Metaphor or Hyperbole?

Here's an engineering term applied in a less convential way (I like to call that "original"):

In those moments after he first saw her he was overwhelmed by her beauty. His heart ran faster and faster until it began to cavitate. He was in love.

Is it a metaphor to apply a pumping term to what is in fact, a pump? Since hearts don't generally cavitate due to their ingenious design and the ample suction head available, I guess it's hyperbole.

Apology Accepted

He looked out the kitchen window and saw her hanging washing on the line. The breeze tugged at the towels and shirts, and the line danced as it fought to hold them back. The breeze pulled her skirt up around her legs and made her hair a long, blonde banner. She was so beautiful; but, so stubborn. He sipped the cold water in his glass, then sighed. He put down the glass, and went out to her.

“Hello,” he said as he approached. She didn't react, except that she may have flinched, slightly. She kept hanging up the clothes.

He reached into the basket, took out a towel and put it on the line. He took one of his high-vis work-shirts from the basket. He started to peg the collar to the line.

“Upside down,” she said, startling him. He turned toward her. She stood, her hands on her hips, looking at him.

“Sorry?” he said.

“You hang shirts upside down,” she said, pointing to two, already on the line.

“Oh,” he said. He took off the peg and hung the shirt the other way around, checking his work against the two templates. He glanced at her. She hadn't moved. Her hair was flicking around her face. He saw the curve of her body under her clothes and the trace of a smile on her face. Maybe a smile, anyway.

“Why don't you go upstairs?” he said. “I'll finish this off.”

She didn't move as he awkwardly hung a bra beside the shirt.

“Go on,” he said. “Put you feet up. I'll be up in a few minutes.” He leaned over and, holding the back of her head with both hands, kissed her forehead. The smell and feel of her hair reminded him of better times. He fished a lone sock from the basket and hung it beside the bra.

She stepped toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Come find me inside,” she said softly. Her words were almost stolen by the breeze. It seemed right then that her eyes were shining wet. He said nothing. She turned and walked toward the stairs. He watched her as she walked, until she was in the house.

He smiled as he reached into the basket for a pair of shorts. He kept smiling as he felt the wind jostling around him as he hung the rest of the washing. A line, a quote from sometime in the past, kept echoing through his head. “The wind bloweth where it listeth.” Must be Shakespeare, he thought.

He noticed there were only two pegs left when he was finished. He put the two pegs in his pocket and walked towards the stairs, carrying the empty washing basket over his shoulder, thinking again of happier times. As the screen-door flapped and slammed behind him, he decided those times were now.

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This story, like almost everything I post lately, was first published in Shift Miner Magazine. Incidentally, it was first not published in one or two other publications. I think I learned to love this piece more than it deserved. I hope you get something from it.

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The Least I Could Do

What people noticed first and remembered longest about Bernadette when they met her was her scowl. The everyday look on that woman's face could peel the paint off walls. She looked like she was angry and in pain, at the same time, all of the time. It wasn't unusual for kids to come away crying. Behind her back, Bernadette came to be nicknamed The Scowl. I had nothing to do with that, of course. Well, very little.

The other thing people noticed about The Scowl was the constant criticism and put-downs that she aimed at her dear husband – and my best mate – Stan. It made people cringe. Stan put up with all this with the patience of Job. I don't think he ever complained or told her off. That's how Poor Stan got his nickname.

But every man has his breaking point.

I was having a drink with Poor Stan at the Mount Morgan Arms Hotel one Saturday afternoon when The Scowl filled the doorway with her whole self, and screamed above the noise of the rowdy crowd, "Stan, you've had enough to drink; come home!"

Poor Stan went as red as Karl Marx. The pub went quiet. People looked at their shoes and fidgeted with their coasters.

I expected Stan to put down his glass and shuffle off after her, like he usually did.

Instead, he took a long drink from his beer.

He said to me, "If I'd of killed her when I first wanted to, I'd be out of jail by now."

That's an old and tired joke; but I was pretty sure that Stan wasn't joking. He never joked.

"I suppose it's better late than never," he said.

