Bali 2002

Starlight raining deep into dusty sidewalk, People call me God, but my real name is Joy, I say to the virgin standing on the other side of a severed leg.

Waiting for her to open tightly shut eyes, I smile, salt water trickles down the back of my throat, breath fast from running, cool sand stuck to my feet.

Her eyes flutter, wiggling my toes and licking my salty lips, starlight splashing a sheen to my jet-black skin and her small brown face.

Allah, a timid voice begs, her pupils circling under the growing rain of light, new thoughts and fresh eyes expanding to reveal the street. Her head twitches, Huh, she says, I’m still in Bali, a small face moving from side to side, I’m supposed to be in, ummm… p, p, paradise, hands quickly sliding down her new body in rapidly increasing light, I’m, I’m wearing a DRESS, I’m a… I’m a KID, I’M A GIRL, the sweet young voice coming from her mouth confusing her ears.

Smiling, We both look, forever young, I say calmly, taking a deep breath of air and starlight, my name is Joy, and your name is, ‘India,’ offering her my oasis-palms.

Her face narrows, cautiously looking down at the severed leg on the ground between us, That’s, that’s… her voice thinner.

Yes India, that… was your leg, waiting a moment, a young man’s leg, the man that you were, sitting in a minivan, with a bomb, moments ago, my words pump sticky emotions choking the blood in her neck.

India, wiggling my toes harder, look at your old severed leg, it’s bent at the knee, speaking as gently as I can, even in death, it looks like it is trying to run, I lean forward, it is trying to get somewhere, yes, in a big, BIG hurry, my shoulders, my neck and breath relaxing, drying sand falls from my feet.

Looking up under starlight shimmering, India’s new, young chest puffs, frustrated and confused in the dust, I thought, I thought I was getting… seventy two virgins.

Ahhh, I reply softly, you… you are one, one of the virgins.

Stunned ears prickle, spinning her face towards thumping footsteps, stomping from a quiet chaos of flickering flames further up the street, a red shadowy outline reaching us quickly.

“YES, IT IS,” words from the red-blur thundering past. 

No… it isn’t, I reply.

“Freedom IS doing… ANYTHING I DESIRE,” the red-shadow growls, spitting, walking past us towards deeper darkness.

What, who, was THAT, India biting her own breath with wet teeth, why did it say that, huh, it, it looked just like you, Allah, but with red skin, and, and, her lips draped with spiderwebbed spit, and rrrrrrred eyes.

My white shirt glows softly, India, that is a part of creation, that is… ‘Testosteroni,’ well, that is your version of ‘Testosteroni.’

Mmmm, Testosteroni huh, that’s a dumb name, easing into these difficult seconds, gaining strength with each heartbeat, mouth hanging, watching Testosteroni walk further away from the quiet chaos, was that… Setan, words drip.

No.

India’s small face stares up at me, eyes wanting to know more, more and more.

Setan, or Satan, the Devil, my neck twists, is mmmuch harder to reveal.

Judging herself, power pushing through eyes, looking down at her old, severed leg, heavy, dripping wet eyes rising to meet mine, I murdered, to get virgins… I should be in hell… I’m not in hell… WHY, rocks grate inside of every word.

Hell, offering her a simple truth, hell only exists inside a heavy chest, powered by a mind full of, I shrug, bees and wasps.

 Lungs puffing, India’s rapidly expanding mind a twirl. Looking up the street towards the quiet chaos of flames her fists clench, drenching water fills her starlit eyes rolling slowly to glare at me, Do you hate me, face begging, I caused all that, shaking deeply from the spine outwards, stuff… up there, the quiet chaos still quiet, I am a murderer, her head losing strength, hanging low.

I’m God, and India, my real name is Joy, glowing softly in the starlight, India’s heavy breath filling moments of silence. Flames from the quiet chaos peak towards the sky, hot shadows from afar brushing and dancing on India’s cheek, her new and astute eyes break under the gravity of a rock-heavy chest.

Looking up at me with a metal-heavy neck, Can I, can I please call you… Allah, she asks.

You can call me Allah, yes, of course you can.

Jumping between flashing fast thoughts, her muddled tongue snaps, If your name is God, and Allah, and

I have many names.

Her head shakes, wet intelligent eyes roll, THEN what’s the REAL agama, the rrrreal one, HUH, her newborn eyes demand.

Smiling, gently bowing to her, yellow-orange drops vibrating on my skin, The real agama, the real religion is… Pure Joy.

Erupting into a quickly-closer panic, the quiet chaos up the street breaks, hundreds of voices finding breath, shaking in shock and pain with each new lick of fire and sharp stick of sound. Ears filling with awful ache, India’s head tilts backwards, chest surging, hot-heart-stones drip and drop slicing into soul, thrashing a rush of blood flooding her face, gritty tears streaming, looking up to the stars, pupils burning, her mouth open, silent.

India. India……

Finding a shred of strength, she straightens, she turns to glimpse the crimson outline of Testosteroni’s back walking away into darkness, I’m, I’M SO, her face becoming firmer, shifting to resolute, ANGRY.

Feeling India’s anger on his back, Testosteroni’s shoulders and neck rise, “This heat is not from the flames, the flames are too far away,” Testosteroni says, stopping, “ahhh, I understand,” lips dribbling, “someone wants to challenge me,” skin glowing a brighter red, “challenge ME,” turning around, facing us, waiting in the dark with a face-flame silhouette of desire.

I’m scared, India looks at me.

Relax, for now, just relax, I smile, walk with me India, for now, let’s walk.

Her mouth closes.

Relax… sliding my hands from my chest and all the way down the middle of my white shirt to my hips, Bali disappears, white light surrounds us, in the new haze I watch her shoulders trying to relax, Welcome to heaven, India.

She takes a dozen deep breaths, maybe more. Looking around with busy eyes, This is a… kleeKay. 

Do you mean, a cliché, I grin.

Yes, a kleeKay, that’s what I JUST SAID, her eyes brighter, I mean, c’mon, rrreally… all of this white light, and what’s that sound… wwwind chimes, she asks with outstretched hands and a smirk.

I smile, impressed, Correct, it’s a cliché, I agree, come on, walk with me.

We walk. We walk and we walk. A long walk of silence, white light slowly tinting to a yellow-orange step, by step, by step. Stopping at an old-fashioned, big, curvy bright orange radio sitting on the grass, Go on, switch it on, India, go on, turn the dial.

Leaning over, she turns the radio’s dial ‘click click clcik, click click click’ until the fuzzy display reads ‘Svanur.’ Music plays, a swan flies out of a lake, sudden wings and feathers up, up and away. We move, powered by breaths of clean, stunning clarity and music, the walk becoming softer. We walk and we walk, cruising past an ocean, clouds touching and licking a lake, wisps of water massaging peaks, we walk and we walk. Clouds roll over mountains, mountains roll with the music, holding India’s hand, clouds speed up overhead, faster, faster, waterfalls cascade in slow motion, or fast, or faster. There is no time. Ocean tides rush in, wet sand, little crabs scurry, tides rush out, sand dries, mountains, lakes drifting across our eyes. The colour of my existence everywhere, energy brushing the sky from a city on the far horizon. Walking past an old plane resting-rusted on the ground, no engines, no propellers, wings gone, mission complete, The Pirates who flew that plane to heaven, they were very brave.

Pirates… she looks up at me smiling, her mind settling while we walk and we walk, insects inside her head trying to reluctantly roost on hot sticks.

Taking a rest, sitting on a mossy rock for a second, a month maybe, maybe more, there is no time, years, months, seconds later, India is restless. Eyes darting left and right, Allah… paradise, it’s wonderful, staring at me, unafraid, but I’d rather be drinking beer and dancing, her face shocked, ummm, wait, why did I say that, I never did those things before, whaaaa.

Nodding slowly, trying not to laugh.

ALLAH, the hot sticks in her mind too hot for roosting thoughts, ummm, lips wet, I’m not ready for… paradise, nose wiggling, shifting her bottom on the rock, surprised by the heaviness of sudden stones clunking around in her chest. Unable to admire the view, Allah, why did you let me do such a friggin horrible thing, a bombing, in Bali, why, her voice grating, the beauty of SkyTowers glow brighter in the distance.

Free will.

Bu

Free will, I interrupt, ‘the space between your thoughts,’ a space that is yours, and yours alone, smiling, without free will, there is nothing new… ever.

Listening with a tilted head, Bu

Do you want me to write every song, every poem and every story, I offer, waiting, smiling.

Well… nnnnnope, but, but you should… fff, fffffriggin help people, neck trembling, help people who

I help those who help themselves, studying her face, watching my words silently circle inside her eyes.

Feeling awkward on the mossy rock, failing to shake hot thoughts from the branches in her mind, breathing, standing up straight, strong hands, fists on hips, I want to go back to Earth, Allah, and defeat that, that Testosteroni, and, yeah, Setan as well, taking a big breath, I am a Muslim, I wanted to kill Kristens… and, well, I did… I, I did kill Kristens… her voice an ocean of determination.

Perhaps, now you have a 

I do, she interrupts, thinking ahead, all of that walking was good, my misi, then, new light forming in her eyes, it’s gonna be about… ummmmmm, HELPING a Kristen person, face strengthening, blood rising from her chest, shadows of the distant SkyCity firmly on a pretty cheek.

Smiling, If that’s your feeling, India, then yes, sure, your misi, your mission, it is to help a Christian person.

Chest pounding, I’ll STOP terrorist wannabe’s from doing what I did. I’ll find a way. I’ll fix what I did… I’ll find the real Setan, her body vibrating as strongly as the words, by making, ummmm, the dream of a KRISTEN come true, her heart connecting to a moment of bliss.

Your optimism, your power, my black face beaming, you’ll be a real girl back on Earth, with a click of magic, you’ll

HMMM, she interrupts, how will I survive… friggers, I’ll be a homeless, 10 year old girl, eyes unsure.

You could get a job as a ‘don’t-touch-me-there-doll.’

Lines lightening across her brow, How, how can you, Allah, how, how can you make a joke, now, standing statue still.

Looking out and over heaven, breathing deeply, Without jokes, India, the Universe is… joyless, my shirt shines, but she’s not convinced, lines still cramp her forehead, India, my angel, these are important words for your mission, a call-to-prayer wails in the distance, beautiful music fills the sky rainbowing the land. Waving a hand to a plane flying overhead, its wings tilting for a second, I look back down at India, if we don’t throw light at darkness, darkness wins… my feet firm, my words are so important, INDIA, if we don’t throw light at darkness, darkness wins… my eyes glowing, hey, India, it doesn’t seem like it, but, ultimately… trauma has no value.

Spinning emotions, determined eyes, complex feelings drop through her body shaking all of the way down to her plain, sandaled, frozen feet.

Reaching out, touching her small cheeks, The misi you have chosen, a mission of… adventure, my suit sparkles, you already know that there is a man on Earth who will look after you.

Warming, turning, squinting towards the distant SkyCity, a faint look of remembrance washes across her almost overloaded eyes.

India, you will recognize a man’s broken spirit, a man who shone his flashlight on something terrible, you will knock on his chest, and knock hard when he is ready, when he is READY, to listen.

Staring at me, Trauma has no value, huh, that idea has lit a cracker on the tip of her tongue, on Earth, I listened to friggin morons… and liars… so watch this, taking a furious step, one brash foot landing, almost taking her out of heaven, towards Bali, yellow dust falling from her plain brown dress.

Wait, wait India, I call out, on Earth, you will need a personal-pronoun.

Penguin, she shrugs, taking a bolder step out of heaven, oh.. any sea-bird will do.

Smiling, watching her take a bigger step, a foot, a sandal slapping the street in Bali, two firm feet rest in front of her dead, severed leg laying in the dust. Breathing deeply, pupils expanding, adjusting to the dim light, her jaw tightening as she turns, scanning, squinting, finding Testosteroni further down the street.

 Walking away from her old leg, slap-slap-slap sandals down the street covering distance quickly. Entering deeper darkness, stopping in front of Testosteroni with small nostrils flaring, face strong, I’m going to defeat you… hey, what are ya, really, hmmmm.

Testosteroni smiles, grins, salivates, “I AM the blood and the FUCKING,” sweat drops, “that little faggot ‘Joy,’ he’s a shimmer of pretend gold, FOOLS GOLD, the shine of… bullshit,” delighted to feel an argument brewing, shaking with desire, “I AM THE REAL GOD,” his vibrating voice sniggers, relishing the moment mouth drooling, “you wanted seventy-two virgins, but,” leaning towards her, “now that we are, ssssss,” eyes rolling with delight, “sssssseparate, you must know what I am going to do to YOU,” hips thrusting.

