and Margaret whispered and was gone. She was alone again, with the pain, in the dark and the worry of losing him to Egypt and the deserts.

But the letters had come. The war kept on but the letters kept coming. Each one a blessing, an assurance, each one bringing her closer to her end of the bargain. I’ll be too old, she said to Agnes, but Agnes turned away.

The reverie broke and a searing pain dragged her back to the car and she moaned, biting down the pain. Breathing ragged, she blinked. The street lights flickered past as they raced up Manifold St.

Camperdown? Camperdown?  But he didn’t hear her.

She could see his haggard face in the flickering of passing lights, Shadow, light, shadow, light, shadow, light.

She closed her eyes. She’d let that face down. She was probably about to do it again.

Still the war kept on, but his broken body had come home to heal on a hospital ship; El Alamein had yielded him up. His battalion had gone on to New Guinea.

They are dying from Malaria, he’d told her. She knew what was coming. They’re still fighting, he said. I can’t quit on them now.

The trials took him to Queensland, where he would be injected with the disease that would affect him all his life but she had no choice but to watch him walk away, do his duty once more.

Thomas, she called as the car wound through the dark bends of Pomberneit, but she’d only murmured and he couldn’t hear her all the way in Queensland.

I’m so tired, she whispered to the back of the seat, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

Older women than her had given birth and if Agnes cautioned her, it didn’t matter; she had every confidence rushing home from the doctor that day, and found him milking. She stopped at the door. He looked at her, saw her blush and rose clumsily from the stool. They stood for a moment and all the years and the letters and the hopes seemed to hang suspended between them. His face, then! She blushed for days afterward and how happy she felt! She wrote Margaret, and Mother. Agnes. Through the summer, Margaret came, and they waded in the creek in the fading light of summer like children.

The baby stopped moving. In the last long days of February he was taken from her and laid beside someone she didn’t know, someone he didn’t know; in a place she would never find. She would never hold him in her arms. Still. Not breathing. Not for so long, days. He arrived in a sea of pain and guilt and blurred madness. Agnes came. Margaret was there. But Thomas she couldn’t face. He came; he tried to bury his face in her hair. She felt his body heave with unshed tears and was mortified; she turned away.

She’d let him down.

Yet she would do it again.

She stayed with Agnes for the confinement this time, her second chance; but it didn’t matter. And this one a little girl! Laid away again, she would never know where. They would have called her Joy. The weight of failure pinned her down, even though she got up to move mechanically through her days, a ghost or wraith, Thomas hardly knew which when he described her to the pastor. The pastor knew Mary and he felt their anguish; he did what he could. He arranged for Frankie to come to them, a tiny baby boy with the fairest of hair. After all, a baby was what she wanted; the men agreed.

But they never spoke about what she wanted. She just had to go on. She worked in the cafe. She managed the farm. She was a good mother. Devoted. Dutiful. Responsible.

She came home a third time, same news, same wanting, standing before him. She hardly knew how to meet his gaze. Such a strange mixture of hope and despair and resignation. She felt this baby grow like she had the others, felt it grow strong, traced the outline of the little fists or feet that pressed against her from inside. Did her share of the work, looked after Frankie, put on determination –

The bright lights of the hospital woke her and she cried out under the glare as a new contraction took her body like a vice. She saw Thomas shouting into the doorway of the hospital, she saw his breath condense in clouds in the air, his hair in disarray, the worry in his face. He pulled her door open and his stricken face hung over hers as he pulled her carefully from the car, laid her on the guerney. Her eyes on his face, and there were orderlies pushing her but he held her hand and her gaze until they got to the doors, until he could go no further, and she was alone again with her end of the bargain.

 

It would be some hours before the wind calmed and the night was still. A grey dawn had arrived, resolving her third round of pain and the agony of pushing; yet even as it was over, and even as the head nurse had held her hand and stood for brief moments to stroke her hair – she found she couldn’t fight it rising: hope. A glimmer. She gritted her teeth, tried to steel herself, to push it down. Exhausted, wracked with pain, it was now, in this moment, that she would live or die.

She closed her eyes.

The way it goes: the doctor helps you have the baby. The doctor gives the baby to the nurse. The nurse takes the baby from the room. An unlucky nurse comes to your side, arms empty, arms by her sides. Comes to tell you.

Comes to tell you.

Mary.

Mary, can you hear me.

Mary.

She hears her name again. There is a muffled sound. This is the moment.

She takes a breath.