I could see he was close to his breaking point, and that cut me up inside. Poor Stan was a bit spineless, but he was still my mate.

I said, "Don't go back to your house. Why don't you buy a carton and go round to my place? I've got to take care of something here in town, and then we'll get on the grog. How's that sound?"

Stan put his hand on my shoulder, said that sounded good, and went to the takeaway window. I said goodbye to Bob behind the bar, and left.

In half an hour, we were at my place, drinking.

We were still throwing them back, watching the sun set, when Sergeant Ted, the local police force, came around. He broke Stan the news that his wife's body had been found only an hour ago. She'd been found behind one of those big steel rubbish bins in the narrow lane behind the shops, on the top side of the main street. Sue from the fish and chip shop got a real fright, apparently.

Stan took the news of his wife's sudden passing really well. He looked a little stunned, but more like a man who'd won lotto, than a man who'd lost his soul mate.

Sergeant Ted started his investigation right there by asking Stan if he'd killed Bernadette. Motive, the man had.

Stan didn't reply straight up, then said it was obvious that it wasn't him. Ted asked why that was.

Stan asked, "You said she were stabbed once in the back?"

Ted nodded. "That is correct."

"Well," said Stan, "I always dreamed o' stabbin' her right here in the front." He pointed to his own chest. "And never, ever, just the once. Maybe a dozen times. That's what I always dreamed of doin', and I reckon that's the way I'd of done it, if I'd of done it, which I didn't."

It didn't seem that this was the kind of evidence Ted was looking for, because he had a few words to say about that.

I butted in. "He was with me, Sergeant."

Ted didn't like being interrupted either, apparently. I never really liked Ted, so I got over it, and told my story.

"We left the pub not long after The Scowl showed up, about three..."

Stan interrupted, holding up his hand. "Don't call her that," he said, "please."

"Sorry." I shrugged. "We left the pub, with a carton, and came back here. We've been drinking since then. We haven't seen her since. Have we Stan?"

Stan shook his head. "Not since she was at the pub."

Sergeant Ted scowled, reminding me a bit of the late Bernadette. I shivered. Ted said good night, told us both to stay in town, and left.

Stan went inside and then came back with two beers. He handed one to me. "There's only two left now," he said, "and we'll have finished the carton."

"Then we'll go for a walk and get another one."

"Good idea."

We drank, and I listened to the cicadas out in the scrub. We didn't say a word until our beers were empty.

Stan said, "Thanks for covering for me mate. I didn't kill her; but thanks for covering for me. Makes things easier."

I slapped him on the back. "No worries, mate," I said. "I know you didn't kill her. It was the least I could do."

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This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.

A Fool

"Oh, Cynthia," he said, his voice soft and crooning, as he drew her to his side. "You are the source of all my hope, my joy. You are my inspiration!"

She pushed her hand hard against his chest. "Gerald," she said. "You are a fool."

"Just a fool for you, my love."

"No Gerald," she said. "You are a fool in your own right. Go to your wife now, or else I shall."

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This little scene was inspired by Sunday Scribblings number 224. The word was source.

Published at Full of Crow!

Standing Up For Peace is a very short flash fiction piece of mine that has just been published in the July 2010 Quarterly Issue of Full of Crow Fiction. Many thanks to Lynn Alexander, the editor, for including this piece. Best wishes also to Paul Corman-Roberts, who is now taking on the role of editor of the Full of Crow Fiction Section.

Please have a read of the July 2010 Issue. I hope you enjoy Standing Up For Peace, and I look forward to your comments.

The Swallows Came Back Today

The swallows came back today. I saw them as soon as I left my front door. I love to watch the swallows. They dive and whirl and seem to have so much fun. They don't care if you stand and watch them. Their colours are beautiful, if you can track one with your eyes for long enough to really see them. You might think they're a bit bland at first - just black and white - but they're not. Their feathers are black and white but also grey and silver in every shade.

I wonder what made them come back? Years ago, when they first appeared, I thought perhaps they migrated for the winter, but it's not that simple. There's no pattern to when they'll come or go. They might come three times in one year, or take three years between visits. Suddenly they are here, just a dozen or so at first. Over the next days and weeks their numbers will double again and again. Then their numbers will keep halving in the same way. One day - and I know it's coming even as I see the first of them flitting in the morning sun - they'll all be gone.

