Silly Cow

I haven’t tried a Three Word Wednesday for a while. This week’s words are brutal, grope and transfer.

---

It was a fact of life that in the copy room, the corridors and the work functions he would come on to the women, and brush too close, and have a grope when he could. He was the boss.

The women in the office policed each other, preventing complaint or dissent. If one of the girls didn’t accept things, the results were brutal. Name-calling and isolation were immediate. Reports came to the boss of things she’d said about him, some of them true. Life became hell for the silly cow, until she left the company. She wouldn’t dare ask for a reference.

There was no way out. Tiffany tried; she was a single mum, and couldn’t afford too much dignity. She asked for a transfer within the company, and was offered a role in Mongolia. She shrugged and took it. Her career took off from there, and she eventually became the VP of Human Resources, global. Things started to change.

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.

Dying Young

"Look at your wedding photo," said Thomas, "there on the wall."

Alan looked at the picture and smiled. Two days back from their honeymoon, he and Wendy had picked up the picture from the photographers earlier in the day. He turned back to Thomas. "Do you like it?" he said, then added, awkwardly, "Dad?"

"You sure look a lot like the boy in that picture," said Thomas. He took a tentative sip of his coffee, then eased back into the armchair.

Alan felt his face flush. He knew he looked young, but he didn't need the old-timer to rub it in. He wondered whether Judy would mind if he grew a goatee. Of course she would, he thought. Maybe I'll try in a year or two.

"Have I lost you?" said Thomas.

"Sorry, I was daydreaming."

"I said, 'You sure look a lot like the ...'"

"Yeah," said Alan, "I heard. Look, it's our wedding photo; of course I look like myself."

"Of course you do," said Thomas. He took another sip of his coffee. The temperature seemed more to his liking now, and he took a longer drink.

"Sorry," said Allan. "I just don't know what you're driving at."

Thomas nodded. His eyes showed something like patience, or pity. "Look at that photo over there," he said, pointing to a smaller picture on the bookcase, taken on his own wedding day. It was a studio photograph, with Thomas standing rigidly behind his wife, who was sitting on a straight backed chair. The colours had faded over the years, and insects had left dubious deposits behind the glass. "I don't look much like the boy in that photo now, do I?"

Allan stopped the sarcastic reply that came to his mind before it got to his mouth. Thomas was right, of course; it was a boy in the photograph. Allan looked back and forward between the two pictures to compare them. "You've come a long way," he said at last.

Thomas laughed. His laugh was loud and hard, and shook him all over. He spilled coffee into his lap, but he either didn't notice or didn't care. "That," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "is a very kind way of saying that I'm an old coot now; and that I really look the part."

Allan smiled.

Thirty seconds of silence passed. Thomas sighed. "It creeps away from you, you know," he said. "Time. Days, weeks, months, years. Decades. Soon you'll have one of those small, trendy beards – though not quite as grey as mine – and then your belly will bulge out from too much food and beer – though not quite as big as mine. And every day you'll look a bit less like that boy." He pointed up to the picture again as he spoke.

Allan recalled how his own father had often said, "It's better to learn something about life from somebody else's experience. It's quicker, cheaper and less painful."

Allan smiled at the memory. The smile seemed to encourage Thomas to go on.

"Getting old is a strange feeling, because you don't feel it. Sure, when you run up stairs you feel it; but when you're sitting down, drinking a cup of coffee, it doesn't matter if your eighteen or eighty-one. On the inside you're the same."

Allan was sceptical, but kept this to himself.

"I always thought they were mad," said Thomas, "when old men said that." He shook his head. "But it's true; it's so true."

Well, I still think you're a little bit mad, old-timer, thought Allan. Aloud, he said, "I thought getting old was all about aches and pains?"

"Oh," said Thomas, "that's true. Getting old is not for sissies: it really hurts. But the aches and pains are in your body, not in your mind. It is a pain to grow old; but consider the alternative."

Allan looked into his father-in-law's eyes. "What's that?"

"Dying young."

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.

