Life Sentence

"Thank you Mrs Horton, can you tell Belinda I came to see her."

"Yes, yes, I'll tell her," said Mrs Horton. "I don't know what time Belinda will be home." She closed the door. She shuffled back to the sitting room, her fur-lined slippers felt sloppy on her feet, making shuffling easier than striding. Her towelling dressing gown was tied too tight around her waist. The television was set to the ABC. The peanuts in the bowl next to the one armchair were half eaten, broken shells litered the table top. She sat down making a noise as though she was exhausted. She grabbed a handful of peanuts.

"Muuuuuum," came the plaintiff call from beyond the room.

"Yes, honey?"

"Who was that?"

"Rachel."

"Rachel J?"

"Yes, honey."

"So where is she?"

"She's gone... honey."

"Why didn't she come in?"

"If you want her to visit, you know what you have to do, darling."

"Oh... mum!" came the angry voice.

"We've been through this, honey."

"I wanted to see Rachel."

"You know what you have to do."

"I can't, I just can't."

"Then you don't get to see Rachel."

"I'm not hungry."

"That is not the point."

"So, what is the point?" screamed Belinda. "What is the lousy point?"

Mrs Horton took a big breath. She kind of sighed on the exhale. She said very quietly. "Belinda, we have been over this many times."

"Muuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmm."



Mrs Horton picked up her cigarettes and headed out into the garden to smoke quietly, it was the only thing she knew to do when Belinda got like this. Her only vice, the only one left, she would say, in polite company, and then she would laugh.

Got like what, Belinda would snap back if Mrs Horton ever approached the subject. "GOT LIKE WHAT!" she'd scream.

Got like what, repeated in Mrs Horton's ears as her hands shakily opened the packet and took out a cigarette. Got like what? She lit a cigarette. Got like... her nerves began to subside as she felt the calming effects of the warm smoke in her lungs, as she felt the fresh air blow on her face. Suddenly, not so claustrophobic. Even if it were momentarily, it was worth snatching.

She will never be the same again, the doctors words sounded in Mrs Horton’s ears. She's not coming back from this unscathed.

Secretly, Mrs Horton wished Belinda had, well, um… something she'd never say out loud, something that made her admonish herself if ever she thought it. Something she would deny, if anyone was ever to repeated it, not that there was any chance of that.

How easy life could have... no, she won't let herself think such thoughts. Belinda was sick and she needed her help.



She paced the garden. The grass was green, soft under her feet. The garden was lovely. Oh the Tiger Lilies were blooming. The Dahlias are beautiful her favourite pink.

She inhaled deeply. She held it until her lungs burned. She exhaled again. She coughed. She dragged on the orange filter again. Music started to play in her head. A waltz, from the country dances her boyfriend, who was to become her husband, took her to.

"Muuuuuuuuuuuum!" came the cry from inside the house.

The music stopped, like an old fashioned stylus skipping across a vinyl record. She took a few steps and slipped behind the large Camellia bush and out of sight of the house.

"Muuuuuuuuuuum!"

She didn't move behind the flower covered bush.



Belinda appeared at the door in her jogging clothes.

Mrs Horton dropped her cigarette to the ground, squashed it with her pump, and stepped out from under the under growth. "Oh no darling, not that."

"I'm going for a run."

"You know what the doctor said."

Belinda waved her away.

"Darling, please don't." Mrs Horton stepped through the garden towards the emaciated figure. "It's not a good idea."

All she could do, was watch her leave.



The house was quiet. She felt the stillness. How it used to be. She stopped and drank it in.

Scattering Your Bones in the Wind

“You’re vile,” I said.

“You are vile.”

“You’re vile,” I said.

“You are vile.”

“You stole my husband,” I said

“You stole my wife.”

“You stole my happiness.”

“You stole my life.”

“I hate you so much.”

“I hate you more.”

“It is eating me up, what you did.”

“Well, at least there is some good news coming out of this.”

“On which to dwell.”

“On which to dwell.” He spat the 'd', I wasn’t sure that was possible.

“You are vile!” I said.

“Absolutely hideous!” he said.

“Stay out of the rain or you will melt, today.”

“I am dead!” he said.

“You're still talking?”

“I can talk in death,” he held his hands out as if in a question. “2000 years of Christian dogma gave us that.”

“Good to hear,” I said. “Was it a painful death? I do hope it was painful!”

“The most painful death imaginable!”

“Lovely. That cheers me up no end,” I said. “Did you scream? Did nobody come to help you? Were you ignored and alone as you took your last breath?”

“Yes... with the lambs,” he said. “And there was no one, darling... No one ....”