Rape me, India’s head wobbles, eyes spinning… but I’m only

“SHUTUP… this is MY domain, the ice and the rock and the blood of the Earth,” his arms out wide, “Joy, his spiritual fairy floss NONSENSE DOESN’T BELONG HERE,” breath hot, “THIS IS MY DOMAIN, I fuck, FUCK to make everyone and EVERYTHING,” fingers closing and clicking, “trying to control me would kill evolution, I must have the FRESHEST,” hands move to roasting hips, “that pussy called Joy doesn’t fuck… hmmmm… if I wasn’t here, this planet would be, sssssssoup without life, boring, useless, elemental-soup,” he spits.

India holds her ground.

Pointing between his legs, “LOOK at this thing,” stiff, oak hard red danger hardly hidden by shadows.

HUH, gasping, squeezing her 10 year old legs together.

Laughing, glowing red-hot, “What a high-time I’d be having if females weren’t so precious about… all these vaginas,” drool drops lubricating below.

Teeth clenched, You SOUND like a DRUG.

“I AM A DRUG,” smiling, eyes circling, “I. AM. JUST. A. DRUG.”

Stepping backwards, unsteady, rubbing her chin, taking time to gain composure, Hmmmmm, something, mmm, fishy, something is wrong, you seem kinda smart for, just a drug, thinking carefully, Allah said, a hand still rubbing her chin, hmmmmmmm, Allah said you’re a part of creation, thinking very, very carefully, so you’re NOT, JUST a drug, AHHHHHHHHH, I know what’s wrong, if you were ‘just-a-drug,’ a drug woulda raped me BOOM BOOM BOOM, legs trying to find full strength, you lied, and, thinking clearly, you WERE A PART of me, so, so, eyes screaming, I, ummm, I MADE you this way, stepping backwards, a knee bending, legs struggling to keep up with thoughts.

Testosteroni glares.

You’re smart, you tried to trick me, ummmm, I know I’m right… TT. 

“A nickname, hahahaha, it won’t make me less… red,” TT shimmers, accepting that the argument will continue, oozing salty pre-life with an arching back.

Annnnnd, legs catching up with her mind, stepping strongly forward a hand on hip, I’ll find a way to defeat you, AAAANNNNDD, raising the other hand, pointing a finger, not letting TT speak, eyes cutting through the night, I’ll fix my mistakes, I can still change the world, pushing dirty knees together, a quick glimpse up at the sky, stars shine for a reason, she whispers, chest stones rattling, my defeat of you, smiling, it will be, it will be, ummmmmm… her pointy finger curling into a firm fist wrapped in the bake of SkyCity yellow and orange.

Outside of Time – The SkyCity

I’m God, but my real name is Joy, on my beach, ocean waves sliding, sloshing, gliding up and down warm sand, bubbles rush to tickle between my toes, that feeling, that warmth.

Looking up at an orange-yellow blended sky, endless and exciting, I yell, Let’s dance, let’s dance for a smile, my slim body twists, blue ocean waves crash and smash, with plenty of spare breath to yell again, I’m JOY, painting the sky with my voice.

I need to run.

Legs jumping, sand spraying, running up the beach, fresh salty air in a crisp throat wanting to yell again, my stylish white suit, no shirt underneath, the top button always, always undone, my black chest brushed by smashing blue waves coated in apricot light.

Ouch, saltwater shoots straight up and deep into my nostrils, owwwwww, wincing and smiling, running faster, salt sliding down my throat clearing and calming my voice, Joy, my flashy white teeth glow from the bake of a mandarin sun, yes, I said JOY, rapid, dark shadows brush down the beach shadowing the sky one cloud after after another. My happiness, too tempting for some, pushes clouds faster across the sky. My eyes flick left, up at a speeding cloud. Eyes flick right, then left, right again, watching shadows and sunlight wrestle in the air fighting for space. Running under a cloud, soft rain, more running, sun, rain, sun, bare feet running in wet sand, Joy, JOY, oh, laughing, my name sounds so gay.

Eyes flicking straight up, running under an older, thicker cloud, much more dense than usual, black sky-syrup slipping, lurking above, trying to hide the brilliance of the beach.

My ears tingle, far away and far below the SkyCity, an Orange Lion roars, engines screaming from metal wings, flying, bending time. My legs keep running. A large raindrop falls from the dark syrup-cloud above, thick as thick, a raindrop with no light sneaks in behind the collar of my crisp, white suit. A trickle, trickle, trickle down my ebony spine, back arching forwards as I run, skin glowing darker, boldly brighter from the polish of this stubborn water born from big drops of a very… very thick cloud.

Legs run, run, and run, eyes circling the beach and the ocean. To my left, tall buildings, SkyTowers of sky glass wonderfully high, carrot colours and clouds. Running harder, the outside edge of my left eye rolling slowly, focusing on the top floor of a SkyTower. Shadows creep over my eyeball, slow, slower, lake-ripple reflecting the image of two naked people, a man, and a woman sitting on chairs enjoying a top-floor balcony.

Crashing beach waves fill my ears, straining, struggling to hear a distant noise. Far below, roaring even louder, I hear the Orange Lion’s determination. A Lion made from steel roooaarrrrrr fighting the rage of humiliation, winning its fight against time, pop-pop-pop metal wings under stress, rivets pop-pop-pop-POP-out, sssstretching metal, jet engines screaming, hot metal fast in the air sweeping the sky, fighting for success. A long and hairy mane, thick strands of rusty orange hair flow elegantly in the sky, adjusting its wings, finishing its giant swoop against time, vibrating comfortably, metal singing, flying to an island of gold and bold, tears flowing from its front window-eyes, in the cabin, two Pirates smile and wave.

Still running, I look up at the top floor of a SkyTower, calling out to the naked people, C’mon, show ME paradise, show me JOY, a giant shadow of coolness creeping across my skin. That thickest of clouds parks itself above me, time in the SkyCity stops. My body, my skinny black legs frozen in time on sticky, unmovable sand. My left eye, with effort, slowly rolling, focusing on the top floor of the SkyTower. Silence. Complete silence, no movement, an ocean of wave-ice beside me.

Up on the top floor of plain-air cement and salmon glass, two naked people sitting on chairs are waiting, sunlight sheds its bake and glow, the thick syrup cloud spreads out to cover their SkyTower. Rays of light turn to a shade of orange so deep, it’s purple. Two people say nothing, no shine, no sparkle, the thick dark cloud from the past rests in dull and heavy air. Sitting delicately on the noiseless, top floor, prim and proper on a thin, minimalist steel chair, a small silver cross hangs from her neck sticking softly to deep brown skin, dangling from a string of black, wet, tightly twisted girl-leather, smell, salt and sweat.

Next to her a man gently stares, enjoying her skin glowing gloriously gold, fascinated by her eyes, deep, dangerous and bold in the almost lack of sunlight, lit only by the plum-shadow of the big, suffocating cloud.

My left eye, stuck, staring at them, barely glowing, providing them with just enough energy to warm their blood and throats, “Hearrrt,” the woman says to the man, a bubble of time appearing with the simple word, “Hearrrt,” she repeats, frustrated by the lack of sunlight, she’s trying to read her book.

“Yes, Very,” he replies, tension dropping from his shoulders, the sound of screaming jet engines below the SkyCity fading away.

Lips curling, twisting, she’s about to start speaking in a language that’s not her native tongue, “Hearrrrt, LOOK, LOOK, down on the beach, Hearrrrt,” lips curling more at the edge preparing to roll the letter ‘r’ to the absolute extreme, “Hearrrrrrrrrt, there’s a black kid, dressed in a white suit, without, ummm, shoooss, ummm, no, how do I say it… SHOES,” taking a breath, “look at the kid, a kid stuck in time,” the reflection of my white suit and an ocean-stuck rolls slowly over her almond eyes of wonder. “The kid is really… really frozen,” her face ponders, deciding to look up and over the ocean stuck in time, waves and deep dark raindrops stuck inside stale air.

Lowering her enormous book carefully, almost to her nude lap, fascinated by the lack of time on the horizon. Gripping the book tightly, a book that she has almost finished reading, a book that she’s been reading for most of her life. Dropping it to her bare legs, eyes and hands caressing the cover, “Is it a boy, Hearrrrt, or is it a girl,” eyes ask, pushed by purple.

“The frozen-in-time kid, or your book,” he replies with no accent.

“Ha. Haa. Haaaaa,” her smile fades fast, “I’ve almost finished my book. Only. One. More. Page,” her ‘one-word-at-a-time’ speech making the man smile, as always.

Her brown hands looking older than her lips and legs gently caress the enormous book, drawing it closer to her face,  a hand adjusts her owl-size reading glasses, eyes and eyebrows focus, “It’s a bit dark with that cloud in the way,” she complains, turning to the last page.

Her small face, line by line, saddening, the eyes nutty-shell emotions filling with feathers, black pupils caged by brown wonder drifting across the words, words, words, and more words. Swinging left, slower to the right, absorbing a sentence, a paragraph, another and another, fluffing to the final words.

The End.

Closing the book carefully, her frown grows, painted by the deep ache of an interesting book that has run out of pages, or promises. Knowing that the man beside her is watching, she breathes in.

His bright blue eyes peer at her from the bruised semi-darkness, “Did you, did you like the book,” eyes intense.

Shoulders straighten, her spine an arrow, “Hmmmm, this book,” she offers, “in this book, well, there’s much drama, hate, lessons-book, no, lessons IN this book,” correcting her tongue, empty lips curl slowly in impossible seconds, eyes sadder, wetter, teardrops don’t run down her face, they stick to the almond, “But.”

“But” the man repeats.

“But…” taking her time, “this book, this book can’t be true,” eyebrows rising, a soft reply, a breath with no air pumped from an empty chest, “it can’t be true.”

The man points to her book, “Because,” pointing more strongly with one finger, “that book has no jokes in it.”

Looking up at the frozen endlessness, “Ha. Haa. Haaaaa,” her throat deep, dry and polite, “true, true, true though, there are no jokes in this book,” tapping it with five fingers, “no jokes in it, none at all, in-actually.”

Smiling at the words, ‘in-actually,’ he keeps listening.

Holding her book tightly to her breasts, taking another deep breath, “It had nothing, umm, nothing in-actually, nothing pushing through, desperate, yes, desperate, to

“Desperate to… what, Very,” he interrupts, circular frustration in his mouth.

“To,” she thinks, placing the book back on her lap, fingers webbing out to flat palms rubbing on the big book, “to really,” thinking carefully, “to PROPERLY, ummm, HEAL,” a deep breath, “TO HEAL ME,” quickly pulling the big book back to cover the sweet triangle of her privacy.

A soft face, “Very… do you think

“Hearrrrrrt,” she interrupts, looking up, staring at the frozen ocean, pure emotion trembling inside her hand, the outer two fingers shake, “so, so much, dramatis in this book,” talking slower, “in this book, so much violent, no,” the outer fingers trembling more, “so much VIOLENCE in this book.” Taking her time, “Hearrrrrt, I thought it was going to be a book about,” trying to find the right words, “a book about,” the warm, salty water that was stuck on the almond of her eyes melts, “a book about… joy.”

Sword thin, ignoring frozen time, a stab of golden sunlight racing through the bruised darkness, slicing through the syrup of the thick cloud above,  light expanding over the beach, the SkyTower and time.

Facing the man sitting under their single leaf of golden sun, “HEARRRRT,” picking up the book and SLAPPING it back down on her lap, waves crash and smash on the beach below, my skinny black legs run, thrilled to be back inside of time, my ears dancing with the music of waves and wind.

Smiling, his eyes glowing blue, watching the thick syrup-cloud dissolve, “You wanted to read a book about joy,” shifting his body to face her.

She says nothing, forcing the big book closer to her triangle.

No reply.

“Well then, Very,” smiling with wet lips, eyes flaring ready to rush, “I’ll write one for you.”

No reply.

Sucking air through his teeth, closing his eyes to a desperate darkness, opening his eyes, “Your trauma, this circle, it has to heal,” breathing out, “it must heal, eventually.”

No reply.

With a chest full of orange glow, slowly looking away from the long-abandoned chair beside him, easing, relaxing into the fresh warmth of the top floor, bittersweet acceptance filling his face, “Ahhhh,” talking to himself, “look at the blue sky above, and the blue ocean below,” he sighs, “and we waste it all by arguing about everything in between,” eyes stubbornly blue.

My white suit flaps as I run and run and run.

“Whatever I’m doing to her, I know it’s bad. Really bad, or good,” trying to keep his voice calm,  “perhaps she has to decide if its good or bad,” reaching out and pushing her empty chair away with one arm blindly, “no, empty chairs don’t decide anything.”