I can never be certain, once they've gone, that they'll ever come back. How can I? I don't know what brought them here, what will make them leave. It saddens me that their departure is so certain, while their return is so tentative. Even after twenty years, I still can't be sure.

While I walk, one of the swallows chases a small moth closely like a fighter plane. It banks left and right, up and down, intent on its prey. It almost brushes my face. I shout in surprise, and then laugh at the joy of it, and my own reaction. I look around, but everyone else on the street ignores me. They seem to be ignoring the swallows too.

I'm glad the swallows came back today. I'd like to tell Julie, my wife; she'd like to know. She loved the swallows, too. I don't know what made Julie come into my life either. I don't know why the cancer came to take her. But while I had her, I knew from the lesson of the swallows that, despite the joy we shared, her departure, one day, would be certain. It was sooner than I'd hoped, but later than it could have been.

Sue and I

Her name was Sue. I got this from her name badge. She was about forty, and I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Her fingers showed no sign of a wedding ring, though of course I hadn't had the courage to ask about that.

I'd first seen Sue at the Hertz desk when I arrived in town after a business trip on a late flight from Brisbane. Now I found myself approaching the desk to rent a car for no other purpose than to see her, and to talk to her again, and hopefully to find the courage to ask her out.

I'd picked a time late in the day. The airport was almost empty, and there were no other customers. I approached the desk quietly; too quietly. Sue was concentrating on cutting out some labels. I coughed politely to get her attention, and gave her such a fright she swore and cut her finger with the scissors. She seemed more embarrassed than hurt, though it did draw blood.

"Sorry," she squeaked as she hurried out the back, "I'll be right back." She returned in a few minutes, with a bandaid on her finger. "I'm so sorry," she said. Her face was still just a little flushed, though her silvering blonde hair still sat perfectly on her shoulders. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but that wouldn't have been proper. Instead I said, "Do you have any cars free at the moment?"

"You don't have a reservation?" Her tone was professional.

I shook my head. "Not at all," I said, and shrugged, trying to pull off nonchalant. "It's just a spur-of-the-moment thing."

Sue started to go red again. "I'm sorry, but we do only bring a limited number of cars here into the airport office, over and above those required to meet reservations. It's late in the day, and they've all been taken. I could call the downtown office, if you like." She reached for the phone with her hand that didn't have a bandaid, or a wedding ring, on it.

"No, don't do that. It doesn't matter." I turned to go, took a few steps then turned around again. She was still looking at me. "Thank you anyway," I said, "Thank you." Again I turned away, took a few steps and turned to face her. She hadn't stopped watching me, but she looked more amused than anything now. I shuffled back to the desk. "And sorry about that," I said. It was my turn to blush now, as I pointed to her injured finger. She had such elegant fingers.

"It wasn't your fault," she said. Her voice was softer now, less businesslike and efficient. It had huskiness to it.

I wanted to lean over the counter and kiss her softly on the lips, but that wouldn't be right at all. I cleared the thought from my mind, and turned again.

This time Sue's voice made me turn back to her. "Not that it's my business," she said, her voice still gentle, but firm, "but this must be the third time you've come out to get a car on a whim."

I said nothing, but I was conscious of the heat in my face. It must have been glowing.

"Is there anything else you'd like, that I could help you with?"

I didn't want to kiss her any more; I wanted to turn and run. I forced myself to stay, look into her eyes and nod.

Sue looked at her watch. "I close up here in twenty minutes. Would you like to hang around till then, and we can go get a late dinner?"

The relief made me feel a little dizzy. I hung onto the counter for balance, and nodded again. I coughed, to clear my throat. "Yes Sue," I said. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

Edit: typos as per Matt's comments.

The Motivator

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This story was originally published in the 5 minute fiction column of Issue 76 of Shift Miner Magazine. I previously blogged about this story here.

This is a deviation from my usual stories and has a sadder theme. I got some varied feedback on this story. This included a someone telling me that they felt that I was judging people who chose to do fly-in-fly-out type of work. He seemed to take it personally; perhaps I hit a nerve.