“Just the silence into which you screamed for mercy... and the bleating of the lambs.”

“Yes,” he said. “That's all there was in the end, the bleating of the lambs.”

“It paints a lovely picture...”

“Dark green, echoing across the deserted, wide, flat land.”

“Midnight green,” I said. “With the moon reflecting on your misery.”

“The foxes would come in no time, sniffing at the cold, stiff corpse, chewing out the neck.

“And the birds?” I asked.

“Yes, the birds would come with sunrise, pulling at the larynx, supper on the oesophagus, pecking at the spine that would soon be exposed.”

"Pecking out the eyes,” I said.

“Like oysters.”

“Picking at the bones in the midday sun,” I said.

“Wah, wah! Wah, wah! Wah, wah!” He waved his arms as if they were wings as he squawked. Squatting on his haunches and for a moment, I thought he may have taken off, like the birds, entrails hanging from their beaks.

“Until you leached back into the soil,” I said. “Dissolving bit, by bit, by bit, until becoming just a stain on the grass.”

“A human stain.”

“A human stain,” I said.

“Bits of skin and fragments of bone.”

“Scattering in the wind.”

“Scattering my bones in the wind,” he said. “Scattering my bones in the wind.”

“Until there was nothing left.

“Just fragments, broken fragments.”

“And your vile life was over,” I said.

“All but the scratching, all but the scratching.”

“Under the light of the moon.”

“The silvery light of the full moon.”

“And the bleating of the lambs,” I said.

“Those god damn lambs.”

Irish Darren

Irish Darren had nice eyes and a handsome face. He was a traveller, blown into town only for a short time. I guess you’d call him temp staff.

He had those slightly bandy legs and big feet. He had a thick arse and quite a bulge in the front of his trousers, you know, like he had a cricket box shoved down his jeans. Smooth and round and plump. I couldn't help but notice.

He had a great accent. I could have listened to him talk forever.

Lunch times, I chatted with the girls in the kitchen at the big table about my boyfriend, as they chatted about theirs. Hardly any of the sexless HR girls had boyfriends. Knowing look. A few did. Astonished look. It was usually the same faces talking, my team, and the same faces listening, the HR team.

I'm a bit of an over-sharer, rather than the opposite, so I often chatted. Irish Darren sat at the table with us, which was unusual for one of the other guys, it was usually just me and the girls. He’d sit and eat his lunch, listening, and then he’d join in the chat, sometimes. He’d talk and give of himself, he didn’t sit quietly by, that is what I liked about him the most. He was up for a chat as much as the rest of us.

I chatted about Mat, my boyfriend. Spanky McGee spoke about her husband, handsome Carl. May Pang spoke about Mike McRoberson. Irish Darren would talk about the places he’d been and the people he’d met there. He mentioned his girlfriend once, or twice, but not a lot.

I think I spoke mostly about the idea of a boyfriend, a conglomeration of all my past guys filling in the gaps, rather than strictly talking about Mat, so once I got going, I had stories, never ending stories, instantly cleaned up, and shortened.

When the girls and I laughed about guys, you know kind of intimate (nothing really) I noticed that Irish Darren was taking it all in quite intently, his eyes moving from one person to another. Kind of smiling, but not. Apparently, he has a girlfriend somewhere? Back in Ireland? Siobhan? I'm not sure now. He’d listen intently, say something interesting, and we'd be left smiling at each other, when we'd run out of things to say.

He'd smile at me.

I’d smile at him.

He’d hold my gaze just a little too long.

I’d hold his gaze just a little too long.

After a summer of that, me talking about guys in the lunch room, with him listening, often intently, I swear he followed me into the toilets a few times. It was late in the year, summer had well and truly started, the office was quiet. Of course, that was most likely my imagination, and lunch time hours being what lunch time hours are, people being out and about, but a boy can day dream, can’t he?

He had these big feet, and he always wore those leather shoes. The walls of the toilet cubicles had quite a gap at the bottom. And the bare light globe was right over the toilet cubicles, angled in such a way, so a guy’s reflection was reflected on the shiny tiled floor pretty quickly after he slides himself out of his trousers. If the guy was of the leisurely persuasion, which Irish Darren was, the times that I saw him, as he slid his pants off, and then his jocks, well, the reflection left nothing to the imagination, and if a guy stood there, which some do, rather than sitting down immediately, well, it was, practically, a picture show. 

Irish Daren had a big one flopping about, from what I could see. 

Then one time, I'm sure he sat forward with a hard on, rubbing it up and down. It bent upwards like a large banana. 