Lost in a mandarin haze, eyes open and close looking for answers, eyeballs rolling under eyelids, veins alive, an easy thought floats up from the back of his mind, “India,” asking the space directly in front of him, “India,” “India,” asking again, “can you hear me India,” wet smiling lips wonder, sensing a plain white shirt wrapping his torso and arms, rough black denim shorts with a heavy black-leather  silver-buckle belt slipping easily to his body.

Sitting upright, blood warm from the shimmering chair, “India, do you realise that you forgot to say one word, just ONE,” opening his eyes to see his 10 year old angel swirling her plain, brown calico dress, Empty chair again huh, she asks with a smirk, mischief inside of always busy eyes.

Looking at the empty chair, “Ahhh, yeah… again,” with a shrug, “oh well, Very is a Christian girl… rrrreally, what was I thinking,” eyes rolling along with his tongue.

India’s nose scrunches and wiggles an answer.

“Hey… I like my partners to be trashy,” quickly licking his bottom lip, “so trashy that I can barely see them on a steamy day through the haze of black-tattoo-ink, and disease.”

Hahahahahaha, that’s a great line, India chuckles, taking her time to lean on the top floor railing, looking over the ocean, smiling, moods beating along with the sound of the waves below, I can feel your thoughts, sniffling, sticking a finger deep up a dirty nostril.

“Urghhhh, India, gross.”

I forgot to say ONE word huh, inspecting her pointy finger for the freshly dug-out ball of snot, rolling it between her fingers, well, shrugging, the salty air has cleaned me nose, turning to the ocean, grinning, happy with the size and consistency of the snot-ball, finger flicking it, watching it drift and fly away in an arc. Bored with that, deeper thoughts land on her fresh Indian face, Hmmm, spinning to look at him, if I forgot to say ONE word, a cheeky smile growing with shiny, happy teeth, then we should go back and I say that word, duh.

‘Here we go, always the villains,’ his eyes ask, “in our own adventure, because, because

Baahhhhhhh… NO more thinking, we go back and we follow my, thinking carefully, freshly cleaned nose, a large wave rising on the beach below curling to its maximum height, dumping its enormous weight onto the sand, crashing, rolling, thumping, filling their ears.

Knowing that they will return to Earth, looking directly into each other’s eyes, remembering the strength of eternity, feeling it growing inside of their legs ready to run.

My feet a blur on the beach.

Adventure stirring, India hurries to the man’s chair. Standing, opening himself, wrapping her arms around him, hugging each other as tight as tight can be, four arms determined to heal, his eyes, so many dreams swinging out of the blue, her eyes reflecting people, places, smells and surprises. Burying her face into his body, smiling from within his tanned arms, I’m so happy you forgive me, holding him tighter, strength shaking and stretching her fingers, for trying to kill you. 

His blond hair, her dark hair, a thunderclap of sunlight, below the thin-water of an almost complete wave peels across the sand heading back into the ocean with a bubbling sand-sizzle.

If I remember to say ONE word, she weeps, and sukses…

“Yes, India, success.”

Sukses, she whispers.

Far below them on saturated sand, sudden wild waves crashing and smashing as I run, in tears, forever young.

1880 – Greater Washington – Clip-Clop Winter

Horses clip-clop, clip clop.

Heavy hard wagon wheels scrape on cobblestones, the girls enjoy their usual morning chat on stinging-nasty-cold sidewalk, “How’s be your vagina today,” she asks her best friend.

“Sore,” words push through the cold air, “me future-usband, he be appy-n-all, and food be in me belly, why complain eh,” struggling to warm her ruddy face, rubbing her hands so fast they blur, bitter air biting, “how’s be YOUR quinny today,” she sniffles.

“It’s be a quinny,” her friend asks, “I thought it become a quinny when it grows sum-hair,” she continues, “I’m the same age as you ya know, 10.”

“I dinna ask if ya quinny was be a sprouting bushes,” she argues, “I was asking if ya been… errrr, fadoodling,” horses clip-clop past, hooves spitting flecks of shit up and around clouding the air.

“Ohhhhh we been a-fadoodling,” rubbing shit off her old, thick leather shoes with a filthy cloth, “by the time we can be, legal-married, at 12, me quinny gonna be tired, worn out prolly, same as a bakehouse donkey,” she yawns.

“Nahhhh, me mother, she says, ‘the quinny never tires, never, never, never.'”

“Great news,” her friend replies, wearing an impossible-to-describe smile, “strange how we can, legal-ways, be fadoodled at 10, but canna-not be married until we be, umm, 12.”

More horses clip-clop dragging a wagon, wind slicing slivers of straw high into the air, “Ya-know, the quinny in the state-oh-Delaware, it can be legal-fadoodled, at seven.”

“”Seems too young,”” they say with fresh, cold blustery faces.

A stronger gust of icy wind blows down the lane forcing them to huddle, “Really, fadoodle at seven, nahhhh,” her friends cold face shivers, “ya-feelin poorly, ya-musta been drinkin old-froth from ya father’s warm mug… again, ayyy.”

“Nahhhh, I got the newspaper page right ere in me-pocket. Me teacher, you know errr, always in troubles about something, usually about the voting, wanting womens to be ah-voting… anyways, she gave me this,” pulling out a well-worn newspaper clipping, her eyes focus, “here be, in 1880, in Great-a Wash-n-ton, the most common age of consent be 10 years oh-age, and Dela-ware,” studying the next word carefully, “main-tain-ed, its age of consent,” looking at her friend, “consent means fadoodle,” looking back to the clipping, “at 7, after,” coughing deeply, “having lowered the age, FROM 10, in the year oh-the-lord, 1871,” sniffing chilly air, a rush of laneway manure-oxygen choking her lungs.

“The year,” her friend says, “oh-the-lord” the other girl repeating part of her sentence.

Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.

“Umm,” one girl asks, “if they be a changing the fadoodle age, to, hmmm, sayyy 14, in future times, does that mean,” rubbing her nose, “that the mans of today who fadoodle us, will eventually be taken out of heaven, and sent to hell,” adjusting her underwear, trying to get comfortable, ice biting through rawness.

“No idea, ya think too much,” rolling her eyes with a giggle, “anyways, my history teacher told me, that, in the very, very olden days of ago, they be sacrificing virgins… to make it rain,” she coughs, “canna-not-be-doin that now-a-days, so there goin-ta-be a lot of horses a-galloping between heaven-an-ell, transporting souls if the lord listens to the laws ehhh.”

“Sacrificing virgins, to make it rain eh.”

 “”Seems harsh,”” both nodding slowly, moving hips around on the uncomfortable rock.

More horses pass on the cobbled street, “Mmmm, ya know, maybe it’s okay that the Lord seems ta-want us to fadoodle early, people drop dead round-ere, in the laneway an-all, easy as pie, and young.”

“Oh blimey,” she replies, a smile of the ages on her dirt-patch face, sunlight peeking through a gap in grey sky to blush her cheek and soften the mood. 

Giving her friend a quick elbow-nudge, “Some people, now-a-days, many, many, they-be-a-livin, all the way to,” scratching her chin, “thirty,” she thinks, “ya know, one hundred thousand soldiers in the Wash-n-ton civil war, not long ago, they were alls 14 year-ole, or younger… I s-pose some of-em never got to have a fadoodle in the hay… sad huh.”

Looking with huge eyes at the strength, the strain inside of a horse pulling a much-too-heavy cart up the street, wooden wheels, metal tread squeaking and scraping on cold cobblestone, “Great-a Wash-n-ton, it sure be a-needin better streets for thems poor ole-horses.”

Her friends face turns, a cheek warmed by that barest ray of sunlight, “I rememba from Sunday school, taming the wild animals, the animal-animal within us-all, that’s be the true mission livin inside of every sermon, every song, n-every story that’s ever been spoke.”

“Ahhhh,” her friend replies, smiling, looking to the sky.

1972 – SouthernC – Story Books

Green glass glare pushing through his bedroom window, 5 year old blue eyes wince from the harshness.

Sitting in his bunk bed, dropping his book, lips wet and tight, “Stupid book,” soft lips spit, small hands lift the book, eyes burrow, “what are little boys made of,” he frowns, reading the words, “snips and snails and puppy dogs tails,” face tighter, “that’s what little boys are made of,” reading on, “what are little girls made of,” his eyes widen, “sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls are made of,” small hands twirl and the book flies all the way to the floor.

Looking down at the book, thinking for a few seconds, his face softer, “The person who wrote that book, they musta been really, really angry to write those… horrible words,” his head tilts, “but, but, hey, I didn’t make that person angry,” speaking to the book on the floor, “why do I have to read YOUR, ummm, stuff, in a book, a book for KIDS,” turning away.

Looking out of the window, forgetting the book, ignoring its words, eyes squinting at the power of light bouncing off the lawn outside, “What is all of… this, stuff, anyway,” frowning, reality hitting hard, “this… this… all of this, ummmm,” quickly giving up on trying to remember a word, or phrase, or an idea that he simply hasn’t learned yet, “ummm, maybe I forgot summmmm-thing,” he wonders.

Mind wandering, a flopping head dropping deep into pillow, “What did my teacher say, hmmm,” rolling away from the green grass glow, slowly remembering his favourite teacher’s words with a thoughtful, happy face, “yeah, she said, she said ‘people should sing their own hymn,'” smiling, lips relaxing, “that’s it,” eyes closing for sleep. “Sing their own hymn,” rolling over deep in comfort, “I wonder what that means,”  whispering one last sentence for the day, “I think I forgot someone… or something…”

1973 – Remember the Days of the Old School Yard

Boredom clouds barely bother to drift across blue eyes, sitting alone on his tiny kids chair in an empty classroom,  preferring to read books during the lunch break, screams and laughter from outside fill the room never reaching his ears.

Behind him, stuck to the back wall a paper map of the whole wide world radiates warmth to his shoulders. A world map, white paper with black outlines, black words representing rivers, cities, streets, “Mountains maybe,” he mumbles, feeling heat.

“I’ve already read this book,” his hands open, a children’s book drops to the desk with no sound. Rolling an eye to the bookshelf on the wall, “I’ve read all of them, those storybooks, every book, over and over,” remembering how his eyes have sucked out the meaning of words, magically, somehow printed in plain black ink, but still full of life.

The map’s heat behind him stuck and sticky in silence.

Shoulders rolling, sweaty, frustrated, “I need a new story,” blue eyes roll and roll, face squeezing tight, forcing the blue in his eyes higher and higher trying to reach the top of his mind. Tap tap tap, empty fingers on his tiny desk. No sound. Eyes stare at the ceiling of the classroom, “Come on then, do it, ummm, I need… what’s the word, that word,” he wonders, “that word, with light inside of it.”

Smiling, he half remembers the word.

Water rushes into the classroom, flowing across the floor from every direction, happy, busy, noisy water swirling all around, “Hahahaaaa,” salt smells crisp in the air. Laughing more, delighted at the pure silliness of ankle-deep water tickling his feet in a classroom, water swirling around little desks and little chairs.

Cooler feet make him aware of the growing heat on his back, stubbornly clammy from the map, he shrugs, lips squeezing tight. Wet shoes and socks kick off, fresh feet and happy toes enjoy the coolness, his brain tingling from the sharp escape of an ocean flowing through a classroom, “Ok, then, mmmmmap.”

Dragging his empty chair, sloshing it over to the back-wall-map, smells of the ocean rushing, cleansing, loosening his mind. Standing on the chair, legs stretching, pushing his body up, up and up, a pointy finger reaches out, touching the middle of the map, an island. His smooth triangle of concentration, devouring crisp-map-paper, two blue eyes, one finger, one island, an island in the middle of the map, “An island in the middle of the whole, wide world,” he says, “an island,” lips whispering wet, “in the middle-centre of everything,” pushing his finger harder on the island, leaning in, smelling the paper for hints, “I’ve forgotten something,” looking down at the water swirling.

Eyes back to the map, “Why,” enjoying talking to himself with water below, “why does this island have no rivers, or cities,” an inquiring nose crinkles, “all of the other, umm, places on this map, they ALL, they ALL have lots of words for the cities, and rivers n-stuff,” a soft, interested voice, a puffy little chest, “but THIS island, this island is… empty,” frowning, water slopping on the legs of his chair.

Sliding his finger across the mystery of this almost virgin island, “Is there a jungle here, or a desert,” he ponders, a finger still sliding, “why is THIS part of the big map SO empty,” leaning in, “does anybody live here,” a whispering, wondering mouth getting closer to the paper thanks to stretching young legs, “do people here live in houses, or…” delicately touching, “hey,” wet lips lean right in, blue eyes big, desperate to see if anyone is somehow inside of the paper, “do girls live here,” he asks.