3WW (Three Word Wednesday) - "A Bag of Potting Mix"

I've just come across a very simple little blog site called "Three Word Wednesday", or "3WW" for short. In the words of the site's owner, "Each week, I post some words. People write things using the words. Then they comment here."

So, I thought I'd give it a go. The last 3WW (number CLIV) words are "Disarm", "Engage" and "Mayhem". This is what I came up with.

A Bag of Potting Mix

The plan is simple, and we follow it to the letter.

We go to Big W, and the Saturday morning shopping is mayhem, which is perfect. I engage the dragon-lady gatekeeper in a conversation, asking for directions to the gardening section. It's her job to check the bags for stolen merchandise and watch out for suspicious characters like us. While I'm chatting with the old girl, it's Brad's job to disarm the alarm on the anti-theft tag detection sensors.

With the thumbs up from Brad, we go shopping. We find a 68cm flat-screen high definition plasma TV that will suit our flat just fine. On the way out I distract the old cow again by thanking her for her help.

"No problem," she says, "it's all part of the job. Did you find what you were looking for?"

I smile; Brad is walking straight out the shop behind her, barely managing to carry the box. "Sure did; thanks again. Sorry, I have to go now."

I catch up with Brad as he gets on the escalator down to the car park. We finally get the box into the back seat of the car; it barely fits. Just as we close the doors, a cop turns up. It looks like the battle-axe gatekeeper is not as dumb as she looks. Next time I pretend to find what I'm looking for in the gardening department, I should probably buy a shovel, or a bag of potting mix.

Your Objection is Noted

This story is a response to another challenge from Mattrozi. His challenge was:

Write a short story no more than 300 words in length and use "noted" in the title and somewhere in the text. You may not use any words starting with the letter "b" and it must be written in first person.

Confession: I've busted the 300 word limit out to about 600. Sorry. In return, I offer a first-person account of Tara, the character that I introduced in Dilute Solution, and which Mattrozi said he'd like to know more about. Not using words starting with 'b' is really challenging; but that's the point, isn't it?

Mattrozi writes a poetry blog called Cleveland Thomas.

"Tara," said Mr Everton, "tell me what you think of your last assignment.
I looked longingly at everyone else leaving the English classroom, going off to lunch. I turned to my teacher. "What I think's not important, Mister Everton," I said, smiling sweetly; leaning a little closer. "It's what you think that matters, isn't it?"

Mr Everton sighed and took a step back. "Very well," he said. "I think that it's an excellent first draft from a highly intelligent, highly lazy young lady. I think this took you twenty minutes; tops."

That got me. I'd actually written my short story submission during the ads of Australian Idol. "Whatever," I said, softly, looking at the floor.

Mr Everton sighed again. "This story, as it currently stands, is less than what I consider a passable quality." Before I could argue, he put his hand up and kept talking. "However, I'm confident that about a lunchtime's worth of rewriting and editing will elevate it to a pass; or higher."

I didn't like where this was going. I said nothing, and looked Mr Everton in the eye as he went on.

"Take your laptop with you now to the staff room, and you can get to work. I'll accept your assignment at the end of lunch.

"Si-ir," I said. "That's just not fair!"

"Your objection is noted." he said, "Though you're quite right. Giving you a second chance isn't really fair; only I think that with a push you just might start to realise some of your potential."

The lunch hour went slowly; however, I worked hard. I had to pass English. A fail would have a seriously tragic effect on the spending money and other goodies I get from Dad.

About half way through lunch, Mrs Atkinson, my Art teacher, knocked on the door of the staff room. "Mister Everton," she said, after noticing me, "I need to speak with you for a moment please; privately."

I just wished I could hide in the corner for the next few minutes to pick up some hot gossip on another student, or even a teacher. As I got up to leave, I had a stroke of genius. I opened "Sound Recorder" on my computer, hit record, and then locked the computer.

# # # # #

I could not have hoped to record a juicier conversation. My two teachers weren't talking about a student or another teacher; they were talking about themselves. They were having an affair; a very raunchy one, it seemed.

Later that night, I lay in my room in the dark and smiled. I formed my plan and slowly drifted off to sleep.