Did it? Was it? Was I imagining it? Ah? I could have made it all up, easily. We see what we want to see, isn’t that what ‘they’ say? True of life.

Those big feet, socks and hairy ankles, it’s intoxicating. And I am left wondering how much of it was all in my mind, fed only by my basest desires.

After a summer of that, me talking about guys in the lunch room, I swear Darren followed me outside a few times. 

By late summer, I’d started smoking again, stupid me. It had been the result of weekends on pot with my mate Leo.

I’d sit out the front on, what I assume was once, a planter, but had long since been filled in to effectively form a square concrete box, on the street, outside our building. It would be bathed in sun in the afternoon.

When Darren appeared on the footpath for the second time, when I was out having a smoke, he looked at me and smiled

Cute, pretty, Irish Darren. Nice, too. Such a nice bloke.

“Can I bot one of those?” he asked. Pointing to the cigarette burning in my hand with his chin, nonchalantly.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.

“I don’t.”

What could you do? I offered him up my box. Lid set open like a cigarette commercial, and a slight Sale of the Century flourish.

“Thanks,” he said. He sat down next to me. I lit his cigarette for him.

“So, what’s with the smoking?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“Really? You don’t know? It’s not something people do unconsciously, now a days.”

He lay his head on my shoulder and went all floppy pretending to be unconscious. I’m not ashamed to say I liked it. His head on my shoulder. I could smell his hair. I could smell him. I could also feel his size, um, weight on me, I liked that too, feeling him press against me. 

He sat up. He shrugged again. “My visa is up, I have to go home.”

“Don’t you want to go home?”

“No.” He looked at me. “Oh, yeah, sure, I want to go home, but not just yet.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you want to see her?” I was thinking the correct answer to that was no. Ha ha.

“No,” he said. He laughed. “Yes.” He looked at me. “She didn’t want me to come to Australia and leave her behind, so I don’t know if she is my girlfriend, or not, any more.”

“Haven’t you been speaking to her while you’ve been away?”

He grimaced.

“No?’ I asked.

He grimaced again. That handsome face, looking unsure, it was sexy.

“Why?” I asked.

“She was pissed off. Every time I spoke to her she was…”

“Angry?” I offered.

“Well, not angry exactly, but not happy either.”

“Oh,” I said.

“She wanted to get married.”

“Married?”

“Well, we’d finished uni and got jobs, and as far as she was concerned that was the next step.”

“And you didn’t want to get married?”

“Well, um, no. I didn’t want to get married, I wanted to go and see the world.”

“And she didn’t?”

“She wanted, wants, to buy a house and have kids, she says we can see the world when we retire with plenty of money to enjoy it.”

“How long before you retire?”

“Exactly,” Darren said. He flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter. “She doesn’t understand…”

“You,” I offered.

“No,” he said. “She doesn’t.”

The straight boy lament, I thought, just before you go down on them.

“I like it here,” he said. “I want to stay.”

“Anyway, I’m being sent into the CBD office to work the rest of my contract,” he said.

“When are you doing that?”

“From next week,” he said.

“So, I won’t see you after this week?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh.”

“You better give me another one of your cigarettes,” he said. “And we can enjoy the time we have left.”

“Sure,” I said. I had another cigarette too.

The sun shone.

I didn't see him after that. Only at his farewell. We all went to the local pub and drank until it got dark. We all got drunk and hugged at the end of the night. 

I hadn’t seen Darren pissed before. He hugged me goodbye, kind of tight rather more tenderly than was really warranted. I remember, because he felt all lither and muscular. I could feel he was somewhat ripped, perhaps not abs, maybe, but a nice shaped chest, which he wasn't shy about rubbing against mine. We were out in the street after the night had finished, first out. It was just me and him at midnight in the dark, both pretty hopped up on alcohol.

"This is it, I guess," he said. Shy. Blushing. 

“I guess.”

He held his hands out, but made eye contact again, for a brief moment. "It was really great getting to know you." Hold the gaze. Hesitate. How are we going to touch each other? Go in like mates. As our heads came side to side, he turned his head, and I could feel his hot, luscious breath on my cheek, momentarily. His chest rested against my chest. He pushed in slowly as though we were going to rub crotches together. It was suddenly a game of chicken, close, close, hips twist, hips twist, hips twist. Three of the other guy’s trip drunkly out the door, suddenly, with a crash. We turn side on at the last minute and hug like mates. 

"I'll miss you," he slurred.

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Our toilet breaks,” he whispered drunkenly.

He spoke close to my ear and I don't think he meant to be quite that intimate and as soon as he realised what he'd done, he broke away. Stepping back. 