No reply.

Pulling back from the paper, eyes looking left and right scanning the map of the world, and back to the island, sliding his finger to the only word, the only detail, the only thing printed on this strange, strange island, “Is this word, hmmmmm, is THIS word the NAME of the island,” captivated by the way the word is printed SERIOUSLY and in BOLD.

Touching the first letter written across the island of nearly nothing, pressing harder, tracing out the letter B with a finger, and the letter O, the letter R, the letter N, E and O, “Bor-nee-OHH,” he guesses, smiling, “BORNEO,” delighted salty water swirls sloshing and slapping.

1975 – Maslin Beach

Red, green, blue, orange, a multi-colored wonderland of huge beach umbrellas jazz up and down the beach.

Naked people of all ages, nude except for hats and stripes of sunblock slathered on noses. Babies coo-coo-coo deep inside wide umbrella shade, elderly and young, teens, everyone running, walking, swimming, naked, fresh and free.

Sunscreen smells bite the back of his nose, breezes crushing blue eyes focusing on digging a hole in the sand with a furious yellow spade. His parents sit on fold out chairs under an umbrella, enjoying beers, talking to their friends and neighbours, “Here we all are, at the first LEGAL nude beach in the whole of SouthernC,” says a man.

“Some newspapers say we’re perverts,”  a woman says smiling. 

The group laughs, “Ahhhhh, blooooody newspapers, bloooody mainstream media, fools fools and more fools,” another man wipes his forehead, “nude beach-ing has nothing to do with,” the man lowers his chin preparing a quieter voice, “s.e.x,” lifting his face, “the nudist beach is a place of… of

“Freedom,” another woman interrupts, raising her beer high, firm young breasts and nipples glowing, the group nods in agreement, “when you’re NOT ACTUALLY AT a nude beach, it’s impossible to describe the feeling, but, ohhhhhhh, once you are here with the wind and the sun and the smell of the ocean,” she shrugs, “perhaps it’s something the world has forgotten,” her words send the group into deeper thoughts.

The boy with blue eyes looks up, tired from digging sand, taking a rest and listening to the adults.

A man breaks the silence, “The Ancient Greeks exalted, PURE worshipped the natural, the beauty of nakedness, those statues, their lifestyle, it was a time when people and nature weren’t contradicting each other… the Hellenic nudes, beautifully noble, harmonising the natural and the spiritual,” he says, “now, in modern times,” scoffing, “we need a law to ALLOW us to be naked, on a BEACH,” his head shaking, “something has gone wrong.”

“Whoaaaa,” says another woman holding her wine, her mature body decorated with copper bangles sunshine-sparkling, “when did YOU get so clever,” the group laughs loudly enjoying their drinks, the sun and the wind a kiss on their skin.

1978 – Greater Washington – Teksas – Pretty Baby

Luke’s hot coal eyes prepare his quiet tongue for action.

“No.”

“No,” Luke’s father repeats, “you CAN’T come with me to watch this movie, it’s about a 12 year old virgin being sold in New Orleans, Luke, you can stay at home, by yourself, you’re old enough to do THAT,” his father’s loud voice booms down the hollow hallway bouncing into Luke’s basic bedroom.

“Then why are YOU going to see the movie ‘Pretty Baby,’ yeahhh,” eyes searing, “my father, the good Christian, huh…” mumbling to himself. Annoyed, he wants to see the Brooke Shields movie, a young boy’s crush forever curious.

Hearing his father’s car rumble out of the driveway, Luke remembers seeing Brooke Shields name, or a photo, somewhere. Sneaking quickly into his father’s bedroom, dragging out a box of porn stashed under the bed, flicking through the magazines reeking with the smell of dead paper, finding one with Brooke Shields on the cover. 

Flicking through pages, “The movie Pretty Baby,” reading an article to himself, “is set in Storyville, New Orleans in 1917, where 12 year old virgins were sold, legally, for the huge sum of 400 dollars,” confusion webs across his face. Continuing, “Before the movie ‘Pretty Baby,’ Brooke Shields was photographed nude and covered in oil,” he stares with sharp grey eyes, “for the Playboy Press magazine called ‘Sugar-N-Spice,’ when she was only 10, with permission from her mother.”

Digging through more magazines, mustiness, old ink and stink filling his nose, finding more pictures of Brooke, thoughts cramping his face, “Hmmmm, yeahhhhh, my Dad’s Church,” he ponders, “they seem to think that EVERYTHING is bad, but,” complaining, now looking at the nude, oily, 10 year old, “these pictures are in ONE OF MY FATHERS magazines, and I see these magazines sold on the street, every day, yeahhh, so it must be… okay,” talking to the pages, “what’s going on here,” dust twirling inside wolf eyes.

1979 – Chambers of Glory

A lazy Sunday afternoon, through the window a lone-star flaps in the wind. Luke’s family priest has welcomed Luke, again, to his private, thick, stone-walled chambers, an uncomfortable tart smell itches high in his young nose and mind.

“In the Roman Empire,” his priest exalts with an arm, a hand held high, imaginary purple robes draping, “Roman Generals took very young boys as sex partners when they went to war, because they missed their wives while fighting grand conquests for the GLORY of GOD and ROME,” the priest smiles, his bottom lip much thinner than the top, “it was a privilege,” chest expanding, one hand higher, “a privilege to be chosen, and fucked.”

“I know,” Luke replies, “I’ve read it… the pages of the history book you gave me,” feeling high but slightly sick from the smell of the chamber and the usual pantomime.

“We are fighting a war for the LORD, my Luke, and you can always BE at my side, my fellow WARRIOR,” imaginary robes flashing real hairy apricots, “my secret partner… Luke, just us, in GLORY.”

“Why secret,” Luke asks.

“Do you QUESTION THE LORD,” a stiff tone bounces from stone walls.

“No. Nahh. Nerrrr… I’m not, yeahhh, glory-glory, glory sounds good.”

Months Later – The Last Try

“For the last time, you ARE LYING,” Luke’s dry-coyote throat yells at his priest, eyes of hot grey ice framed by a rarely red face, “I’ve read more books, the Roman Empire was made MORE, ahh, conservative, BY Christianity.”

The family priest’s mouth opens, the stone walls unforgiving.

“Christianity,” Luke continues, the stale and tart smell of the chambers recognized, stinging his nose, “slowly squashed the sexual openness of the Romans,” looking up at his priest becoming angrier by the second, “I’ll tell my father about what you have been doing to me, yeahhhh, you got a big hat, with no cows, mister, YEAHHHH,” a blur filling Luke’s vision.

The fist almost sends him into darkness, the rape and bashing that follow make the long walk home difficult, the heat in his face never dimming.

Entering his father’s house of hollow sounds, soulless footsteps on the bare floor barren as his hope for a fatherly hug. Plugging down the plain hallway, step by step, doom feet, doom shoes, a dimmer room, sitting next to his father and watching him smoking a pipe.

‘Probably deaf,’ Luke thinks, ‘why bother.’

Sucking on his pipe, turning his face, noticing the anger on his son’s face, “WHAT IS IT THIS TIME,” blowing out smoke with spit flying.

1981 – Kanada – That Smile

“Oh, the punch in the face my father gave me, after I told him about my priest, correction, HIS priest fucking my ass, it healed, yeahhhh.”

“Your face or your asshole,” his girlfriend asks.

“HILARIOUS,” Luke replies, enjoying her dark humour.

“I’m glad your father was a coward, n-sent you away from Tecks-asss, to live with relatives here in Tor-oNo,” she says, “you poor thing,” smiling with that smile, the smile only girls can give.

Luke nods, “Yeahhh, it’s cold up here,” he shivers, “still, it’s better to be away from my father and his shitty, shitty… yeahhh… everything.”

Nodding, sipping her hot chocolate, happy that he can smile through eyes that swirl with steel.

Maple Leaves

Weeks, months, or days, the huge tree outside doesn’t care, nutrients are sucked up from deep within the ground, up the trunk, exploding into delicate leaf colours, windy, cold and full of life.

Luke’s girlfriend, chin rising, back arching, arching more, her head tilting in pleasure, hot breath to the ceiling, behind her, inches away, the bedroom window glass misting from her excited air, the tree outside parading leaf colours so beautiful, so complex, they make poets cry. Luke and his girlfriend naked under blankets slowly push themselves together, softer and sweeter than the leaves outside.

Months Later – Jesus the Plumber

Fire in the air, words spearing from hot throats, “We’re both 14,” Luke pleads, “FACTS,” he continues, “the age of consent WAS TWELVE, in 1890, the Parliament raised it… TO 14,” explaining to his girlfriend’s parents, “we are NOT breaking the law.”

“You are OLDER than her,” his girlfriend’s father screams into Luke’s face, the girlfriend’s mother soldier-stiff, standing nearby.

“Wait,” Luke says, looking at the parents, “how old were you two, yeahhhhhhhh, when you met, hmmmm… how old were you both when you started,” being careful with his words, “fornicating, huh,” wolf eyes narrowing, spotting some prey, the mother’s back straight, waiting near a curtain inside a hot brown shadow, waiting for her moment to pounce.

Lukes eyes laser grey, “I am, it is true, older than your daughter,” he says, “BY TWO MONTHS YOU FUCKING IDIOTS,” eyes sharp-dog diamond, “in fact, a man of ANY age can have sex with a 14 year old girl, LEGALLY, that’s the law across,” his arms spreading out, “across the whole of fucking Kanada, yeahhhhh,” shaking with frustration, “and you are both hammering me, because I’m TWO MONTHS older than your daughter, WHAT. THE. FUCKKK.”

“Swearing is ungodly,” dust from curtains flap, the mothers back straighter than straight, “you aren’t married, so you, and my,” teeth clenching, “daughter, are disgusting pigs, SWINE that will burrrrnn in the eyes oh-the-LORD,” adjusting her face by tilting thin rimmed glasses to a smaller perspective, “you both need Jesus.”

Focussing, determined to force his eyes into some maturity, “Owwww, you’re a dumb cunt,” Luke replies, shoulders dropping, happy to forget the idea of maturity, “and so are you,” he says, pointing sharply at the shocked-into-silence father. 

Luke’s girlfriend laughs, “Can’t argue with stupid, huh mum and dad, Jesus this, Jesus that, Jesus Jesus Jesus… urghhhh.”

Luke smiles after looking at her shiny teeth and turns to her parents, “The only help I need from Jesus… is for him to return to the Earth,” putting a hand on a cool hip, “and design a fucking toilet that flushes condoms… PROPERLY.”

SouthernC – BrisVegas – A Hot Airport

A long journey completes, walking down the stairs from the plane and standing on hot tarmac, Luke manages to lift the corners of his mouth for the first time in months, “How much further away can my father possibly send me,” he asks the sunny air while walking towards the airport terminal, “probably not much further at all, yeahhh… Antarctica perhaps,” shrugging, smokey-grey eyes churn, “no, I don’t have any distant relatives there,” sunshine resting on his young shoulders, “I hope.”

1984 – Ignorance is Bliss

A relaxed, lazy day deep inside turmoil. On a gloriously wide veranda, stretched out on a sun-warm daybed, blue eyes finish reading the last line of George Orwell’s appropriately titled book, “FUCK ME,” his words drop, blue eyes stunned from the last sentence of the story, “does bullshit always win in this world,” his eyes scream.

“Big Brother IS an asshole,” he says to the suddenly quiet, still screaming book, hoping that closing its cover shuts down the power, grimacing, placing it down an arms-length away on the bed, repeating, “Big Brother is an asshole, right,” confused yes looking for an answer.

1985 –  Blue Eyes

A page of blank paper in a stunningly quiet electric typewriter.

Hungry, naive blue eyes are trying to feed themselves by sucking information from a brain that’s unable to funnel a speck of warmth to his not-typing fingers.

“Damn, this is going to be harder than I thought,” he sighs, “I can’t type a word, not one word,” rubbing his chin with hollow fingers, “I’ve forgotten something,” holding his fingers up and around, studying them, “they are so empty.”

The bedroom feeling tighter, smaller, “I want to write, I’m desperate to write, I’ve got nothing to write about, that’s the problem… I’m 17,” spreading his hands over the typewriter, eyes warming, “I want this, it feels like a… a mission,” the word ‘mission’ confusing his face but tingling his fingers.

Leaning away from the typewriter, reaching for the power cord and yanking it out. Walking quickly down the street to a second-hand store, selling the typewriter and walking away, “I need to experience life,” he boldly declares with wet lips to nobody at a seedy bar, the typewriter money quickly dissolving into bubbles of crispy beer.

