[3WW] I'm Talking to You

The three words for Three Word Wednesday (3WW) CLIX are "frustrate", "indecent" and "understand". Here's a little scene around that...

"I don't understand why you watch those films. They're rubbish."

"Mum," she said, "I love horror movies."

"They're indecent. They're filth. They will turn you into a tramp. I try to bring you up a good catholic. Why do you throw all that away?"

"It's just for fun, Momma. It's not a religion. It's a fantasy. It helps me forget about school, and stuff; all my frustrations."

"What?" said Momma. "You have it so easy. You're ungrateful. You have nothing in your life to frustrate you, you understand? Nothing! Don't walk away when I'm talking to you. Hey, I'm talking to you."

Ghost Gum

He dug the hole as quickly as he could. Sweat covered his face and soaked his shirt. The root of a long-dead bush or tree appeared in the bottom of the hole. He attacked it with the edge of the spade. The inside of the root flashed white and fresh against the dirt. Eventually he hacked through it.

After a while, the hole was big enough. He allowed himself a moment, leaning on his spade, breathing hard, to admire his creation. Then he went back to work.

When he walked back to his car, exhausted, he left behind him a freshly planted, well fertilised Ghost Gum. Aptly named, he thought.

(The Ghost Gum is native to Central Queensland).

Cheese

Sunday Scribblings writing prompt #182 is "cheese", which is the title of this little story.

She was a very beautiful woman, from a very upper middle class family. She was way out of his league, but he wanted her anyway. She agreed to go with him to a restaurant for dinner. The place was her favourite, though he'd never heard of it. She took the lead with the ordering, which was fine by him.

"How about some cheese for dessert?" she asked him.
"Sure," he said. That sounded safe; he liked cheese. The date had gone pretty good so far, he thought.

What arrived at the table didn't look like cheese. It didn't smell like cheese, either.

"It's a Tasmanian blue vein," she said, before popping some into her mouth. "It's just heavenly."

If it was heavenly for her, it was going to be heavenly for him. He cut of a bit of the cheese, put it on a cracker, and put the lot into his mouth. He chewed. It was as though something dead had exploded inside his head. In an instant, his nose and sinuses were on fire. His eyes were streaming tears as he stumbled into tables and other patrons, searching for the exit. He didn't make it in time.

She was gone by the time he recovered, and he never saw her again. Later, he married a girl who was a year below him in high school. They are happy together. For them, cheese comes in thin squares, wrapped in plastic.

The Way of the Moth

April sat on a bench in the garden and watched a moth float by in front of her. The moth´s path was erratic as it flapped along; moving up, down, left and right. Despite it's twisting and turning, its overall path across the garden was, overall, quite direct.

April liked to sit in the garden to be around nature, to relax, and to contemplate. She thought about the moth, and its flight path. The moth's path was a lot like the path of her own life, she thought. She could learn a lot about life, by watching the way of the moth.

A butcher-bird swooped from the tree branch above and caught the moth in its beak. It flew back to its branch. It struck the moth against the branch; once, then twice more, to kill it. It watched April as it swallowed its prey. For long moments, April and the butcher-bird stared at each other. Then, as the bird flew away, she understood about life.

From Dream to Reality

The plant rumbled and shook loudly through Ralph's earplugs. It wasn't just noise, though. The plant was talking, and she wasn't happy this morning. A conveyor roller squeaked above the rumble, competing for attention with a loose drive belt on one of the ground floor pumps. The vibration in the plant beat louder every few seconds, then softer, shaking the structural bracing till it clattered. The raw coal screens were out of synchronisation again.

Black dirty water poured, out of control, from the ground floor to swirl around half blocked drains. Ralph splashed his way to the front door. He glimpsed the product stackers out in the yard as he went inside, teasing him with tiny wisps of product that drifted onto stockpiles that were still far too small.

Ralph sighed heavily as he started up the three flights of stairs to his office. One foot in front of the other, gripping the handrail for support, he shuffled to the top. Being the manager wasn't what he'd dreamt it would be. Now, he hated Monday's more than ever.

Piano Man

"He can sure play that piano!" said the man in the cheap suit and the red tie.

Joe nodded, smiled, and asked him if he'd like another drink.

"Sure, another beer," he said, "and one for the piano man too!"

"He only drinks Glen Fiddich, eighteen year old, doubles."

Red Tie paused for a moment, obviously trying to guess the cost of a double eighteen year old Glen Fiddich, and working out through the alcoholic haze whether the piano man was that good - and whether he was that generous. After a moment, he said, "Sure. A double eighteen year old for the piano man."