“What?” I said. What?

“Cigarette breaks,” he said. “I’ll miss our cigarette breaks.

“They won’t be the same,” I said.

He smiled and laughed self-consciously, kind of at the same time. He pulled away again. "See you." His adorable Irish accent. 

“See you,” I said.

He looked towards the other guys, who were right next to us by then, blind to what was going on. The three of them made blokey greeting each other noises. You know, grunt, grunt, grunt.

We held each other’s gaze unbeknownst to the others. I got tingles, wondering if I’d been just too shy to…

Bunny Saves The Day

Bunny stood by the open door and looked out through the wire screen. She inhaled sharply and exhaled long and deliberately. "I don't like the look of that. I don't like the look of that at all."

"Relax, will ya," said her husband. He sat incapacitated on the couch, with the remote in his hand, as he now did most days. "Don't go gettin ya self worked up."

"It looks as though it is up on Fergusson's Ridge." Bunny turned to look at her husband, "like in 84."

"Bunny, Neil said he'd be here, so he'll be here."

"No dad, I've leaned a thing or two in my 80 years, and I am telling you, it is time to leave.”

"Oh Bunny... no! Neil will be here."

Bunny looked through the venetian blinds, they made a clacking sound when she let them go. "I'm sorry Carl, but I think I am right... on this occasion." She looked back at Carl waiting for his next dismissal. Carl stared back mute. Some of the life had gone out of him now a days, since...

"I'll get my purse," said Bunny. She headed into the kitchen and picked up her large brown purse from the speckled laminex kitchen bench. She reached behind the back door and got the bunch of keys from the hook on the yellow wall.

"I'm getting the car out..."

"Oh Bun..."

"Your sticks are by your chair..."

"Neil said, Bun..."

"Neil said, Carl? What did Neil say?"

"He said he'd be here..."

"So where is he Carl? Where is Neil?"

"I don't know Bun."

"So, the fire is coming over Fergusson's Ridge and you're telling me that Neil will be here at some stage..."

"Bunny, we'd be better to stay put so they can come and get us. They know where we are..."

"Carl, I'm getting the car out," said Bunny. Her patience was running thin. "Make your way out the front, I'll help you into the car."

Carl's eye filled with tears. "Bunny, I am too old for this."

Bunny walked over to Carl's chair. "Come on hon." She picked up his sticks. "Here." Carl struggled to sit up on the front edge of the chair. "We'll be right, dad. We'll be okay." She held out her hand. He pushed it away. "I can still get out of a chair."

"Sixty years, luv and we've done just fine," said Bunny. She lent Carl's sticks against the arm of his chair where he could reach them easily. "We're a good team, hon, we're a good team. And it doesn't end here."

Carl sat on the edge of the seat. He looked up with loving eyes. "Go on, get the car.” He tried to smile, but wouldn’t let himself. “What are ya still standing here for?"

Bunny let the screen door bang behind her. She stopped on the veranda and looked up at the orange sky and wondered if they had left it too late to leave. She took her phone from her purse and pushed Neil's number. There was no answer. She slid the phone back into her purse. The air was dry, she could taste the smoke on her lips. She took the handrail in her right hand and alighted the stairs. The gravel path crunched under her foot as she stepped on the ground.

She pulled one Brunswick Green garage door open, securing it on the wire hook on the fence post. She opened the second garage door and secured it on the other fence post hook. She turned and briefly looked in the direction of the fire. She pushed the curls out of her eyes.

She squeezed along the side of the car to the driver's door. Carl's Rover still shone in the old garage. She ran her fingertips along the burgundy paintwork as she reached for the driver's door handle. She never really liked the special order two tone burgundy and grey colour scheme of the car when it was new and it hadn't really grown on her in the forty years of ownership, but Carl was much more of a look-at-me type than her. She missed her Super Snipe, but since Carl's illness they had had little need for 2 cars and since Carl couldn't bear to part with his beloved 1973 Rover Coupe. Bunny's Super Snipe had gone to grandson Felix. Even though she had admitted it to nobody, Bunny had been quite touched when Felix had turned 18 and he'd said that the only car he'd ever wanted was Bunny's Humber. Felix was an artistic boy who liked nice things, so it was no surprise to his parents that he wanted his grandmother's car. Felix and his best pal Blake had taken a year off before they went to uni to study design and they'd taken the car for a trip around Australia.

"I don't think your car is the best choice to go four wheel driving in the outback," said Carl at the time.

"Hon, I doubt that Felix, or Blake, will be leaving the bitumen."