# # # # #

I said nothing as I played Mr Everton the conversation on my iPod the next morning. He went pale, and his hands started to shake. He stopped listening after half a minute.

"You little cow," he said.

I said nothing, and tried not to smile; much.

"What do you want?"

"I want an 'A' for English," I said. "Like you said, I'm pretty lazy and don't like to spend a lot of time on my assignments. So, I'll turn up to class, and hand in the assignments that you write for me; and you'll give me an 'A'."

Mr Everton stuttered. "That's extortion! That's --!"

"Your objection is noted," I said, and it felt good to say it. I turned and strutted down the hallway towards the Art department.

The Root Causes of Homelessness

"Got a few dollars to spare?" said the man on the bench. He held out a disposable coffee cup.

I'd been walking along the footpath keeping pace with the rest of the Brisbane rush-hour crowd. I stopped and came back to talk to him. "Are you homeless?" I said. I kept my money to myself for now.
"Yes I am," said the man. Then he added, "My name's Ralph."
Ralph had dark, weather-beaten skin. His hair was black and long; down to his shoulders. He had a full flowing beard that tapered off to a wispy tail just above his chest. His clothes were worn and filthy, and the odour of stale sweat on him was noxious.

I reached out my hand and said, "G'day Ralph. I'm Barry."
He took my hand, and offered for me to sit down; which I did. I sat as far away from him on the bench as I could without falling off.

Ralph told me that there weren't a lot of ordinary people who stop to talk to the homeless. Not just charity volunteers, but ordinary people. He said he appreciated it. I explained that homelessness is a real passion of mine; and that I'm doing my part to eliminate it. "Especially the root causes," I said. "If we can eliminate the root causes of homelessness, then the problem will be ninety-nine percent solved."

Ralph looked at me with his dark eyes. "And what are those root causes, Barry?"

I had spoken on the subject at length to community leaders and politicians; yet, the look in his eyes made my confidence wither. I said, "Lots of things Ralph, of course; but the biggest is a lack of education; and that's my background. Poor education itself has a number of root causes, including undiagnosed learning difficulties, physical and emotional abuse of children, drug and alcohol abuse of parents…"

Ralph was smiling now. I felt I'd struck a chord; perhaps even listed some of his own personal demons. Or I was talking way over his head, and the funny words didn't make sense to him.

"How did your own education go?" I asked. I wanted him to feel comfortable sharing his experiences with me. "Tell me about it."
"I graduated from my civil engineering degree with first class honours," said Ralph. "I declined an offer to complete my doctorate and went straight into industry. Now, how about a few dollars for a cup of coffee?"

Khloe after dark, crooked jaw and lifebelt

"Khloe after dark, crooked jaw and lifebelt", said Brett proudly, as he sat down at his desk.

Brett was often cryptic, but this blew my mind. I turned from my laptop and looked him in the eyes. "What?"

"Those," said Brett, pausing for effect, "are the three most popular Google searches for today."

I didn’t know where to begin. "Why?" I asked, hoping I wasn't making a mistake. Leaving the room could possibly have been a better option.

"Who knows why people search for stuff," said Brett. "It's driven by the Yanks mostly. They search for some sick and crazy things. The Indians too; and the Chinese. It's a population thing…"

"Stop," I said, raising both my hands. "Why are you telling me the three most popular Google searches for today?"

Brett gave that look he gives when he's very disappointed with me. Like a father who can't believe his son is such a simpleton. "For our blog," he said, slowly. "We want money from people clicking ads on our blog. Ergo, we need site traffic; ergo we need to appear on Google results."

"Ergo we need people to find our blog by searching 'Glow in the dark with a crooked jaw and a lifebelt?"

"Close." said Brett. "Khloe after dark, crooked jaw and lifebelt."

"Our blog is about short fiction and poetry," I said. "Those words and phrases have nothing to do with either."

Brett didn't let that stop him. Perhaps I should have tried harder to stop him myself. The damage is done, now. The ad revenue is improving, though. In six months I'll be able to buy a cup of coffee. Regular, of course; not large.

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.