1987 – Brick Wall Police

Her 15 year old cheek pushed into the plain thick-brick wall of the police station, nnnneck bending.

“Just be quiet and FUCK, just… let… me… FUCK IT,” the policeman says, “you’re a cheap, dog whore,” she hears him spit words and saliva onto her back from behind, “dumb,” hearing his words, “slut, teen, WHORE,” breathing on her back, “OPEN THE FUCKING THING UP, QUEENIE, look at the state you’re in.”

‘No,’ she tried to say, a crack in her voice from a badly bent neck, “nnnnhhh.”

“Ahhhhhhh, do you want your stepsister to get busted for possession of weed huh,” the policeman’s sharp-breath words scrape over the skin of her back, “I’ll FUCK HER TOO,” well, he chuckles, “fuck her AGAIN.”

Pushing her hips back, “Tina, my stepsister,” she pleads, “she’s 14,” dry words sliding down the brick wall in front of her mouth, trying harder to push herself away from the bricks with neck muscles, “Ouch, OUCH, HEY, why are you the only… pig, upstairs, here, now, anyway,” coughed out words hit the uncaring wall, the darkness of the only window in the room frightening.

“Because I AM A DETECTIVE… you  dumb, whore, dumb cunt,” feeling hot air on her back again and the pain of the rough, grating wall.

“Upstairs is for detectives,” he says with the authority of a king, “anyway, the dumb-shits downstairs, they won’t help you, 14, 15. WHATEVER-TEEN is legal for me, SO OPEN IT UP CUNT,” mouth air belting the back of her head, “OPEN IT, and I won’t bust your stepsister for POSSESSION OF AN ILLEGAL SUBSTANCE.”

Tired from fighting the dryness of the brick wall on her ruddy cheek, energy low, anus raped.

Weeks Later – Smoke

Bright sunlight smashing, smiling through the enormous tree. Thousands of leaves throw endless shadows, tiny rays splashing to the ground through the green, broad branches reaching out for peace.

Blue eyes stare through the shimmer at a car parked under the tree.

Four open windows billowing smoke, cigarette smoke pours from the car’s windows up and into the tree, ballerina mixing leaf and light. 

Blue eyes adjusting to the shadows, focusing on the strange balance of light, shadow and fumes. Three police officers sit in the police car smoking cigarettes, rapidly sucked and exhaled, each outward breath full of angry power.

‘Look at that,’ he thinks while peering at the car, “arrogance in every movement, every breath,” muttering words bending and bouncing, “light polluted by human exhaust,” he smirks under the camouflage of shadow. Feeling more confident, walking a little closer to the police car, “Their arrogance, the bullshit superiority, the SMOKE, it would make such a fantastic photo,” wishing he had the courage to say something to them, “I’m only 19,” he laments.

Noticing him, the police officer’s suck smoke deeper, blowing it out harder,  scowling smoke swirling-mixing inside leafy shadows, rising, twirling to the top of the tree.

Blue eyes look down, a hand rustles around the inside of his empty pocket, “Everyone is so sick of your corruption, look at you, so evil,” he growls, “why are you allowed to smoke inside of a police car,” his head shaking, walking away slowly, suffering deeply from ‘no-camera’ regret.

Noosa – Those Were the Days

Warm air over their skin, cheap Japanese racing bikes under their young hips, a group of teenagers race their way down the old and steep, badly bendy highway, tall trees on either side a blur, wheels ripping along the bitumen spin leaves into circles flying up and into the air.

Boyfriends hang on tight, some of the girls control the bikes, no drivers licence, no care, tattoos on exposed arms, sweet organic weed in their pockets, couples going as fast as possible to a cove just north of Alexandria Bay, their secret hideaway beach.

A long walk through the national park, arriving at a tiny, secluded beach, sunshiny, blinding privacy light bounces off waves, cliffs and faces. A dome of sanctuary for the group of quickly naked teenagers. Boys and girls, futures on faces, light wind, hair sticking to cheeks, warm sand heating smooth skin, thrilled to be sitting far, far away from… everything. Shimmering, feeling free, a dome of light.

Lids pop off cheap West Coast Cooler longnecks, and cheaper beers, joints are rolled, waves wash in and out, teens talk, and talk, in time, conversation deepens.

“Are we playing the victim card,” a girl with four tattoos across her shoulders asks.

“Not nnnnow,” Tina replies, “but, we… will, we will need to move on from our… trauma, eventually, I guess.”

“Wait wait wait,” Tina says, jumping to stand nude in front of the group, pointing both hands between her legs, “I need to make this clear,” determined to explain, “this is MY 14 year old pussy, and nobody decides who I fuck,” they all listen, attentive, happy to hear her feelings, “it’s my pussy, and only I decide,” her robust voice commands, “a policeman, a pig, he fucked me, and my stepsister, using the same threat… so THIS,” pointing between her legs again with resilient hands, “IS, ALL, MINE… I have no real parents, my stepsister and I run the whole family, can’t I have some fun,” her eyes beg, “my mother bathes herself in cheap-ass wine every day,” exasperated body language floods the group’s dropping eyes, sadness and anger clouding their young minds.

In that noisy-but-silent aura of a beach, waves slowly smooth the mood, sunbeams float, waves slide towards them melting without fuss into the sand.

“I think the legal age here is 16, with no age restriction after that,” one of the boys says, continuing a discussion that started before they became slightly drunk and stoned.

“No way,” Tina replies, brain in overdrive, “that would mean a 16 year old and a, say, a seventy year old is legal, but this group, all teenagers, aren’t legal… don’t be stupid,” hurt, curious eyes look towards her for guidance, “hey, hey,” Tina continues, grabbing a fresh beer, “I know how DANGEROUS 14 year old’s can be, I’M ONE OF THEM,” the group laughs, “anyway, the law stinks more than my butt,” the group laugh harder, “I don’t want there to be an orgy of everybody fucking 14 year old’s, of course,” sipping her beer, “at the same time, I MUST be seen as a person who has ACHIEVED PUBERTY… DUH, I’m a sexual, human being, c’mon, it’s hard to argue with my tits,” she smiles, hopping on the sand to jiggle her breasts, causing a lot more laughter. An enormous gulp of beer soothes her throat, “Anyway, most of our parents got together when they were our ages, or younger,” another gulp, “ahhh why is the world trying so hard to make everyone, ummm, endlessly be a child,” her arms outstretched to explain the size of the problem.

Nobody speaks, interested faces want her to continue, “Sure, if a male is, say, twenty, and he has sex with, ummm,” another sip of beer, “a 10 year old girl, then fuck him, go to jail, fucker,” faces all in agreement, “a 14 year old, with blossoming, juicy jugs, like mine, and hormones out of control, is not playing with dolls,” her face asks, “maybe I’m wrong… we are surrounded by ‘wrong’ everywhere we go,” Tina continues, “my stepsister and I do all of the cooking and cleaning at home, and we look after our younger brothers and sisters because ‘mother’ is drunk and wasted on the sofa by midday or

“Much earlier,” another girl interupts.

Tina nods with wry agreement, another sip of beer from her overly busy beer hand, “There is no way that this group, here, on the beach, is going to, umm, upset the Universe,” burping badly, looking at her beer and wondering why it’s so frothy, arms continue to move around excitedly, “the world has to get a grip,” she smiles towards Luke, his mouth opens.

“Whoaaaa, I’m not finished babe,” her beer hand points demanding attention, “I don’t care about silly laws, it’s more, ummm, correct, that I am on this beach with Luke,” she burps again, “than a 16 year old getting fucked by a seventy year old, which, as you say,” casually pointing to one of the group, “is legal… nahhhh, the law couldn’t be that dumb.”

“It is,” the boy replies, “I think… so.”

Tina taps the bottom of her beer bottle between her legs, “Thissss sweet muffin is ready for sex. S. E. X. If anyone thinks it isn’t, then someone, or some people, or some culture has got reality very, very confused. If one of these pop-tarts gets juicy, and can bleed, then it’s attracting males, duh,” her eyes dictate to the group, “the world really should stop pretending that we are all ‘sweetie pie pristine’ and ‘oh-so-pwwwwecious,'” eyes rolling, “because really, we’re not,” taking a breath, “I’m human, I pee, I shit, I’m ripe as fuck,” burping again, downing more refreshing beer, the group giggle, smile and chill.

Luke’s charred and ashen eyes only shine properly when he is looking at Tina, “Yeahhh, something is wrong, with everything, nothing much makes sense.”

“BUUURRRP,” Tina shakes her head in disbelief at the amount of belly gas she has, “culture is bullshit… we are getting more and more, what, scared to death of each other,” shrugging, “complete madness is drifting in like a storm, we need

“You need another drink,” one of the older girls hands her a cold beer, soft ocean waves gladly glide, the smell of salt soothing.

In her own time, still pondering, Tina sits down, wiggling her butt into warm sand, looking towards Luke, watching him stand tall before them.

Ablaze in dark hair, Luke, sturdy, naked, stoned. Light filled busy-ash-eyes scalded by the past gently peruse the group, “When my family priest fucked me in the ass the first time,” radiant light chasing emotions crossing his face, “I thought I was special,” the lack of fear in his Teksas-tone capturing everyone, a beam and a broken dream buried in eyes and air.

“This place,” palms opening to the blue sky, “this beach, beautiful,” his jet-black nipples darken, eyes glowing grey with determination, confused coal, wet pupils, throat tightening, “I thought I’d feel,” his brow busy, searching for the correct word, “cleaner, here on the beach, yeahhhh, cleaner,” sucking his joint, turning, admiring cliffs behind the beach of their private escape, “a beach,  a big breath of wind wide,” turning back to the group, “cliffs behind, only the ocean ahead, yeahhhhh, all these days, all the time we’ve all spent here, I thought I would feel much, much… cleaner.”

The group shows concern, the frown on Luke’s brow touching hearts. Noticing their worry, “I’m so stoned, SO scattered,” Luke laughs, “this green is goooo ooooo oooood,” laughing more, teeth glowing.

“We’re all scattered,” a boy laughs, his arm tattoo black and shiny.

“This green IS superb,” a girl smiles, passing a joint to the boy beside her.

Slowly breathing out, Luke continues, “It always makes me… tense,” teeth grit, words flow around his exhaled ganja smoke, “at twenty years of age, over in Greater Washington, people can’t have a beer, but at 18, yeahhhhh, they can be thrown into the Army and go to warrrr, and get shot in the head, to defend the idiots who make these crazy,” threading his next word tightly between his teeth, “lawwws,” his Teksas typhoon drawl adding iron to words. Sudden sips of drinks from everyone provide punctuation, the smell of sunscreen slides with soft ocean noise.

“Yeahhhhh, here, we drink, mostly, hahaha, illegally, we smoke ganja, illegally, couples kiss in the shadows,” he winks.

“14 IS legal for fucking,” a girl yells, “that’s why the police do nothing in the nightclubs, they are FULL of under-agers, 14 an-up,” Luke nods in agreement, “mosta the young Cops fuck the young girls, fer-fucks-sakes.

“I know we can’t drink at my age, 16, I am,” a girl offers, laughing, colourful bracelets slide down her arm while her elbow bends to drink, “why is it, that we can vote at 18,” she asks seriously, “when full adulthood is twenty-one, yes,” her question lost in a cloud of confusion.

“21 means nothing,” a girl offers.

“This shit,” another girl smiles, blowing out smoke, “this shits, definitely, don’t, legal,” laughter cascades the group. Blushing at her English errors, quickly deciding that another suck on her joint will fix things, just fine.

Tina tilts her head, shrugging, “Who cares, we were all, all of us in this group, we were all, ALL WELL UNDER 14, when someone stuck a cock in us that we didn’t want

“OR an unwanted female finger,” a girl interrupts.

A boy with blue eyes opens his mouth, and shuts it.

“And it keeps on happening,” a boy quickly adds to the conversation.

“We can do whatever we want here,” Tina says, “they screwed us, we can drink and smoke, here, in peace.”

“Yep,” a girl’s lips laced with cold fire matching the whites of her eyes, “fuck you adults… you have atomic weapons pointed at each other, you have NO authority,” raising her West Coast Cooler, pushing her bare breasts and nipples to the sunlight, “adults screwed up, THEY PUT US HERE,” pointing to the sand.

“How do we fix this, how do we get better laws,” Luke asks, grabbing another beer.

The youngest boy, cheeks puffing, “Change the voting age,” all faces turn, “change the law, so that you CAN’T vote, if you’re OVER 18,” the group laughs hysterically.