She opens her eyes.

 

 

uni study: S3, Ep1

By Posted in the muse this week, what am I doing? uni muses Tagged , Leave a comment

The exciting and shiny start of the new Uni year is beckoning (no, really – you should see the trailer) and so my sister Teri and I have resumed our Saturday morning I’ll-study-better-if-I-have-someone-to-study-with sessions at her Uni’s library. (Please don’t tell anyone – I’m an interloper here.)

So: time to get serious about study. Today’s session began with a discussion on whether or not Eva Peron was actually called Evita and if not, where did ALW get the name from and what does it mean, and if we don’t find out can we go on? (No. Teri is not studying the musical – she’s ‘just’ going to Melbourne next weekend to ‘just’ see the musical. Nor am I. Studying the musical, that is. (Or going to Melbourne. She never asks me anywhere.) (Don’t argue, Teri: Coldplay.))

Today I am pretending to get into my HR unit readings. In the singular paragraph of “Critical Issues in managing age diversity” that I have managed to read this morning, I found out that Some Elements of the HR industry actually and really classify me as an older worker.

Part of me might have died but definitely all passion for study is consequently temporarily suspended until I resolve the Evita question .

She might have been christened Maria Eva (according to both the most-likely-real and the most-likely-forged birth certificates cited), but she was, in fact, known as Evita. I guess like a familial nickname.

Eva died at the age of 33, a breath-taking inspiration to her people, but also having managed to classify herself in the middle-aged worker bracket and, considering who and what she politically championed, I wonder how she would have felt about that? And, if she’d lived to approach ancienticity (i.e. 45 years or older), would she have taken on those HR elements that begin discourses with “If one accepts the view that older workers are valuable…”?

Bring on more of this HR!  said…

Alas, Bill. Two business units this trimester. What have I done. How like a winter will your absence be….

 

10:15 278

By Posted in the muse this week Leave a comment

Of the hundred thousand planes that will leave the earth tomorrow

There will be one on which you will stow

One on which you will go

to the sky

and to your dreams

and to the rush that you crave –

But for God’s sake, Dave.

It’s true – I wish you had stayed

a tiny wee armful

who I first knew by the feel of your foot;

who I first met that day in Camperdown,

when in my arms they gently put you down;

(when on that same day they finally said you’d be ok);

who’s first look for my face

left no space

for anything but the sensation of giving all of me over to you –

And look what you do: you take my heart and my throat and all my new grey hairs and you jump out of a plane.

For God’s sake, Dave!

But you know I think you are crazy and wonderfully brave.

10:15 278

not a new year resolution

By Posted in the muse this week, what am I doing? uni muses Tagged , , , , Leave a comment

Recently rendered mentor-less during an ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ PD episode (making my Top 5 list of Best Professional Moments Ever), I have lately begun annoying the crap out of friends, family, and luckless baristas by moaning about the unbearableness of the assumptions and premises of economics (ceteris paribus, naturally), the ignominy of western capitalism and the awful logic of working through a business degree to cement your appeal as management material with a fancy piece of paper. They would point to their glazed-over eyes if they could, but they need their hands to cover their ears to block out the wailing:  ‘what should I dooo?’

I swapped from a B Comms to a B Arts/B Business degree based on some career advice I will always acknowledge to be sound and logical, except that putting logic, economics and Bron in the same sentence is unfamiliar territory for me. And in the beginning I was able to think, ‘hey, this is ok’ and ‘hey, look at that, a credit’, before something started to feel a bit off: ‘wait, what? what did they just say about assuming people make rational economic decisions?’. Very hard to go back to the economics books after you begin to think this through and never mind that you hit Model Western Consumer Status in only five days before Christmas. All that cooking you did? All that wrapping and giving you did? You now know how to reduce it all to a mid-point formula, calculate consumer surplus amounts (or in my case deadweight loss) and you can draw the corresponding demand-supply graphs to go with it (yes, you’re right, it will only be that one credit). You are able to sit down with a pencil and paper and calculate rather accurately what price unmoved stock might be dropped to on Boxing Day, while at the same time have a good hard think about the opportunity cost to you of wasting time on such calculations or the enjoyment you’ll get from watching any cricket that is playing.