Dilute Solution

This story is a response to a challenge by Mattrozi. His challenge was to write a story with a maximum of 300 words that had the word "dilute" in the title, and the following words at least once within the story: "dilution", "legacy", "river" and "red".

How well did I meet the challenge? You decide. Have a read, and then add your comments.

Thanks to Mattrozi for his challenge. Mattrozi writes a poetry blog called Cleveland Thomas.

Tara's red t-shirt was tight on her. She liked that. Even though no-one could see her down here at the river, she still felt proud and powerful. Her mother had left her a wonderful legacy, and she was glad for it.

She removed the shirt and her shorts, and stood for a moment in the shade of the gum tree in her black one-piece swimsuit, before going into the water. The water was cold on her skin, and felt fresh and exciting. The way her body reacted to the cold still intrigued and excited her. She drew out the swim for a few minutes, holding out on herself, making herself wait. Her breathing was fast and shallow from the cold and the anticipation.

Back on the shore, she took the plastic drink bottle from her backpack and drank. She finished almost half of it in one go, and then gasped for air. She felt the effect of the vodka in the cordial almost immediately. Tara smiled, and finished the bottle. She lay down on her back on the rough sand with the afternoon sun on her face, and enjoyed the feeling of the alcohol as it warmed her belly and her cheeks. Soon her legs didn't even feel attached to her body.

The vodka was easy to get. She took it from the Smirnoff bottle in the liquor cupboard, and then made up the volume with water. The vodka was used only for mixing with orange juice for Tara's mother. She would never notice the dilution. There was usually a fresh bottle every week or two, allowing Tara a good supply.

Tara's next big project was to find a husband to provide her with a house, car and other necessities.

Blatant Intolerance

I just posted a six-sentence fictional piece to the Six Sentences social network called Blatant Intolerance.

My aim, based on this discussion thread, was to create a six-sentence short-story that is right-wing conservative, yet friendly, reasonable and non-venemous.

I'd like to know if you think I came close to that: leave a comment.

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.

Wanted: Experienced Scaffolder

On my first day on the job, I was in awe of Jack Bier. He embodied that combination of skill and confidence – no, fearlessness – that made a scaffolder the king of the trades. I wanted to be like Jack: he would walk across a one foot wide beam ten stories above the ground, without even looking at his feet. In those days scaffolders didn't work from walkways and handrails – we worked from beams and girders – and blazed the trail of planks and walkways for others to follow. Jack stayed back for some overtime when I left for the pub, feeling on top of the world.

On my second day on the job, Bob, the foreman, showed me the pool of blood where Jack had landed on the ground. All it took was for his foot to slip on a fresh pigeon dropping. A few of the blokes saw him fall. Bob pointed out the beams that Jack had hit on the way down.

I felt sick, and spewed up breakfast onto the dirt; but Bob wasn't finished. He took me with him to visit Jack's wife with his final pay-cheque. Bob wanted me to learn something that day, and I did. Jack was an old generation scaffolder: skilful, fearless and a little cocky. I became one of the new generation. I don't disrespect Jack, or what he did; but, I don't think a man needs to die putting bread on the table.

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.

Random Acts of Kindness

Nothing is as confusing as a random act of kindness. You lose your mental balance for a moment when, for no particular reason, a lady in the office walks past your desk and gives you a Mars bar. When someone lets you change lanes in a traffic jam just before the lights, long held beliefs in "cause and effect" and "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" lie shattered and redundant, even if only for a moment.

I used to think, for some reason, that these occasional random acts were about me. I assumed that despite me not being aware of any reason for someone being "nice", there must have always been some underlying reason within me anyway. Somehow, subconsciously, I must have exuded irresistible charm, leaving the other person overcome and unable to restrain their own generosity.

About a week ago I suddenly realised: it's about them. It's about their power to confuse. They use this potent power to throw others into a king of stupor, while being in complete control themselves. I realised that we all have this power, and are able to unleash it with a simple, undeserved, random act of kindness.

I was onto them, and decided to join them, immediately. My cousin Margaret - Marg to those who'll talk to her - hates the world and everyone in it. She is forever complaining about lots of things: from world politics to the fact that her knives are blunt, and her kitchen draws get stuck.