Carl laughed. "I suspect you are right," he said.

Bunny reached for the door handle, she pushed the button and the door opened with an audible clunk. She slipped in behind the steering wheel. She proceeded to slide the key into the ignition, but the keys fell from her hand onto the floor, with a rattle. She struggled to reach them under her feet where they landed, touching them with her finger tips but not quite being able to grab them. She stretched but no. She stretched again with a heave and a sigh and she hooked the ring with her pointer finger. She pushed the key into the ignition. She pulled on the choke. She turned the key, pumped the accelerator a few times and pushed the starter button. The big car woke lazily from its slumber. Er, er, er, er, er, er. The body rocked gently. Bunny pumped the accelerator again.

"Come on," she whispered.

She pushed the starter again. Er, er, er, er, er. The big V8 coughed. Bunny pumped her right foot. Er, er, er, er, er. The car coughed again and the engine came to life. Brup, brup, brup, brup, brup, brup, brup.

She pulled down on the gear leaver and the car rocked into gear. She adjusted the rear vision mirror, she looked back at the dashboard as she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. She took a big breath. She pushed gently on the accelerator, the engine brup brup brup bruped quicker as the car began to slide backwards out of the garage. The light slid through the car as it emerged into the sun. Bunny sat upright behind the wheel, looking up into the centre rear vision mirror. The sun shone down through the windscreen and then over the bonnet and off the front of the car. Bunny pulled down on the left side of the steering wheel and the large nose of the big car began to slide to the right. She pulled down hard on the wheel and the car turned sharply to face the house. She pulled down on the gear stick and the car rocked forward into gear. Bunny pulled down on the right side of the steering wheel, as she pushed down on the accelerator. The car moved forward and the large nose slid around to the right and up the driveway to the house.

Carl was on the front veranda, balancing on his sticks, one in each hand.

Bunny got out of the car.

"That's not looking good," said Carl. "It looks like it is on the main road."

Bunny opened the passenger side door. The big car rocked as it idled. She stopped momentarily and looked in the direction of the fire. "No, luv." She pushed the curls from her sweaty forehead.

She moved quickly up the stairs to her husband. "Come on luv, it is definitely time to go."

"Hang on, let me get my balance." She took him by the arm and guided him down the stairs. He shuffled to the open door on the passenger side of the car.

"Give me your sticks."

"Hang on a minute."

"Turn around backwards and give me your sticks."

"Just a minute, woman, I need to get my balance."

"I'll guide you..."

"I don't need your help..."

Bunny laughed. Carl stopped and stared at her. "Carl Robertson, you needed my help when we got married to tie your bow tie..."

"I don't think..."

"You needed my help every day when we ran this farm together."

"We made a great team, Bun..."

"And you sure as hell need my help now..."

Carl exhaled loudly.

"So stop resisting, turn the hell around, give me your damn sticks and park your arse on the seat of that car you have loved for years."

"Okay, okay, keep you..."

"And she and I will get us the hell out of here."

Carl popped backwards onto the leather seat. “She’s a she?” Bunny lifted his feet...

"I can do it, I can do it."

And she pushed his legs into the car with one great shove.

"Steady on, steady..."

“Put your seatbelt on.”

She pushed the car door shut with a thump. She could still see Carl's lips moving, but she could no longer hear him.

She opened the back door. "A man just needs to catch his breath..." She flung her husbands two sticks onto the back seat. "Watch the seats, watch..." The back door closed with the same reassuring thud as the front door.

Bunny hustled herself around the back of the car, hanging onto each of the rear mudguard fins to balance herself, grasping her throat with her other hand. She opened the driver's side door and climbed in.

"Are those sticks okay on the back seat?" asked Carl.

"Yes, hon, perfectly alright."

He held her gaze and she held his. She fished a tissue out of her sleeve and wiped her nose. She pushed the tissue back up her sleeve. She pushed the curls off her forehead. She could feel her heart beating. She could feel herself breathing.

"You okay luv?" she asked her husband of 61 years.

"Yes." He sounded a little breathless. "As well as can be expected."

Bunny reached over and touched Carl's face. The two of them were still momentarily. The big V8 grumbled as it idled.

"Best we get going."

"Best we do," said Carl. He waved his hand in front of himeslf with a flourish.

Bunny reached for her seat belt, she pulled it across her chest and clicked it into its buckle. She pulled down on the gear stick. The car rocked gently into gear. She pushed down on the accelerator, the rear wheels spun briefly on the gravel driveway and the big car moved forward.

Bunny pushed harder on the accelerator and the car picked up speed, as they glided down the driveway to the front gate.