What do you think?

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The Motivator
Trent left the job he loved to chase the pay packets that the coal mines were offering. He found a job as a boilermaker for a contracting company; though, he didn't like the work at all. He loathed the early morning starts, getting up in the dark. Welding, cutting and gouging steel in the Central Queensland heat sapped his strength and his will. In a way, the work was always changing: a dragline bucket, a stacker-reclaimer, a construction job. Really though, the work never changed.

From the very start, Trent's only reason for working in the mines was to give his family the financial security and opportunities they deserved. He kept himself going through the weeks, months and years because this motivation was so close to his heart, literally. In his left shirt pocket, Trent kept his first payslip, with a photo of his wife Alison, and their two little girls, Caitlin and Emily, glued to the back. He called it his Motivator. He had plasticised his Motivator with a laminator to protect it from the dirt, sweat and coal dust. Over time it had become covered in creases and folds, and the plastic was peeling apart at the corners. During crib times, or the lonely nights in the camp, Trent would take out his motivator to remind himself of the reasons he was sweating in the heat and the dust, and to muster the strength to get up and get back to work.

He'd done all this for them; they knew that. They must know that. Their new life had its costs, of course. Trent hadn't been there when Caitlin lost her first tooth. He was on site when Emily fell down the stairs and cut her head open. He'd offered to come home on the next plane, but no, she said, we managed okay. She didn't add, “without you”, but he'd felt it.

They'd talked about it, after he'd finished that tour: if he should leave the mines and come back. It wouldn't work, she said, with the mortgage on the home, and the car repayments, and the private school fees. He said fine, and that he was only doing it for them anyway; he was willing to pay the price.

They seemed to manage okay, on the whole; but Trent was rarely around for the little things. He could book leave and twist his boss's arm to make time for the big occasions, but the little things slipped by; one at a time, over the years.

One day he arrived home for his days off, exhausted, to an empty house. “We've grown apart,” she said when he found her, eventually, at her mother's place. “You're not the same person any more, and neither am I.”

“I did all this for you,” said Trent.

“I know, I know; but it's not going to work. Don't worry about us, we'll manage okay.”

There were a lot of things Trent wanted to say then, but he didn't. He couldn't find the words, so he stood there like an idiot, with his mouth open. He thought of things he could have said, later.

Trent keeps working in the mines on the roster he still hates. He still does it for the girls, the two little ones mostly. He hopes that one day soon they won't despise him like they do now; that they'll grow out of it. He hopes that Alison will come back to him. A stupid hope, he knows, but it's still his hope. He can forget the pain and the past with the hard work and the hot sun and the scorching steel. He can forget until crib time, when he pulls out his motivator, and clenches his jaw to hold back the tears.

The Silent Treatment

"How you doing?" said Ian, as he sat down beside Mandy on the bench. It was hot out in the sun. The gum tree overhead gave a small patch of shade, but it didn't cover the bench.

Mandy didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the kookaburra sitting in the other gum tree, across the lawn. It was watching her too. "Fine," she said.

Ian looked for a smile, or anything, in her face. No smile, but she seemed to have a tic in her left cheek. "I'm really sorry," he said, "how things turned out."

"You're sorry?"

Ian flinched. He nodded. "Yes, I am."

She said nothing now, though she seemed to be crying.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I only ever wanted what was best for you." The lines were rehearsed, but he found it hard to go on. The words wouldn't come. It was too hot. His legs were sweating in his suit pants and beginning to itch.

Mandy still said nothing. She was definitely crying. Great. The silent treatment.

Ian tried one last time. "I probably should have told you sooner, how I felt."

Now she turned to look at him. Her eyes were red and the tears had eroded little streaks down through her makeup. "Probably?" She had that inquisition tone again; using his words back at him as questions. It felt so hateful.

"Okay," said Ian. "Definitely. I definitely should have told you. I just never thought about it properly before today in those words, you know? And then he said, 'until death do you part'. I just freaked out. I realised I'm not ready for that. It wouldn't have been fair to you to say, 'I do.'" He paused, and then added, "I'll help cover the costs, of course, for the catering, and the wedding dress."