And right there is the moment when you say to Yourself, ‘What the hell am I doing?’ You stand up, your chair falls backward, you put your hands to your head and you let out a primal yell! You sweep the pencil and paper off the table and you resolve to –

Wait. Starting to sound like a New Year Resolution. And you see, it’s not. I don’t want this to be in danger of petering out in the February wastelands of lost inspiration – it needs to go the distance! This is a broader issue, an issue of personal direction: I might have worked out where I want to go in life.  What I want to be if I grow up. (I could be here, people! What relief my family must feel! Yet I completely get the skeptical looks from resigned but supportive friends!) I’m going back to the original source of motivation for study.

Which, in case you missed it, has very little to do with economics.

Happy New Year!

and we’re here again.

By Posted in the muse this week Tagged , , , 2 Comments

Current motivation status:

Swan Dive

I managed to complete and submit my last two assignments, spectacularly making the deadline by 44 seconds. Got decent feedback and good marks, and for five complete minutes, indulged in doing a happy dance and high-fiving. Motivation seemed fully restored. I spent the sixth minute searching diligently for my Media Student’s Book: I was back, I was totally going to DO tbis.

At 7 minutes 12 seconds I remembered some sheet music I wanted to get hold of. At 9 minutes and 40 seconds, I’d found a 1940s baby grand for sale in Newtown and was getting piano-moving quotes via email.

Skip forward to yesterday, Sunday, and I was beginning to feel uneasy about the focus I needed to get my next assignment done. Where had I put it? Due this Friday at 11.59pm, I am to write a 1500-word essay discussing how ‘News and Current Affairs are entwined in social media and celebrity culture’. Time to knuckle down. I informed the house that All Bets Were Off, No One Was To Talk To Me, and It’s Everyman For Himself in terms of eating/laundry/household issues and/or upkeep. There were essays to write.

I’m proud to say I achieved the following:

  • Every item of clothing/bedding/incidental linen in the house that required washing (about two weeks’ worth) – not only washed, but line-dried, pressed, folded and put away.
  • Bed linen changed.
  • Grocery shopping done.
  • Meals prepared for the next four days.

And one media article opened and partially read.

I’m so proud of myself right now.

sigh.

 

 

Motivate me. Please.

By Posted in ... on writing Tagged , , , 1 Comment

swan dive

noun, diving

1. a forward dive in which the diver, while in the air, assumes a position with the arms outstretched at shoulder height, and the legs straight and together, and enters the water with the arms stretched above the head.

verb (used without object), swan-dived, swan-diving.

  1. to perform a swan dive.
  2. to decrease suddenly and decisively; plummet. (e.g. Bron’s motivation to complete assignments swan-dived after the super-duper Simon Winchester incident.)

Motivation crushed by super-duper lecturer, who asked the unbelievable: ‘who wants to be a writer when they grow up?’

In a series of supposedly painful and frustrating online university study events, the motivation of Bronwyn Hughes to complete two of her university assignments has been bludgeoned into unconsciousness by a series of allegedly limping lectures endured in online delivery mode.
  • mature-age online university student can’t take it anymore
  • ‘if the lecturer says ‘super-duper’ one more time…!’
  • forks mysteriously disappearing from towns en route to New England region

When Walcha police asked her to give a statement, Ms Hughes was barely coherent. ‘Give me the forks back,’ was the only thing they think she said after they confiscated a bag from the boot of her car.

Thehughesmuse approached Ms Hughes’ colleagues, who were somewhat puzzled about the situation. ‘Was it something about…something about the lecturer? Saying ‘super-duper’ constantly, or something? I wasn’t really listening, sorry,’ says fellow geriatric person, Her Friend Terri Farrah. ‘I think it was something about Simon Winchester,’ said M, who has asked for her identity to be concealed. ‘Or was it something about growing up?’

Long-suffering partner Scott refused to speak with thehughesmuse. A spokesman for the relationship advised that he is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as are the dogs and the cat.

The spokesman was, however, able to clarify that after two semesters of listening to lecture audios recorded live in class, and unable to hear the mumbled responses to questions put to the class, the final straw was the TED lecture given by the esteemed Simon Winchester on his approaches to Story Design.

After viewing the TED lecture, reporters at thehughesmuse have established that motivation has most likely been traumatised due to unfortunate timing. Ms Hughes, a devoted subscriber of the Betoota Advocate and The Chaser, regularly enjoys various Trump-satire pieces and had recently finished a most excellent Booker Prize-winning novel by Paul Beatty. To hear Simon Winchester talk about becoming a citizen of the U.S.A. (instead of Britain, or anywhere in Europe) because, apart from that business in the 1860s, ‘America does unity really well’, appears to have done it.