They stopped at the main road. They looked right towards town, but the road was clouded in smoke.

"Best we head left to Milsons," said Carl.

"Yes, looks like it."

She spun the wheel to the left and they headed south towards their neighbours.

"You better give it some boot, Bun, I think we need to put some distance in," said Carl.

Bunny accelerated hard, the V8 engine made a thrup, thrup, thrup sound and the big Rover picked up speed with ease.

The sky in front was blue, the sun sparkled.

Carl hit the button on the CD player and Verdi began to play.

"Really?" asked Bunny.

"It relaxes me."



Then there was a car heading towards them. A big silver sedan.

"Is that Neil coming to get us?" asked Carl.

Bunny guided the Rover into the gravel, without slowing the speed, the car rocked noticeably, the steering wheel jumped a bit in her hands, stones were hitting the bottom of the car. She tooted the horn, Carl's car always had a horn like a foghorn in the fog. She waved with her fingers at Neil as he passed them heading in the other direction. She got a glimpse of her son long enough to see him making a big O mouth. She guided the car back onto the bitumen, as the right hand back wheel caught the car fishtailed just a little. Bunny’s wrestled the wheel with skill. “Oh, oh!” She watched Neil's Mercedes do a U-turn behind them.

"Oh good," said Bunny. "Now I can relax."

“Giddy up, old girl,” said Carl.

Bunny pushed her foot down on the accelerator and the big Rover rocketed down the road.

She looked in the rear vision mirror to see the black smoke filled sky falling away.

Neil was still behind, even if he wasn’t, exactly, keeping up.

Fire Away

Oh, no, I think, I can’t even get up and walk away.

I laugh to myself, kind of nervously. You know, if that is your first thought when somebody approaches you at work, it is probably time to get a new job.

It is what I think when Pony-Tail HR Chick approaches me with "that" smile on her face. "That" smile that told me that she wants something. (Oh yes, as HR chicks do, pass it on, just keep passing your work on.)

I reach for my mouse and click on Seek. The mouse, the modern day equivalent of the ruby slipper. Click your mouse and say three times. "Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here."

Poof! Whoosh up into the sky. Whirling around and around and around until I land somewhere new and exciting, where that is nobody knows. Come on, thrill me...

I open one eye. Nothing. Pony-Tail HR chick is still barrelling towards me, Doh! "That" look still on her face.

I look up and smile. Oh, yes? What? 

"Hi. How are you?" I say. Smile. The smile isn't even forced, says the spider to the fly. I have been doing this long enough to know how to fake a sincere smile, as I mentally plot someone's death.

She shrugs and scrunches her nose, clearly, she thinks she is Tabatha Stevens, only half a life time of years, and far too many days in the sun, to pull that one off. 

“Can I ask a favour?” she says.

Oh, here we go, the dreaded favour. “Sure.”

“I have this small problem.”

You want me to do your work for you, but you are not sure how to get me to do it. “Fire away.” I wouldn’t classify your problems as small.

I love that expression. I mentally picture 6 men standing behind her with shot guns, each blindfolded. They all fire at once.  I can see the bullets spinning through the air. Her head explodes like a watermelon hit very hard, red pulp covers everything, splat, splat, splat, splat, splat, splat, splat, splat, as the bullets destroy the back of the head, simultaneously. She falls to the ground like a bag of shit.

“I have a contract that I just need to…”

Just as I thought, do your own work. I stop listening. Blah, blah, blah blah is all I can hear, set to Shine On You Crazy Diamond. I really should listen, I guess. But, I am astral travelling high above our heads. There is purple and red and blue shooting through the crisp air brightly and shiny, like streamers flung of electric magical colour. It is brilliant. It is gorgeous. Everything is beautiful I’m inside one million neon signs...

“So, what do you think?... Josh?”

Come on you target for faraway laughter... The beautiful light suddenly fades. The music stops. Gone. “Oh, um, er, I don’t know.” I stare her in the eye and dare her to question my response.

She folds like a failed bluff in poker. “Oh... um... rightio then... I’ll investigate... um... a little further then... shall, I?”

“Okay,” I say.

There is a moment where we both just gaze at each other. She is not quite sure of the answer I have given her. But, I am sending thought blockers through my death stare straight into the cavity where her brain ought to be. She is wondering if she should question me further, but she is not really sure what question she should ask. My mental mind fuck is working its magic on her, she is putty in my hands. Oh! Yuk! She is white gloop on my fingers, I shake her off, she rematerialises in front of me.

Her lip curls.