"Just go away." She turned to looked at the kookaburra again.

A breeze came through the church yard and blew her veil up into Ian's face. He stood up, stretching his legs and jiggling his pants where they itched. "Fair enough," he said. He left the church grounds by jumping the back fence. It didn't seem like a good time to mingle with the family.

On Considering my Marriage to June

I've written a slightly different six-sentence piece here. My apologies to those of you who get little satisfaction from the sixes. I'll try to post something more substantial here soon.

After the Duel

Another one of my micro-fiction (twenty-five word) stories, has been put up at Espresso Stories. It's called After the Duel.

Click here for links to the rest of my Espresso Stories. You'll notice I'm not doing well in the popularity stakes. I'm going through my nobody-loves-me tortured-artist phase.

Three Minutes

The flow of cars has been pulsing to the colours of the traffic lights; hypnotising me as I watch and sip my coffee and daydream. The lights turn to red again, and the cars slow, then stop. They'll need to wait exactly three minutes; I've timed it. The man in the first car turns towards me, and I look straight into his eyes. He is alone in the car. There is unflinching anger in his eyes. It breaks the spell of the traffic, and casts a new one over me.

I don't recognise the man, though he obviously remembers me, and has rekindled his grudge in an instant. His face is vaguely familiar. I should know him, but time has been severe to both his face and my memory. He looks to be about my own age: mid fifties. He wears his grey hair long at the back, almost to his shoulders. His sideburns come down well below his ears, and flare forwards onto his cheeks. His black-banded white panama hat, his long-sleeved black shirt and his hair are the style of a man lingering in the seventies.

He continues to stare into my eyes. He has one hand flopped on top of the steering wheel, and his other arm poking out of the open window, resting on the door frame.

It is the car that triggers my memory. In an instant I remember both car and man. Neil was driving the same tan Kingswood when I last saw him, about fifteen years ago. He had had that same look of loathing on his face then too. I don't know why I didn't recognise him sooner.

I feel guilt return with the memories. Neil was devastated when his wife Sarah left him. What made him angry, was that she and I became an item. He and Sarah had been divorced long enough before that happened. Long enough, I thought. He didn't see it that way.

I tried to reason with him at the time, and begged him to accept us, and what we had: for Sarah's sake. Instead, he chose to keep his grudge and lose two friends. I think he was just too proud to let Sarah find happiness with someone else; especially his mate. It was the usual love triangle story, I suppose. Things were said in the heat of the moment, threats were made, and eventually restraining orders kept us apart.

I keep looking into those sad green eyes. I hope that my own eyes show that I'm sorry for the hurt I caused him.

The light turns to green. Neil nods at me, once, then turns forwards, and drives away. I shake my head, and feel goose bumps down my neck. Maybe next time I'll get him a cup of coffee, and we'll talk; maybe.

My Eyes and Isabelle

I first saw Isabelle on a rainy Wednesday night in April. I was leaving my local supermarket with fresh onions and some ice cream when she came in out from the cold. She looked drowned: her hair was drenched and wild and her clothes were soaked and sticking to her skin. This was no "dashing from the car" wet - this was "walking through the rain all the way from home" wet. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, and succeeded; mostly.

"You look wet," I said, for want of anything better to say, but wanting to say something.

Her look was adequate reply. She made a move up one of the isles.

I tried again, following her. "Look," I said, "can I offer you a lift home, when you're done in here."

She hesitated, so I pressed my advantage. "It'll save you walking in the rain," I said, "and you don't want to get your shopping wet, do you?"

I married Isabelle on a sunny Saturday morning that September. I stood beside her at the front of the church smiling proudly, happily - stupidly. She looked beautiful: her hair had taken the entire morning to attain a state of perfection, and her dressed fit her body like a glove. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, and succeeded; mostly.

I buried Isabelle on an overcast Thursday afternoon the next June. I stood by the grave, stunned. The coffin lid was closed: you couldn't look at her, in the state that her body was in. I tried to keep my eyes dry, and succeeded; mostly.