Joe nodded again, smiled again and got Red Tie his beer. Then he then reached to the top shelf for the Glen Fiddich bottle on the very end, poured out a double shot into a glass with two small cubes of ice, carefully replaced the bottle, and took the drink to Tom at the piano. Tom nodded his appreciation to the man in the red tie when Joe pointed him out. Red Tie held up his beer in salute.

Back at the bar, Joe laughed as he watched Tom grimace at the taste of the iced tea. The caper had been Joe's idea. Tom didn't drink alcohol, so he'd been missing out on drinks from happy customers for years. Some were even offended that they couldn't buy him a drink, and Tom didn't even like orange juice. The iced tea looked enough like whiskey, and the price of a double top shelf spirit went straight into Tom's pocket; most of it, anyway. The only problem was: Tom hated iced tea more than orange juice. He'd get over it.

Withered, Useless Vine

Most of the passionfruit vine was dead: broken, dried and withered. Joel hadn't torn it down yet, because it always seemed to have enough green leaves, shoots or unripe fruit to give him hope of a better future.

Getting rid of it would be quite a job anyway, so he was happy to have just cause to procrastinate. Besides, he wondered, wasn't a withered, useless vine to be preferred over no vine at all?

Planting a new vine and tending it to maturity would be far too much work entirely. He was too old for that now, anyway.

Joel stood and watered the vine a little longer, and laughed aloud when it occurred to him that some of his friendships had become very much like his passionfruit vine. When he had finished laughing, he cried a little too.

Unprepared

Gus woke up suddenly and sat straight up in bed; sweating, heart pounding and stomach queasy. It was the recurring dream again; the one in which he had forgotten something very important; vital. It was as though completely missed an appointment with the prime minister, because he'd been playing computer games or watching movies, or something. He'd not only missed the appointment, but would have been unprepared, even if he remembered at the last minute.

That was it, thought Gus, stared into the dark, waiting for the adrenaline to wear off, it's less about forgetting something, and more about being unprepared.

He tiptoed out of the room to get a cup of water and relieve himself, glad he hadn't woken his wife like he often did. She always asked about the dream and it's meaning. This only distracted him from catching pieces of the fragile dream memories as they dissolved, once again. He tried to catch them now, in the dark. What does it mean? What am I unprepared for? What is so important, so urgent?

It wasn't until the next morning that Gus's wife found his body on the toilet; and then she understood.

Single Mother

The baby is happy riding on her mothers hip; and very cute. Liam smiles at her, and she smiles back. It's been four years since his own daughter was that size, and he wonders at how fast time flies.

The young mother walks past Liam, behind him, while he stands at the doner kebab shop, waiting. The girl behind the counter is just taking the kebabs off the toaster and squeezing them into their foil packets.

Liam turns to sneak another look at the baby. The child has turned to look at him, but so has her mother. The mother is smiling at Liam as she walks away, but something in her look jolts inside of him. It takes a moment for him to realise, She thinks I'm smiling at her; checking her out.

He walks away with the hot kebabs in his hands, feeling a guilty for smiling at a baby. The feeling evaporates once he finds his wife and they enjoy their lunch together, planning the rest of the day. By tomorrow, the incident will be forgotten; by Liam, at least.

The Preacher

As he walked towards the top end of the Queen Street Mall, Ralph noticed a street preacher. He stood there and did his thing, just like a busker. He looked forty-ish, was taller than average and had flaming red hair. His enormous beard was the same colour, so that his face seemed to look through a ring of fire. Fire and brimstone were in fact his favourite themes. Occasionally though, his voice would smoulder down to become a soft ember as he tenderly spoke of the love of Jesus and pleaded with the passers-by to save their souls.

Ralph noticed that although the preacher was a lot like a busker, he was different to the others. He was the most enthusiastic of the buskers; certainly more so than the old man sitting down playing the same old riffs on his saxophone. He also seemed immune to the disinterest of the passing crowd. This was fascinating, really. The other buskers fed off even a small gathering of the idly curious, and became visibly despondent when that their audience dwindled away. The preacher, however, had barely anybody stop in front of him. Ralph supposed that people were afraid to encourage him.

The biggest difference that Ralph noticed between the preacher and the other buskers however, was the most disturbing. It stayed with Ralph for days as he pondered the meaning of it. The preacher didn't have a hat, or a bowl, or a guitar case for people to put money in. The preacher didn't do it for the money. Clearly then, he was just plain nuts. Clearly.