She is a deer caught in headlights, such is my mind control. I am staring at her unblinking. I am beginning to imagine ants eating out her eyeballs. She spontaneously rubs her face. She rubs again, she is not really sure why she is touching her eyes. It is as if she has hey fever, but worse.

“Okay,” she says. She shrugs and scrunches up her nose again. It still has no effect on me, that cutesy nose move, nice try Tabatha. The crow’s feet appear at the corners of her smiling eyes, momentarily. Crease, crease. He skin reminds me of brown paper. She makes big eyes. I imagine what she'd look like with myxomatosis. She opens her mouth and her tongue makes a kind of clack noise, which I am not at all sure she means to make. She backs away.

I spin around back to my screen. I can feel her presence less and less behind me. I am a star ship commander, the two screens in front of me morph into the universe. I say, "Engage." The milky way around me melts into liquid light as we hit warp speed and I am suddenly a thousand light years away from the mundane problems of the day.

What Does this Bitch Want?

What does this bitch want?

You know, if that is your first thought when somebody approaches you at work, it is probably time to get a new job.

It was what I thought when the fat HR chick approached me with "that" smile on her face. "That" smile that told me that she wanted something. (Oh yes, as HR chicks do, pass it on, just keep passing it on)

I reached for my mouse and clicked on Seek. The mouse, the modern day equivalent of the ruby slipper. Click your mouse and say three times. "Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here."

Poof! Whooshed up into the sky. Whirling around and around and around until I land somewhere new and exciting, where that is nobody knows.

I opened one eye. Nothing. Fatty HR Person was still barrelling towards me. Doh!

I looked up and smiled. Yes, bitch? "Hi. How are you?" Smile. The smile wasn't even forced. Said the spider to the fly. I have been doing this long enough to know how to smile sincerely as I plot someone's death

Figuratively speaking, of course. I don’t really want to kill her. Well, you get caught, don’t you. Life in prison. I hear prison isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, being Maddog's bitch for the rest of my life? No. Not worth it, I think, as Fat Carla approaches me.

“You got a minute.” Those dreaded four words from an HR professional, enough to make the most hardened amongst us quiver.

Depends whose asking, apparently, isn’t the answer. You can get sent to HR for that. Ha ha. “Yeah, sure.”

“I need those figures…” I put the gun up to my shoulder, looked through the eye piece, lined it up with her left eye and squeezed the trigger. And her head exploded all over the white wall behind her…

“Today, if possible,” she said.

“Ah… sure.” What the hell 'figures' is she talking about? I thought.

“Are they ready now?”

“Ah? Just remind me.”

“Remind you?”

“Yes, if you can.”

“The remuneration budget.”

“The remuneration budget?”

“Oh, Jesus, so they are nowhere near ready, are they?”

“You asked me for these when?”

“In our meeting?”

“Our meeting?”

“Oh, you have to be kidding,” said Carla. “Why is it always like this with you?”

“Um, we never had a meeting.”

“Phone meeting.” Carla rolled her eyes.

“We never had a meeting, phone, or otherwise?”

“Jacob, I am really disappointed with…”

“I’m not Jacob.”

“What?”

“I’m not Jacob.” If I told you I was suddenly loving this, you had better believe me.

Carla pulled her head back at the neck, tucking her chin in, and widening her eyes, wider than I thought possible, you know, pulling her mouth into such a position of someone who had just crapped their pants. I could see her feeling it running down the backs of her thighs for the first time.

I didn’t say anything. I was just enjoying the criminally uptight and the perennially incompetent being caught being criminally uptight and the perennially incompetent.

I could feel my eyes narrow in anticipation of her response.

“You’re… not…”

“No.” That was possibly the most satisfying 'no' I have ever uttered.

“Jacob?” 

Watching her squirm came in a close second in the delightful stakes to the previous 'no'.

Here was a, senior, HR professional who didn’t know who the staff were. And I was pretty sure knowing who the staff were was really a minimum requirement of senior HR professionals. They were all ‘professionals’ now, not directors, not managers, all professionals, they thought that made them more accessible to the staff, whatever that means.

I felt my head shake. “No.”

I would have thought knowing who the staff were would make them more accessible than any title they care to use. But what would I know… Carla. I was smiling, I could feel it in my face.

Was she going to ask me if I was sure I wasn’t Jacob. Oh, please, ask me that, I thought, behind my smile.

“Oh,” she said.

I wasn’t offering anything more to her, I just held her in my gaze and watched her squirm. The moment was exquisite.

“You’re not Jacob?”

Close enough. Bingo! We have a winner. “No.” I can keep saying no as many times as required, as it is immensely satisfying.