After threatening disciplinary action for behaving like a prat and issuing a directive to remain focused, Ms Hughes’ managers have issued a statement saying they offered advice on considering alternative study options. Their fear is that this advice has fallen on deaf ears.

The spokesman has advised that while an extension has been granted until this weekend, the hours are counting down, and it is far from certain if motivation will make even a feeble recovery from this alleged nightmare in time to submit something, or indeed, anything.

 

*The author wishes to note that the works of Simon Winchester are considered, by the author, to be pretty good, and that if it weren’t for his stories in the prescribed reading list, she would already have despaired and applied the forks.

the devil’s in the detail

By Posted in the muse this week Tagged , , , , , , 1 Comment

‘Santa’s Sweat Shop, Nick speaking.’

‘Nick, it’s Luc.’

‘Luuuc! Wassgoin’ down…’

‘Nick, don’t be a jerk.’

‘…down there in Hades?’

‘Nick, for crying out loud, I’m calling on business.’

‘Luc, I’m in the ‘nice’ business, you’re in the ‘naughty’ business, I’m not sure it’s ‘good’ business to take what you’re selling.’

‘For crying out loud, I’ll hang up, and you won’t know how your ridiculous new app is going to screw everything for you on the 25th!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘And all those piddly little brats will miss out!’

‘Miss out on what?’ demanded Nick.

‘Your app’s stuffed, Nick.’

‘And how does the Lord of the Underworld know about my app?’

The line went dead.

Probably too far, Nick admitted to himself, settling back down in his chair to call Luc back. Thing is, he never could resist winding him up. Patiently he tried to redial but no luck. He put the receiver down and began to flip through the papers on his desk, looking for Luc’s number. ‘Rudy!?’ he called out, moving books, sifting through drawers. ‘Rudy, have you got a minute?’ he called again, a little louder.

Still no answer. He pushed up from his desk and walked to the doorway, and shouted ‘RUDY!!” at the top of his lungs. At almost the same moment, Rudy appeared in the doorway, right under Nick’s nose, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his mobile. He glared darkly at Nick.

‘If you call me by the name of that stupid red-nosed git of a reindeer  of yours one more time, I’ll–’

‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said, and managed to look contrite and sound sincere at the same time.

The elf handed him the phone and said, ‘it’s Luc. There’s some problem with our code.’

Nick took the mobile. ‘Thanks, Rudy,’ he said innocently, and closed the door on the frustrated tantrum of his 2IC.

Nick sat back own. ‘Ok, Luc, sorry about before.’

‘Are you going to listen to me?’

‘Of course!’

‘Without being a jerk?’

‘I … Luc, you take all the fun out of things.’

‘You know, you treat your staff like shit.’

‘Rudy? He’ll get over it.’

‘Fair warning, Nick. He’d jump ship if I offered him a job.’

‘He–’ sputtered Nick.

‘Warmer climate, better hours–’

‘Luc! Shut up! What’s wrong with the app?’

‘Ah, so now you want to focus.’

‘Just tell me what’s going on.’

‘I’m not done having fun with this.’

‘LUC!’

Luc laughed down the phone.

‘I will hang up on you, now, dammit!’ Nick cried, frustrated.

‘No you won’t. Not until you know what it’s about.’

‘Fine.’

Luc’s tone changed slightly. ‘Just remember – what I tell you, I tell you only on the condition that you keep me out of this.’

‘“Keep you out of this”?’

‘Yeh. My name is not to be mentioned in any connection with this.’

Nick stifled a laugh. ‘Ok,’ he managed.

‘This is not about me doing good.’

‘Sure.’

‘It’ll ruin my reputation!’

‘I’ve got your back.’

‘I need your word!’

‘Okay, Luc, I promise! It will be my official line: the Prince of Darkness had nothing to do with saving Chris–’

‘NICK.’

‘All right, all right, I’ll stop, I’ll stop.’

‘You have to be the most frustrating human being of all time!!’

‘After the Mansons, though, surely.’

‘I want to speak to Rudy again!’ Luc yelled.

‘His name’s not Rudy,’ said Nick, feigning hurt and offense on Rudy’s behalf.

‘I don’t care WHAT his name is, he’s the coder, you need him to fix this!’

‘Fix what??’

‘The code in your ridiculous ‘Xmas Wish’ app, Nick, or whatever the hell you’ve called it. It’s not working.’

‘The app the kids are using? How do you know it’s not working?’