“I’m 19, a friend is 15,” a seriously relaxed and usually-quiet girl takes a large gulp of cooler, “she gets fucked by her father, and runs away from home. I take her to safety,” another gulp, “what do the pigs do… they arrest me for kidnapping,” another gulp, “these corrupt cops, what a bunch of cunts,” the girl spits, “FUCKKKK, one of the local Magistrates round-here, he likes, REALLY likes, LITTLE boys, boys way BELOW puberty,” trying to chill with a toke on a joint, “what do you all call him again,” she asks.

“”Judge Sadcunt,”” they chime in, she starts to cry, hands of comfort, words of support flow from the group, gleaming and gliding under their dome of light.

“Relax,” the boy with blue eyes says, “everyone here who has a car has been arrested for kidnapping, or threatened with it, nobody has ever been convicted though, so, there’s that,” managing a wry smile.

Luke’s eyes pop turbulent clouds of damage, “Young girls and boys jump out of windows, running away from something, every weekend, and nobody listens to them. This, damnnn, corruption.”

“We have to chill, somehow,” the boy with blue, naive eyes offers, “Sir Terry Lewis, he will be thrown in jail, one day,” eyes hope.

“Who’s that, ahhhh, wait, I know, nope, sorry, I forgot,” a girl’s voice asks, laughing, “OH, OH, now I remember, Terry Lewis is the Police Commissioner of this state, Queensland.”

Luke laughs, “The TOP COP, Sirrrrrrrrr Terry-Lick-My-Balls-Lewis, corrupt as hell,” touching his chest, “you know, yeahhhh, his ‘vibe’ is what makes so many pigs hassle us, and ignore us, deny us representation,” coal burning bright, “they say things like, ‘no lawyer for you shitbag, you can’t afford one,’ and all that.”

“We report what adults did, TO US, and we get screwed,” a boy shakes his head,” many eyes roll in frustration, “and we are children, all under 21.”

“Is 18, or 21, a reals, for reals-adult,” someone asks randomly.

“WHAAAT,” Tina yells, jamming the base of her drink into the sand, pointing between her legs, “I AM NOT A CHILD,” taking a breath, “I know, I know, 14 is very, very young,” face beaming with questions and quandary, “AGAIN, I’m not a child,” hands grabbing her breasts, “I MENSTRUATE, I MASTURBATE, I’M HORNY AS FUCK,” the boys quickly start drawing shy-sand-doodles with their eyes, but deciding to laugh is easier.

Luke smiles, “Tina, you are, technically, a child, and

“So why do you fuck me,” hands still grasping her breasts.

Luke’s shoulders drop ahhhhhhhh, “Beeeecausssse, you menstruate, you masturbate, and you’re horny as FUCK,” everyone laughs, “still, you’re not an adult.”

Rolling her head to one side, “Ok then… Luke,” Tina’s smile widening, “then why did God give me these tits, huh,” holding them tighter, “as if these puppies aren’t going to attract attention,” laughter mixed with agreement flows from the group.

“Ok, maybe you are right,” Luke remembers her painful past, sending a quick smile, healing and lasting warm air flowing over everyone’s skin.

“They say that people our age,” Tina’s tone changing, “that our brains aren’t fully, umm, biologically formed yet, that our brains have not developed properly… ahem, I disagree. In my experience, people seem to grow until they are about twenty five, or so, and then they go downhill, plastered with nicotine and alcohol and stupidity and baggage, fucking baggage, and fuck knows what else. Sooooo, who can tell me that I’m wrong about… anything,” smiling confidently.

“You’re drinking alcohol right now,” one of the girls laughs.

“Oh shit… dammit,” Tina laughs.

“My father beats my mother,” a boy who rarely speaks, sighs, “and they’re both in their ummmm, 40’s,” his voice calm from being under the dome of light, “the law is no help, and age has nothing, or not much to do with maturity… wew, I’m stoned, thinking too much, hahaha.”

“Nah,” Luke says, “thanks for sharing yeahhh,” smiling at him, “enjoy your beer,” his face achingly soft, a girl puts her arm around the shy boy for much needed comfort.

Tide rising, a wave almost reaching the group, “Ahhhhhh,” the smartest boy in the group has been arranging papers in front of him, waiting patiently for his time to talk, adjusting his glasses, “Dammit, I forget what I was going to say. Give me a minute, okay.”

Laughter all around.

Luke’s brain and brawn look over his friends, “The law isn’t working… simple as that, hey, in Kanada, yeahhhhhh, which is, ahhh, the first place my father tried to ‘hide’ me, wayyy over there, a person must be 14 to fuck, the same as SouthernC. But if a priest screws me, and I’m about, 10-ish, well, yeahhhhh, that’s all A-OH-KAY,” sunshine tries to fill his eyes by mixing with the ashes and layers of dirt, “still, I think it’s funny that after Kanada failed to shut me up, ‘Dad’ had to send me all of the way here, rrrright across the Pacific Ocean.”

“I thought the boom-boom age was 16 here,” a girl asks.

“Nah, same as Kanada, 14,” Luke says softly.

The boy with blue eyes passes a joint, “I have an idea, just make the legal age 18 for everything, worldwide, simplify it.”

Tina faces him, “Ahhhhhhhhh, what about, if an 18 year old and a 17 year old, they go and do the wild-thang huh,” her face softening, “putting everyone who’s under the age of 18 into ONE group is, madness, madness, MADNESS. That’s one thing I’m sure about, under 18’s ARE NOT ONE GROUP.”

“It’s 13 in Nippon, the national, federal-istic age for legal sex,” the smart boy adds randomly, still shuffling papers, “we live in a strangely complex world,” he says quickly, desperate to beat the incoming tide, “I’ve researched all of this, due to our,” looking around, “various family and legal situations.”

“Go on, yeahhhhh,” Luke offers, “the beach is all yours.”

“Ok,” the smart boy says, happy to get the attention, adjusting his glasses, getting them just right, “now, there has to be a limit, an age of sexual consent, because… we don’t need, say, 70 year olds cruising this beach looking for 10 year old’s, as an obvious example, yes,” receiving nods from everyone, and continuing “unfortunately, from my research, the law here, it doesn’t make sense, it currently allows a person of ANY age, 16 and up, to have sex with a person of ANY age, if they are also, 16 and up, completely legally.”

“16 or 14,” a girl asks.

“Wait,” one of the youngest girls says, “I don’t mind older people being on a beach, nude, nudists are cool, casual like, I just don’t wanna have sex with them, nude beaches are not about sex,” all heads nod.

“All in agreement, yes, which is good, cause-we-are-all-nude hahahaha,” the smart boy’s glasses need adjusting again, “ok, listen, I have much crazier information,” shuffling papers, “until the year 1750, or there-abouts, childhood simply didn’t exist,” his cheeks dimple, “children were just ‘little adults,’ living in a mostly agricultural world, working in the fields with their parents. When the ‘young ones’ fancied each other, they canoodled, just like adults, or WITH adults.”

“Oh, mannn, you’re killing me,” Luke laughs, “the word ‘canoodling’ is hilarious,” the group laughs, enjoying the occasional touch of water from the rising tide.

“Yes, yes,” the smart boy replies, “a funny word, but don’t forget the serious topic.”

“Well, well, well,” Luke finishes another beer with a large gulp, scratching his chin with one finger, “so, until ‘reasonably’ recently, all things considered, yeahhh, a man or woman could have sex with a child, who is obviously not ripe, before puberty, and that was, somehow, acceptable,” taking a careful breath, “but if two adult men, or women, were gay, back then, they would have been bashed for having sex, or, perhaps, killed, because of ‘the church… Urghhh religion and its bitch, the law, are fucked.”

Tina laughs loudly, “Religion’s bitch…”

The smart boy folds his papers, “My research, all from books, older library books, I can assure you, the Constitution of this land, SouthernC, states quite clearly, that adulthood, the age of majority, it arrives at 21, so the troubles we have all endured, are a turmoil of lies and mis-information.”

“Well,” Tina says quietly, “the current laws aren’t stopping people from being hurt,” soft lips shine, eyes glow with hope looking up at Luke’s eyes, malevolently mixing ash and cloud.

Remembering his past, Luke’s face reflects, “I do remember one thing, a GOOD thing my priest said,

“When his cock wasn’t in your ass, or, ” Tina interrupts with a smile.

“Gosh,” Luke laughs,” squeezing his brow with some fingers, always confused and tickled by Tina’s dark-humour.

The boys and girls faces tilt, this is the first time Luke has ever mentioned something good about his priest, “He said to me,” Luke drawls, “‘God helps those who help themselves,’ and my priest said it to me, often,” taking a long breath, “I still don’t know what it means.” His face stretched in thoughts, the slosh at the end of a wave reaching his feet, “I know what we need,” spirit bouncing, “it’s time for a group hug.” 

Drinks finish fast, joints are put out, rubbish goes into the biggest knapsack.

Organised, sitting in a circle, sparkling with youth, arms wrapped shoulder to shoulder, Luke’s mouth tries to form the correct, final words of today’s talk,  “I don’t know what to say,” lungs full of light.

“Luke… I do,” the smart boy drops his arms and picks up his most precious book of private notes from the sand, flicking through pages, smiling, “Here it is.” Eyes focus from behind thick lenses, “Being abused, being USED as a toy, as a ‘thing,’ it stunts your growth,” sucking in a huge lungful of air, “a tree, a plant, any living-thing, it needs water and sunshine and nutrients,” pages of his precious book flutter, “to thrive and grow, a soul, which is also a living thing, a soul needs, a soul needs one extra special thing, a soul needs,” he looks up,

Blue and red lights sweep from above the cliffs, bouncing down to the beach, pushing away their dome of sanctuary. Blue rays sweeping right over their young faces, red rays sweeping left over their young faces. Shadows fall, sand hardens to cement under their bare bottoms, the ocean flattens to grey, just another brick in the wall.

“Pigs found us,” Tina’s teeth grit.

From a blur, from shadows, a policeman walks toward them, “You’re all coming with me, whores and assholes, all naked eh,” shaking his head, walking closer, “how can you all be so, DIRTY, and disgusting,” his face, his emotions stony and wrapped in tinfoil.

The terrified group’s eyes all need a voice, “I will talk for all of us, yes, yes, yes… I’m the youngest,” says Tina, “but rrreally, I’m older than all of you,” her experience wrapped in a small-but-strong voice, creases looking unfair on her face, “I know how to handle this.”

Luke nods slowly, Tina walks and stands before the policeman.

“FUCKING PIG,” she says.

Luke grins.

“I’ve got a message for evil pricks like you,” Tina continues, “to the bad parents and others,” pointing with her eyes, “don’t treat people like shit, and then they won’t end up like us,” fire and glass burning, “it’s that easy,” eyes narrowing more, “is that simple enough… for your PIG brain to understand,” asking him, unafraid of her nudity, hands raise to hips, “I’m not ashamed of my body. I’m not shy. I’m not

“Filthy assholes, children with no idea about anything,” the policeman mutters, itching his crotch.

“The nightclubs and bars are full of underage girls and boys,” the smart boy complains, “why don’t you stop that, and leave us on the beach alo

“Shut-up, you random-idea little cunt,” the policeman replies, smiling, remembering how much he and his workmates enjoy the nightclubs, “pig huh,” the policeman deflects, “calling me a pig again, hey Tina… ok, there will be NO lawyers allowed, just like always,” his smile growing.

Tall-ish for her age, Tina grows another inch, or two, “Then how about… I KILL YOU, for raping me and my stepsister, and I walk away completely free, because, as you say… I’m a child.”

The terrified group looks on, the policeman’s chest puffs, an unsettling grin widens, “In SouthernC, the age of criminal responsibility, is… drum roll please HAHAHAHAHAAA,  TEN years of age,” staring at Tina, “dumb bitch, you can be tried-in-court as an adult, and jailed, for murder,” he laughs, looking at the smart boy, “random-cunt, info for ya, the United Nations,” laughing more, “they want the criminal age of responsibility raised to 14,” laughing harder, “the government here, in SouthernC, they refuse to raise it,” his uncanny grin growing impossibly wide, “Tina, you’re just jailbait, a jailbait whore, and nothin-more.”

Tina’s knife sharp mouth, “WHAT… wait wait wait, if I kill someone, I can be tried, in Court, as an ADULT,” speaking confidently, licking her lips, tasting victory, “I can be held TOTALLY responsible for a KNIFE in my hand, but not my, and,” looking around at the group, “I think we all know where this is going, I’M NOT ALLOWED TO BE LEGALLY IN CONTROL OF MY OWN PUSSY,” growling, “when did fucking lawyers become the rulers of morals, huh, lawyers are the rulers of lies, and pigs are their… snout.”