Marg doesn't lock the doors of her house - funny for a someone who thinks the world is out to get her - so I snuck into her house. I sharpened her knives, oiled her kitchen draws and all the doors and even fixed a leak in the toilet. I left Marg's house on a high, knowing that she wouldn't be able to figure out who or why these kindnesses had been bestowed upon her.

Apparently, Marg came home in a foul temper: something to do with a bad experience at the Woolworths checkout. She decided to get straight into cooking dinner, which involved chopping onions, which involved a knife. She keeps these in the second drawer. Marg wrenched hard on the drawer; which, being unexpectedly well oiled and jam-free flew out of the runners and across the kitchen. I heard later that it took her about ten minutes to get everything back into the drawer, and the drawer back onto the runners. It certainly didn't appear to help her mood.

By the time Marg was ready to use the knife on the onion, she was livid. I'm not sure exactly what her onion cutting technique is, or exactly how sharp I got those knives. What I can say, is I didn't realise that a simple kitchen knife, well sharpened, can cut a human finger clean off. Let alone two.

Anyway, the microsurgery went well, apparently, and Marg should be out of hospital within another few weeks. Needless to say, my random act of kindness remains a secret, and I've since arranged an alibi. Was my random act of kindness a failure, then? Good question. With the amount I've laughed just thinking about Marg, her drawer, her knife and her onion, I'm not sure I can call it a failure.

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.

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.

Jill's Answer

Jill was soon lulled into a semi-hypnotic stupor by his voice, which droned on like a twin engined propellor aircraft, loud and constant. The subtle variations in volume - up and down, up and down - created an underlying beat to the drone that throbbed every few seconds.

It was the long, heavy silence that broke the spell. He was looking at her, expecting an answer, waiting. She looked at him, lost, then looked at Bill - her mind racing - but Bill's look of eager expectation was even more intense, and even less helpful.

Jill could only think of one response that might be expected of her right now, so she plunged ahead and said, in the loudest voice she could manage, "I do!"

Long Black, No Sugar

Doug asked the the girl with the black apron behind the counter for a long black to go, no sugar.

"That's three fifty," she said.

He already knew that, and handed her the correct change. She scurried off to the bean grinder. The cafe wasn't really very busy at this time of day; the breakfast crowd had gone, and morning tea was still an hour or two away. The middle aged couple in the corner looked like they were talking about mortgages, divorce, haemmoroids, or an equally painful subject.

The girl worked the espresso machine. The sounds of hissing and clunking were ominous. Doug wondered if espresso machines ever exploded, scalding and maiming barristas and customers. The girl said, loudly over the noise, "It's almost ready! How many sugars would you like?"

"No sugar, thanks."

A bit more clanging and some wiping. Suddenly aware that he was being watched, Doug turned to find two women waiting behind him, who didn't look like they wanted to wait. The serious couple was leaving. Doug turned back around in time to see the girl walk over from the work bench to the serving counter. She handed him a coffee and two packets of sugar.

Doug said, "Thanks," took the coffee - left the sugar - and walked straight out of the cafe. He shook his head and wondered what was going on in his world. Logically, the problem lay either with others, or within himself. Were others consistently becoming increasing incompetetent and less able to understand him? Alternatively: had Doug himself developed a speech problem of some kind? He considered whether it was plausable that he had developed an involuntary Freudian slip that he was himself deaf to; in that he now only thought he asked for no sugar, but was requesting sugar nonetheless.

Despite the fact that he was almost seventy - and must by now be leaning a little toward senility - he still tended to believe he was a victim of the incompetence of others, rahter than his own deficiencies. This was based on his own assessment of the balance of probabilities to be sure; but he had little else to work with.Why is it so hard to get a long black with no sugar, anyway?

Doug stopped on the footpath to admire an old but well maintained Honda motorcyle. He gingerly sipped the coffee, careful not to burn his tongue. Revolted, he spat the milky liquid into the gutter, barely missing the nice old bike. White coffee! White coffee?