‘Because all the data, all the wishes from the kids are re-routing to my server. I traced it back to the code in your stupid app.’

‘Your server?’ Nick asked, unbelieving.

‘Yes. My server. The Hades server.’

Nick smiled. ‘And you’re worried about this because…?’ although it had already dawned on him that he knew the answer.

‘Because the kids won’t get their pr–’ Luc started shouting, before abruptly strangling himself into silence.

Nick laughed loudly down the phone line. ‘So!’ he shouted gleefully. The Hedon of Hades has a soft-spot for kids at Christmas!’

‘NICK, you bast- ‘

‘Now, now, Luc, we should keep this PG. We are talking about the kids, after all.’

‘You annoying jerk, you–’

‘“The Devil, making sure kids get their gifts at Christmas”,’ Nick laughed even harder.

‘Just remember you promised you’d keep me out of this!’

‘I – I know,’ Nick wheezed, tears streaming down his face. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’

‘You promised!’

‘I did,’ Nick grinned. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone that you were involved in this.’

There was a pause, and then Luc said, ‘thanks, Nick.’

‘I’ll keep your ironic beard and topknot out of it, too.’

And somewhere in Hades, a mobile phone smashed against the floor before landing in the eternal embers of damnation.

a day at the spa

By Posted in the muse this week, The Pinot Grigio Collection of Poetry Tagged , , , Leave a comment

It had been some operation, the robb’ry came off rather well

They’d beat the teller to it, she’d no time to sound the bell

The bag had filled with money, wealth like nothing he could dream

And in his eye did Savvy Jacky sense a little gleam

But then all hell had broken loose – the guns! The shouts! The noise!

He spun amidst the wreck and smoke to look for all his boys

He saw them, cowering, on their knees, their hands behind their heads

He saw him then, a hulk and towering: ‘I’ll take that, thanks,’ Nick said.

 

‘Nick!’ He cried, and lion-like, he bellowed out his rage

His mouth a snarling rictus, the lion seething in a cage

For trapped he was, his armless men sat helpless on the floor

Without their guns all they could do was watch Nick out the door

‘With all that lovely money,’ Trev would later on lament

And Ed and Nige and Morris, they all knew just what it meant:

The promised break, the trip away to sunny old Marseilles

Was now a dream in ashes: the Boss was cancelling today.

 

In the other room they heard him speaking on the phone

The details of the refund struck, the holiday all gone.

They heard him say goodbye, they heard him moving to the door

Cast down and in their cups their eyes remained upon the floor.

Savvy Jacky saw his boys had given in to drink

He took in their glum faces, and he paused for time to think.

He had a heart, did Savvy Jack, and it told him what to do:

‘I’ll cheer you up, boys! Yes I will! A spa I’ll take you to!’

 

If skeptical they started out, they all soon changed their tune

They were massaged, hot-rocked, sauna-ed , they all had facials done by noon.

Indulged, relaxed and manicured they were feeling at their best

They all agreed glycolic peels is what they should do next.

‘But first,’ Jack said, ‘a mud bath! That will really do the trick!’

But not another step they took, for there stood their nemesis: Nick.

Nick paled beneath a kiwi mask, a towel trembled on his head

He clasped his robe together, and was clearly filled with dread.

 

Not a word was spoken, all were rooted in their place

Every breath was held and shock was plain in every face

The tableau, still and frozen, might have kept on without end,

Until blithely and oblivious into the scene came Glenn.

‘I have those oils you asked for, Nick,’ he said, obsequious.

‘I’ll leave them in your room for you, you’re in what? Number 6?’

 

The tableau smashed, and they all broke and dashed away as one

Glenn was rattled to his knees, an oily mess and stunned

He watched them bolt across the spa, he watched them jump the chairs

He watched them pushing through the place, he watched them with despair.

By now the frantic group of men had reached the narrow stairs

Grimly keeping hot pursuit they bolted on in pairs.

Nick and Jack were at the front, Nick’s elbows working hard

A good one got Jack in the ribs; Nick jumped on by a yard.

 

But in his haste he clipped the last step at the very top

He crashed down hard, he hit his head, it brought him to a stop.

Breathing hard came Jack and Ed, they landed several kicks

Nick’s torso only saved by Trev, who yelled out, ‘this is six!’

‘Noo!’ Nick groaned, ‘it’s mine!’ he cried, but no one heard his pleas

Morris held him, Trev bent down and frisked him for his keys.