Ralph couldn't dismiss the preacher that quickly. The fairest test was to listen to him. So Ralph stopped by one Friday evening, and listened. What he heard cut him to his heart. He took the preacher aside and bought him a cup of coffee to drink while they talked. The preacher introduced himself as Stewart. Stewart worked as a salesman at a menswear shop in the city as his day job. This surprised Ralph; but he wasn't sure why.

It was about another year before Ralph was ready. He was nervous but determined as he took his Bible and some notes he'd written and found himself a good spot at the bottom end of the mall. And then he began to preach.

Little Girl on a Swing

Ben sat on the bench overlooking the swing. A young girl - maybe four years old - ran up to the swing, clumsily through the sand. Her hair was blonde, and long. Ben imagined that hair so clearly, that for a moment he could actually smell it - in his mind, like a memory - and the smell made his heart race.

The girl mounted the swing, eventually, with her back towards Ben. She began to shake the suspension chains back and forward, willing the swing to work.

Ben smiled. He resisted the impulse to run down and give her a push; to share the joy of an innocent child, squealing in delight.

"Daddy," the girl called out, in the petulant voice that young girls have, "give me a push!"

The girl's father was on the bench on the other side of the park, engrossed in his newspaper. He didn't seem to hear his precious girl, calling out for his attention.

Ben looked at the girl, and felt a pang in his chest. If I were your daddy, I'd give you a push. I would love you.

Ben knew he should stop coming to the park, to look at the children. The warmth it brought to his heart for a moment always seemed to be overpowered by the long cold ache of loneliness, and the loathing. He loathed the mums and dads that didn't love and nurture and protect their children, but left them to roam the park like those who let their dog off the leash to scamper around for a while.

How easy it would be, to just take a child from here... if you were so inclined. Ben got up from the bench, and walked away. He knew he couldn't come back now. He knew he couldn't keep thinking like this, about other peoples children. He knew he needed to abandon all hope of finding comfort in the joy of other people's children, and confine himself to his memories, and to his photo album of Sarah. Poor little, innocent Sarah. She had done nothing wrong to be in the car with her mother that night. She didn't deserve to have a drunk driver smash into the side of the car, killing them both instantly.

Ben's loathing turned back onto himself as he walked home, realising what he had become; that he now felt more pity for himself, than for the wife and daughter he had lost in an instant. He spat into the gutter and tucked his head down as he continued on, willing himself to change, for their sakes.

The Island

Ken sits at the table, crying. The hut is brightly lit by a hissing kerosene lantern, the centre of a whirling mass of bugs. The only sound to be heard from outside the hut is the chirping of a few cicadas. You don't hear and see other people on The Island. Not in 1964.

It is Ken's sixth night alone. A week ago, he felt like a man, sixteen years old and ready for anything. Ready even to work the family farm during the week, so Dad could get a paying job, things are so tight. So tight they can't even spare the price of a wireless radio to keep Ken company.

It isn't a real island, but that makes no difference. You can only get there by boat. The Island is surrounded by the mouth of the Calliope River to the east and south, the sea to the north, and impassable mud flats in between. The salty sea breeze is always mingled with the stink of mud and mangroves.

The days are a blur. The hard work, the clear sky and the sun help Ken forget his isolation. He talks to himself and sings Sunday School songs as he prunes fruit trees and tends the small crops.

The nights are long and dark and lonely. Ken had thought it would get better, but it didn't. Each night is worse than the last. The burden on his soul does not ease, it is only added to. Ken wonders how long he can continue like this, before he yields to the weight of his own pity.

“No!” Ken suddenly shouts at the table, thumping it with his fist. “No! No! No!” He wipes his eyes and cheeks with his sleeves. He stands up, pushing his chair back onto the ground. As he strides to the door, he sucks his nose clear of the teary snot, rasps it from his throat to his mouth, and then spits it out through the door, into the darkness. He stands a long time in the doorway, the breeze on his face, and resolves to be the fool of his emotions no longer.

Crying doesn't help. It won't change anything. It didn't bring my mother back, and it's killing me now. I'm not going to get through this life, dragging this load. It's over. It stops now.

And so Ken survives those nine months, working on The Island, in a kind of solitary confinement. Dad comes to help him each Saturday morning and takes him home to Gladstone in the afternoon. After the Sunday nap, he drops Ken back onto The Island for another week.

Ken never cries again, no matter the pain. He tells you today, "It did me a lot of good, my time on The Island: it taught me a lot about life."