The lack of emotion in the policeman’s face stuns Tina, “I don’t care,” he responds, “now, let me see,” calculating the situation, “how many charges can I lay on you all today, let’s see, kidnapping, again, for the older boys and girls,” he chortles, “again… some drug possession no doubt, underage drinking, sex offences, oh the list goes on,” a delighted huff, “some of you won’t be teenagers soon,” sniggering, “you’re soft… you should be all off… hmmm,  fighting WARS.”

Tina glances at Luke, “Those ‘men’ in wars, 18, 19 or 20 years old,” she says, “they often cry out for their mothers when they’re dying.”

Bewildered, the policeman shrugs, face twisting with unintelligible pride, “In some countries, people fight wars as young as 14,” looking straight at Tina.

Tina smiles, this time she’s sure of victory , “Can THEY legally have a beer and a GOOD FUCK after a day’s fighting,” her eyes glare.

The policeman’s eyes burn red while raising a fist to punch her. Luke jumps, standing, unabashed, moving between Tina and the policeman. Staring at his raised fist, feeling the group’s eyes on his back, taking a few seconds to think, “Our smartest friend,” Luke says, “please finish your sentence, tell us, tell us all, what do souls need to grow, a soul needs and extra special, what, yeahhh,” his voice slow and strong.

Police lights spinning red and blue, dimming more and more to a single spotlight on the smart boy’s bright and freckled face, “Respect.”

Months later – White Cotton and Pretty Flowers

Hands holding the sides of her short skirt, Tina smiles in the sun, “That’s him, over there, the judge, the pervert, the magistrate who loves little, LITTLE boys,” she giggles, swinging gently to the left, gently to the right, feet close together, wearing white sandshoes with bleached white socks, shimmering sweeter than sugar, “there he goes into the courthouse, to show US how we should behave,” she smiles, “wait-wait-wait ohhhh goody, some older policeman are walking out of the courthouse, aaaaand,” she waits to see which direction they walk, “towards the police station next door, GREAT, they’re wearing very dark sunglasses… mmm, mmmm, and are obviously staring at me, mmmm, hoping to take a peek at my pretty-pussy-perhaps,” the hands on her skirt ruffle, threatening to provide a peak of something barely hidden behind thin material, “they’re ya go boys,” she flashes them a split-second of dark hair under sly cotton, “rrrroll up rrrrroll up I’ve got the grrrrreatest show in town,” the policemen keep on staring behind their dark lenses, their tiny face muscle twitching tell an interesting story.

“Gosh, this is just perfect bullshit. Bizarre but interesting,” the man with blue eyes standing beside Tina smiles.

“Ahhhh, yeahhhhh,” Luke says, “Tina, you might be enjoying yourself wayyyyy too much.”

She smiles with a straight back, confident in the light.

“Hey,” Tina says with fake concern, “I’m a 14 year old, deliberately flashing my white cotton panties, with police peeking, courthouse officers with dark glasses pretending not to notice me, masons standing in front of their gaybox over the road paying me a LOT of attention,” an ‘acting-innocent’ finger rests on her bottom lip, “maybe they just want to look at the  pretty flowers on my dress, orrrrr, my summer-top barely covering my sweet… perfect… titties.”

Luke and blue eyes can’t hold their laughter any longer.

“Hello there,” a young and polite policeman has walked up behind Luke without them noticing, “what are you young people doing here today,” he asks innocently, “today is district court, there is no way the three of you have anything to do with this,” he asks genuinely concerned. 

“Why do you want to know, may I ask,” says Luke. 

“Ohhhhh,” the achingly young policeman offers his hands, palms up to the group as a friendly gesture, “I mentor young people… I help guide them through any difficulties, any difficulties at all, anything,” he smiles.

“Well…” Tina replies smiling past infinity, “we are part of the group of teenagers who have been charged with underage drinking and underage fucking and drug use and kidnapping,” the sweetness in her voice so hilarious the sun shines harder, “and we’ve been told that we are not allowed to know the law, and not allowed to have a lawyer,” Tina adds with a smile tsunami.

“Ohhh, not true, it is a fundamental right of everyone who lives in a democracy to have easy access to the laws that they live under, and have access to a lawyer,” the policeman replies confidently.

The hand of another, much older policeman grabs the young policeman’s arm, forcefully dragging him, “Don’t talk to this scum,” the older policeman scowls.

“Ohhhh. Ohh. Oh,” the young policeman stammers, looking at the teenagers, “I hope it all goes well I must be running I’m very busy so good luck with that and okay bye bye now,” his twisting body abandoning the conversation.

Luke and Tina and blue eyes smile in the sun with a shrug.

1989 – Three Little Pigs

Walking past the Freemasons lodge, blue eyes more sparkly than usual, “We’re lucky… we can never go inside that building,” eyes twinkling, “and Luke, why do they always paint the windows so that nobody can see inside, or not have windows at all,” cheekily asking, “nothing weird about that, huh.”

“Well…” Luke drawls, “there’s a reason Tina calls it a gaybox.”

Walking past the police station, “And we’re lucky we didn’t get our asses raped in that clusterfuck.”

Luke nods silently with tight shoulders.

Walking past the courthouse, “We’re lucky to have escaped that lie-fest without our lives ruined, yeahhhh,” Luke says to his blue-eyed friend, “who are these old,” Luke snaps, head shaking, “British assholes with their weird wigs dispensing, ahem, justice, here,” pointing to the ground, “in SouthernC, WHICH IS HALFWAY AROUND THE WORLD,” yelling, laughing, furious mixed emotions flapping in every direction.

“Chill out dude,” his friend laughs back, “there’s been a great victory.”

“Yes, there has, yeahhh,” Luke replies, “Terry Lewis, the TOP-COP, the Police Commissioner… IS IN JAIL, guilty of perjury, corruption, and forgery, and, and, and,

“Having a small penis,” he asks.

“And,” laughing,” the STATE GOVERNMENT was thrown out of office, spectacularly, and dozens and dozens of ‘officials’ suddenly retired or moved overseas.”

“Justice works against corruption, then, yes,” blue eyes dig.

“Hmmmm, yeahhhhh, the Fitzgerald Enquiry, it sure did clean out some rats,” Luke replies, a sombre tone lingering in the last vibration on his tongue, “they got away with too much though, way too much.”

“Luke, let’s be happy, the bar is only 100 meters away, and has… drum roll please… BEER. Let’s grab a drink and join the others, at a hotel hilariously called,”

“At a Hotel hilariously called ‘The Freemasons Hotel’ hahaha, yeahhhh, that is funny.” 

The Old Policeman

The celebration is well underway, with beers, Luke and his blue eyed friend wait their turn to talk to the old policeman, a friend celebrating his retirement. His gentleness is on display around his tired, crumpled eyes, “Why didn’t more public officials go to jail, is that what you want to know boys,” shifting his tired body on the stool at the bar.

“Yes Sir,” Luke asks, “it confuses me.”

“Yes Sir, me too.”

“Well boys, the entire country is dirty, ohhhh it pretends to be an oasis of truth, alas, all bullshit, a sheen of superiority, everything is corrupt in one way or another. Still, fucking Terry Lewis is in jail, the head of the snake has been cut off.”

The boys nod, the innocence in their eyes looking extremely young against the experience sheltering deep inside the creases of the old policeman’s face.

“We feel bad about what happened on the beach, yeahhhh.”

“Ahhhhh your group, all those red blooded SouthernC boys and red-blooded SouthernC girls,  all abused in one way or another,” he smiles, “you all cared for each other… deeply… I don’t know why God sends such strong feelings to such youngsters,” shaking his head, “but he does…” Enjoying his pint, “Don’t feel bad about it,” says the old man, “there was no respect for the law anywhere, especially at the police station and the courthouse and the freemasons lodge and the schools and the nightclubs and the Government and,

Laughing at the ridiculousness of the long list, sipping their beers, looking around respectfully at the other people, brave people celebrating this man’s retirement.

“Now,” the old policeman looks at them seriously, “you lot, you and all your friends,” in a fatherly tone, “riding around on your motorbikes, smoking weed, drinking and playing up, getting arrested, all sentences were suspended, none of you were convicted of anything,” he says, weary water in his eyes, tired from fighting corruption while defending young people. Sipping his beer again with a slightly shaky hand, “Boys, get criminal clearance certificates, and Luke, I know where you are headed, sue the ass of anyone who slanders you, or slanders any of your friends,” he winks.

“We had no respect for the law,” Luke says gently, “because, yeahhh, nobody around us respected the law.”

“Ahhh Luke, Luke, Luke, always thinking too much, Tina as well hey,” the old policeman smiles, “nobody was obeying the law, especially the police,” he says, eyes drooping, fingers twitching with remorse, remembering the times that he failed to protect someone, went home, and sobbed beside his loyal wife. “Boys,” he continues, “everyone who was in court without a lawyer, anyone who appeared in front of a judge, tricked into appearing without representation, it should ALL be invalidated, thrown in the rubbish bin, simple as that, ERASED, especially if you were under the age of twenty one,” his head shaking, “all of it should be wiped, WIPED from existence, you and the girls, all the others, that group, were doing what teenagers have ALWAYS done, fer-christs-sakes,” taking a large gulp of his beer. “If anyone hassles you about ‘teenagers being on the beach,’ don’t be angry, humiliation is a strengthening emotion, the soul grows under pressure, ya-know,” resting his beer, “anyhoo, people who attack others are usually hiding behind their own, sick, perverted thoughts,” he sighs, happy to have spoken and happier that they listened.

Surrounded by the eclectic group of people gathered for his retirement drinks, people wander around the bar, clinking glasses, thanking the old policeman for the risks he took, proud to have known him, wishing him a long and happy retirement. His wife sits at the bar in tears, finally accepting that her husband’s career, the many dark nights wrapped in each other’s terrified arms, was eventually, thankfully, worthwhile.

Moonlight Tree

After nightfall, Luke and his blue eyed friend sit under a tree, “I’m worried about my old group,” Luke says, “some of them were hit by the law, and emotionally damaged, bad-bad-badly.”

His friend ponders the long and complex situation in silence.

“I’ve looked at the law closer,” Luke continues, “10 years of age really IS the age of criminal-responsibility, all across SouthernC, the rest of the world is mostly 14.”

“That’s insane,” he replies.

“Life, so difficult, yeahhhhh, so much misinformation, which is, as we know, dangerous,” sniffing, “ya-know, I have a fire inside me,” the coal in his eyes never cooling.

“Life feels like an eternal fight, for what, really…”

Stretching for some clarity, “Those three building up there,’ Luke points, ‘the three-little-pigs, there is no, ahhhh, growth in those buildings, they operate as, what… offices of immature and pathetic, ahhh, sticks loaded with spiteful punishment, huffing and puffing, with no real effect, or lasting, and positive result.”

His blue eyed friend listens under the dome of the tree, sinking somewhere.

“The punishment the three little pigs deliver, it just doesn’t work, obviously, yeahhh, because bad shit keeps on happening.”

“True,” his friend offers, his mind wandering with moonlight melting, bouncing its way through leaves, sitting on shoulders.

“The three little pigs, they just deliver, the devil, yeahhhh,” Luke asks.

Smirking, feeling heavy, “Who, or what, is the devil,” blue eyes wonder.

1990 – Make A Little Birdhouse…

Looking at her, his blue eyes hollow in cool bedroom haze, the soft light of a BrisVegas winter-weekend afternoon, lawnmowers humming, children playing nearby, a touch of shame dampness drops on both eyes, “I enjoyed the blowjob my skating teacher gave me when I was about… 12 or 13.”

She rolls over, happy that he’s decided to talk about the unopened envelope beside the bed, “I’m a lot older than you, so listen to me,” she says, “now, I am NOT just a friend-with-benefits,” she winks, “I’m 38, and you are.. 23, or

“24.”

“So so young,” she smiles, enjoying their nakedness, “that letter,” she points, “the results from your AIDS test, correct,” her maturity shining, so he stays silent, “ahhhhh your skating teacher did some damage,” she mutters, leaning over him, grabbing the envelope, noticing the medical-watermark, and holding it to her bare breasts, “life is a complex mix of sweet-and-sour, young man, face facts, now, are you ready,” her Fransis accent crisp and clear.

His mouth opens, 

“Nope,” the envelope still firm against her deep caramel Europa and Afrika coloured breasts, “we have talked about this, this situation a thousand times, I am opening this amplop,” the paper begins to rip, “I know what you want to say, it was around the beginning of the AIDS crisis, your skating teacher did not care, he could’ve killed you with AIDS, all he thought about was the pleasure of his cock pressing on your asshole… correct,” she says while pulling the contents out of the envelope.