‘Here, Boss, it’s your due,’ Trev said, handing them to Jack

Jack shook Trevor’s hand: they’d have their treasure back.

 

And when the door swung open on the scene in Nick Bane’s room

He felt a lifting of the pain, a shifting of the gloom.

On Nick’s bed sat Jack’s own bag, the one they’d filled with money

The one they thought would take them to the lands of milk and honey.

The reverie was halted by the moaning of his rival

He thought it prudent not to stall, but focus on survival.

He looked around his team of men, he saw their glowing faces

‘Trev and Morris, Nige and Ed, now we can go places.’

 

And go they did, with one last kick to quiet Nicky Bane

Heading to the airport, for the plane to old Marseilles.

Cooinda Terang and The Little Acorn Cafe

By Posted in the muse this week Tagged , , , Leave a comment

For a great cappuccino, you need to head to The Little Acorn Café.

It is Friday lunch time in the small country town of Terang, Victoria, and I am happily seated at a table by the window in The Little Acorn Cafe. While enjoying a delicious cappuccino, I look around at the fresh white walls, wooden floors and the vintage chairs and dining tables set before a fireplace. I hear happy and relaxed conversations all around me. One of the staff comes over, and with a big smile, introduces herself and asks if there is anything else I need. I smile back: this is a warm and welcoming place to be.

While The Little Acorn offers a tasty and healthy light-lunch menu, spoil-yourself homemade-slice options, and fantastic, friendly service, what sets this cafe apart is the story behind how it came to life.

Now a vibrant part of community life, The Little Acorn was once the long-time dream of carers and staff of Cooinda Terang, a disability services provider for adults and their families in the surrounding communities. In line with the Values and Mission Statement of Cooinda, the café is a social training opportunity for its residents and participants. Cooinda staff work alongside participants, supervising them in a range of hospitality tasks, including preparation, plating up of food, making coffee, operating the till, waiting tables, setting up and cleaning up.

‘The café is all about giving participants the chance of working in and maintaining a place in their own community,’ says dedicated café manager and long-time staff member at Cooinda, Jenny O’Keeffe. ‘This is all about participants feeling valued and respected within their community and having a chance to do the same things other people do.’

Cooinda’s participants were enthusiastic about the café. To ensure opportunities were available to all, a roster was developed, and participants given the flexibility to choose their activities.

As part of their training, all staff and participants have attained a Level 1 certificate in food safety and food handling. Tasks are assigned based on what participants can do, not on what they can’t do. Once a participant is able to do a task, they are given an opportunity to try something new. ‘No greater importance is placed on one role over another,’ says Jenny. ‘The focus is on increasing personal and living skills in the kitchen, as well as their social skills working with customers of the café.’

The Little Acorn café came to life through the efforts of the Cooinda team and the Cooinda Board of Management. The idea for the café had been on the drawing board for some time but when the lease on the Maternity and Child Health Services building came up, they could turn the idea into a reality. With the full backing of the Board, an application was made to council for the lease and upgrade of the premises. ‘The Corangamite Shire have been very supportive of the initiative that provides an opportunity for Cooinda participants to have valued roles within their community,’ says Cooinda CEO, Janice Harris. ‘We have only had positive feedback about the food and hospitality but also the “vibe” of the café as being a positive and welcoming atmosphere to be in.’ In a generous move, the local council agreed to waive the rent for the first year of the lease, helping to offset start-up costs. This has been particularly helpful, as no assisted funding is available for the project.

Local businesses such as the Terang Op shop, Terang Co-Op and Western District Employment Access have also made significant donations toward establishment costs, giving the café its initial boost. Since opening in mid-December 2016, The Little Acorn is run as any other café business is run, relying on trade and sales and a strong customer base. Being situated in the main street next to the local playground, and with an abundance of passing trade, business has been picking up, and things are looking good. ‘This wouldn’t have happened without the support of the Terang locals,’ Jenny says, adding that the generous spirit of the community has made all the difference.

The strong links with the community extend into the retail space set aside for craft work and locally-made produce, and the works of local artists hang on the walls, all for sale. Students from the local high schools studying hospitality also have an opportunity to work at the café, gaining valuable social and operations experience in a café environment.

‘It is wonderful to see the sense of community here at the café,’ says Jenny. ‘The customers have come to know the participants personally, there is a real community connection. I’m so proud to be a part of this café and this community, and the opportunities given to our participants.

‘They have got their wings and they are flying.’