“Oh,” she said, again.

Oh indeed, I thought. Was there anything else, I wondered? I could sit here for the rest of my life keeping up this silence, as every minute that it progressed is the equivalent of me rubbing her face in the piss she just did on the carpet.

I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it. I wanted to rest my elbows on the desk, and rest my chin on the backs of my hands supporting my face and gaze at her faux adoringly waiting for the blood start to running from her nose as her brain started to haemorrhage, as her eyes fell from her face hanging down on springy veins. Oh, that thought made me want to smile and I had to concentrate for it not to show on my face. 

She turned and walked away.

Try To Be A Good Person

I tried to be a good person, I really did. But, the world is too awful a place. There are too many horrible people in charge. There are too many terrible people making decisions. 

What’s good for society? What is good for them? Right and left hand up and down? Up and down? 

"I might just go with what is good for me? You know, this once?"

This once of one hundred times? Easily justified, in the selfish mind.

It is hard, you know, when you see the Prime Minister of this country spew lies every time he opens his mouth and makes an utterance. He has made it okay to lie. He has shown us that you can base your entire career on a pack of lies.

"I don't need to tell the truth, when the guy with the top job doesn't"

Australia is now such a cruel and hard hearted nation. "Tow the boats back, tow that wretched scum back to the hell they deserve." We're alright Jack, we live in privilege and we intend for it to stay that way. Build a wall? Get bigger boats to drive them away?

Don't you dare come and crap on our good fortune.

Who do you think you are?

We don't care about you, Jack. We're okay.

That is what we are saying to the rest of the world.

“That is how the rest of the world sees us.”

“The rest of the world?"

“Yes.”

“I don’t think poor countries see us that way.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I think poor countries would be looking elsewhere to flee to…”

“Are you saying you agree with ‘fortress Australia’?

“No, I am just saying that people in need who are looking for a better life, would be looking at somewhere that is easier to get into....”

“That sounds like agreement.”

“I’m not talking about the moral stand, I am talking about simple facts. People will attempt to flee to countries where there is a chance of them succeeding.”

“You understand it is a political tool?”

“What?”

"Conservative politician’s use, what is essentially racism, to win votes.”

“A deliberate strategy?”

“Yes.”

“To win votes?”

“Yes. Use the weakest and the powerless to look tough and protective and the punters vote for you.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with a country’s right to choose who and when people come to that country.”

“No, not at all. It is about winning votes.”

“There is no ideological basis for the policy.”

“There is, win votes by any means you can.”

“So, you are saying the conservative side of government stands for nothing?”

“Other than wining votes and gaining power, yes, it stands for nothing.”

“It’s not about serving the people of this country.”

“No, it’s about gaining power at all costs and then servicing it’s political donors who will in turn make them part off the rich and powerful elite.”

“That seems pretty shallow.”

“What can I say?”

“Well, I don’t think you can say conservative politicians stand for nothing.”

“No, you are right,” I say. “I can’t say they stand for nothing, because they stand for less than nothing…”

“Oh, come on? I’m not a conservative voter, but…”

“They are all about cutting regulations for their powerful mates. They set out to destroy the unions and collective bargaining to suppress wages for the workers. They froze universal healthcare rebates to doctors. They cut taxes ostensibly for the rich which ties into their bigger plan of no longer being able to fund services for the poor.”

“Seriously.”

“IPA (conservative free-market think tank) wish list.”

“I see.”

“They are dismantling the progressive tax system with their next round of tax cuts. They are suppressing the dole and refusing to lift welfare recipients out of poverty. All policies designed to pander to the rich and disadvantage the poor, bringing about greater inequality the likes of which we have never seen before, in this country.”

“So, they are the big boogey man, you say?”

“They are worse than that, they are denying climate change, pushing fossil fuel. The Prime Minster is suggesting using the clean energy fund to explore new gas options. They are pushing nuclear power generation simply as a point of difference to denigrate renewables. They are proposing that solar and wind turbines production is bad or the environment.”

“The science isn’t…”

“When 98% of the scientists in the world agree, the science is set.”

“People would disagree.”

“And to my wider point, how can you expect the population to be good citizens when you have conservative politicians being duplicitous with what they are doing, only pushing the agenda of the very few. Tell me that?”

“If they don’t like it, they can exercise their right and vote the conservative party out of govt at the next election.”

“How does Joe Average be a good person when so many of his role models treat the weak and the vulnerable as not worth their time?”

“The weak and the vulnerable don’t build a strong economy.”

“Surely, the government’s only real job is to make society more equal for all of its citizens?”