He nods with agreement.

Carefully, she begins scanning the letter.

“I’ve been worried about… cascading diseases for years and years,” he exclaims, but why did I enjoy it,” asking her, looking very young.

“Beeeeee-cause, HE WAS SUCKING ON YOUR COCK, ya moron,” she says dryly, hands raising to a CLAP “SNAP out of it, now, right now, c’mon, the physical sensation was great, okay, obviously… but you weren’t… mmm… emotionally ready for it, mature enough, I guess,” her eyes dropping back to the letter.

Scared of what she will say, pondering the skating teacher’s lack of respect, his young face blank, eyes flicking with what’s twirling inside his brain.

“It’s all negative,” she smiles, “you have no diseases,” lips moist top and bottom, the letter thrown to the floor, sheets fly, she dives towards him in a blur of hairy armpits and a jungle bush, wrapping him with experienced Europa-Afrika hands and a warm tongue, “move on, in your mind, and,” whispering into his ear, “…in your soul.”

1991 – Dry Graves

Blue eyes glowing with youth, utterly out of place in a dry-wind and dry-grass graveyard. Sapless, lifeless, miserable marble surrounded by too much time to tolerate, he wanders. Studying every gravestone, especially the ones with family grave inscriptions and a story to be told.

“Whole lives, families reduced to names and a dates on marble,” he mumbles, “why do I do this,” asking another well-worn tomb, “I do this every month or so,” trying to enjoy the solitude, “why, year after year after year, I wander around graveyards,” stopping in front of another tomb, “I feel like I’m looking for… someone,” parched cemetery wind blows timeless air through tall and pointless grass, misery mixing with determined delight on his young face.

People call me God, but my real name is Joy, I say to the graveyard, my words barely nudging his ear.

Looking closer at a tombstone, “Eternity,” he whispers.

Bang. The word ‘Eternity’ explodes in bright-white fireworks on a famous bridge in my timeless and everywhere mind. Scribbles of the word ‘Eternity,’ carefully and beautifully handwritten in chalk on cement, beside a lonely hedge, a public chair, a park, randomly here, randomly there. Clouds move rapidly across the sky, drop by drop, raindrops pitter-patter onto the letters e t e r n i t y. A drop of water from the sky splashes onto the letter ‘e,’ the delicate and so desperately impermanent chalk puffs under the damage of a single raindrop. More drops of water, less letter ‘e,’ more, more puffs of chalk are being watered, a whole letter is lost by raindrops, and another letter, and another gone, the word, all the words are erased, the concept remains.

In the graveyard, “I’ve forgotten something,” he mumbles, wandering around in a graveyard by himself.

1992 –  Borneo – A Father’s Lap on a Mother’s Veranda

A narrow dirt street in the middle-centre of everything. Houses made from surprising cement, less surprising wood and dust. Palm trees much higher than houses lean suspiciously over every roof, cooling the air during the golden sheen of very late afternoon sunlight.

This is the street where she lives.

The only noise in the silent street, the persevering jungle leering behind all the houses, invisible, quiet growth, noisily determined to reclaim the street in consummate, powerfully green silence.

Dogs, sores on their skinny bodies, they lick, sleep and lay in the dirt, keeping guard, waiting for something to eventually, finally, finally, one day happen. The mystery of time never fills their eyes, their noses are too busy, too full with the sharp scent of the jungle trying to drown the dust.

One small house, the front, the sides, the veranda, all bursting with colourful flowers, flowers from far, far away, flamboyant colours tamed to live in pots and organised hedges, but not here. Up high, enormous palm trees and other, much more serious trees lean in and over the rusty tin roof.

Not far away, sitting on an old bench, the wood beneath her bottom still warm from the bake of the nearly setting sun slowly stretching rays down her street. Her 5 year old brown legs dangle and sway to an imaginary tune in her little girl’s mind. Mouth opening, words from another tongue flow from her mouth, not a real song, just some words stirring away.

A shadow, a voice interrupts her, spine jolting, “Anda tidak bisa menyanyi, dalam bahasa Ingris,” the grumpy, older boy spits words while walking fast and past the young girl, away from the setting sun, towards a Church planted at the opposite end of the setting sun street.

The girl’s legs stop swinging, “YES, I… can…” the young girl’s forehead tightens, her mind searches for the next word, “SING,” her lips curling, “IN ENGLISH,” she adds, a little late, shallowing sunlight bounces off the dusty street resting on the side of her borneo bold and gold cheek.

The back of the grumpy boy’s hand wipes across his top lip where he’s trying to grow a moustache, the hand clears away the sweat and the thoughts. Having ignored the little girl’s words, walking busily, wondering about whether he should stop at the Church or go down to the river and meet some of his friends. With a grin, he thinks, ‘Under the new cement bridge, my friends will be drinking Arak,’ lips moistening, thinking about drinking the fermented rice.

Gently rolling her thoughts, watching the grumpy boy walk away, the little girl searches again for the tune in her throat. The bench under her bottom has lost its warmth, her legs can’t sway, her mind can’t flow, coldness begins to wrap her from behind, the jungle is always creeping. Head turning, peeking at the weak, final, dusty sunlight barely bouncing off the street, her back wincing from the powerfully green cold freshness from behind, the jungle that’s already laughing off the day’s heavy heat.

Wanting to feel warmth and safety because the words from the grumpy boy have taken some power from her chest, standing, running, jumping over an old rusty bicycle that can just, barely, barely remember being pink. Turning right, running down a steep cement ramp, blessed by unlikely fresh flowers blooming on both sides, she stands on her parent’s plain cement veranda, the front door of the house closed.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” her father whispers, the softest of all whispers from deep palm tree shadows dim at the end of the veranda. Looking closely at his daughter, and always knowing what she wants.

‘Come, come,’ he gestures with his face and a hand. She runs, sits on her father’s lap, her nose wiggling from the smell of her father’s spicy cigarette. Hugging her tightly with one arm, “What, exactly, is wrong,” he asks very slowly, he must also search his mind for the correct English words.

“Saya,

“No, no,” interrupting her gently, “practise your tongue, practise your Ingris, sorry, practise your English.”

Her lips roll, circling, her intelligent eyes do the same, a little annoyed at the extra effort required to think, then speak in another language.

Final strands of street sunlight dream deep into the dust, a daughter’s head, her ear pressed close to her father’s heart. Slowly, he sucks in some spicy smoke, exhaling long and slow, circling in the air, spicy smoke clouds brush away the very last beam of light.

The only smell, the only colour, spice wrapping around the magic of a father and daughter enjoying the power of sitting together.

Listening to her father’s heartbeat, yes, she can feel the imaginary tune again, the song tickles in her throat, but she still can’t find the words, the words from the tongue that her father wants her to practise.

He always knows what she wants.

A patient man waits. 

Word by word, she puts together a sentence in her mind, looking up at him, “I want to sing a song, Papa.”

He smiles.

“Papa, a song about… ummm,” she thinks, her lips curl, “ummmm, mmmm, ummm,” the word she needs to say in English, it has disappeared from her mind, again.

A patient man waits, spicy smoke curls and twirls. 

She decides to mime the lost word. Her father looks on, delighted by her attempt to explain this mystery-word to him with tiny arms.

Watching his daughter’s skin glow bold and gold in the spice, music from somewhere, her hands rising high into the air, fingertips touch, now separating, rising a little more, starting to drop, drawing a circle, slowly, down, closing quickly to meet at the bottom. It wasn’t a circle, it was more beautiful.

Smiling from the comfort of her father’s smoky, safe lap, happy that her hands have made the shape of the word she couldn’t remember.

Her father whispers to her ear, “Ohhhhh, I understand… you want to sing a song about,” feeling his daughter’s head pressing much harder on his chest.

No reply.

Looking down, her arms resting limp on her lap, already fast asleep, a small ear pressed deeply into the beating, middle-centre of his chest.

Married Young – SouthernC

“Are we doing this the wrong way around,” Luke asks Tina.

“Wait-wait-wait, there’s a ‘right’ way to do it, really,” looking up at him, her face beaming.

“Is your knee sore,” he asks.

“Not at all,” she replies, one knee in the sand on a perfect day, the smell of freshness making them giddy, “I’m asking you,” she giggles, “because, and these words are from my heart, because I’m sorry that I seduced you when I was 14 years old… I could have ruined your life.”

“Worth it,” he laughs, “anyway, I thought that situation made ME the pervert, yeahhhh.”

“Hmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmmm, definitely yes, and, interestingly, definitely no, nothing on this planet, nothing could have stopped me from seducing the,” she growls, “bad-boy who moved in next door,” smile growing, “Luke, we were teenagers, and now, my Luke,” eyes intense, “will you be my… pervert-husband,” she asks, bursting into laughter and tears.

“Yes,” Luke answers, “I will be your pervert-husband.”

“Forever,” squeezing his hand.

“Yes, forever and ever,” surf smashing and crashing as I run.

Months Later – Breakfast is Ready

My everywhere-eyes stare down at planet Earth from space, watching the Earth turn, light curving slowly across the planet, over the Pacific ocean, over SouthernC, pushing its way through a bedroom window and into their eyes, a huge black and white photo of their marriage ceremony stuck to the wall above the bed.

Within minutes oranges squeeze, toast pops and eggs sizzle, “Breakfast is ready,” Luke calls out to Tina.

Bare chested, racing in, boobs bouncing, sitting down on the ridiculously small table in their ridiculously tiny kitchen, “I’m starving, I’m poor, and I’m hungry as fuck, I feel like I was dreaming all night,” Tina says as they dive into breakfast, lift newspapers, searching for articles about a subject consuming their lives.

Crunching on toast, Luke continues a conversation from last night, “Yes, Tina, putting everybody under the age of 18 into the same sexual-legal group is madness, total madness.”

“And the complications are so extreme,” gulping juice, laughing, “hey, hey, hey, girls here, in SouthernC, in Queensland, can fuck legally at 16, but they can’t vote until they are 18,” her lips covered in crumbs, “have you ever heard of a girl going to the polling booth to vote on election day,  and walking out pregnant,” crunch.

“HAAAA HAAAA… yeahhh, that’s interesting, which one is more important, more consequential,” teeth slicing through egg on toast, “and, it makes no sense that sex in Kanada is legal at 14, but here in SouthernC a client could get up to twelve years in jail,” crunch crunch crunch, “Kanada and SouthernC, they’re two countries with cultures and values that are very,” his head turns from side-to-side, “VERY similar to each other, but in one country, a person gets jailed, ruined for life, while another person, doing exactly the same thing, in the other country

“ENJOYS A NICE FUCK,” Tina laughs, a happy tongue licking her orange juice moustache.

1995 – Smoking Certificates

Enjoying the soft lawn in the Botanical gardens, smoking weed, their criminal clearance certificates rolled and stuffed with ganja, Luke and his blue eyed friend chill.

“We had no education in school about how to behave,” he continues remembering his days at school, “the only way we learned sex-stuff was, well, yeahhh, in the playground,” his mind still wandering, eyes wolfish, Luke pokes another memory, “there’s an old playground saying, what is it,” sucking on the joint, breathing out smoke.

“”If there’s grass on the wicket, then they’re old enough to play cricket,”” both remembering, coughing and speaking at the same time.

“That was the limit of our high school sex-education,” shaking his head, “that’s ALL we knew… wow, no education about law or morals, or anything, fucking Neanderthal times ended recently, yeahhh.”

Relaxing, meandering thoughts fill the afternoon.

“Blue eyes, my man, you’ll find this interesting, did I tell you why the age of majority, or adulthood, in SouthernC, is 18 now, and not twenty one anymore.”

“Ahhhh nope.”

“It was 21, and was DROPPED to 18, in 1974, partly because the Government realised, and hey, you will get a headache from this,” Luke nods towards his friend, “because the Government had technically been sending children to war, 20 and 19 and 18 year olds, and much, much younger, since 1901.”

Shaking his head, looking at Luke, “Ummm, mate, you sound like you are heading towards ‘crazy-lawyer-speak’ again.”

“Do I,” faking surprise, “ahhh look, just look at these joints… yeahhhh, the pieces of paper, our criminal clearance certificates,” enjoying another suck on his outrageously sparky and highly disorganised blunt, “we escaped the three little pigs reasonably undamaged,” he coughs, looking at the joint with suspicion, “now we’ve got to do something with our lives, help people, help society maybe,” sucking in and blowing out, “do you still want to be a writer,” he asks.

“Luke,” starting to laugh, “why do you think that smoking joints, using certificates as ganja-papers, helps us, or someone else,” his face asks.

“Because it’s hilarious.”

“Hahahaha,” smiling, the weed melting them further, deeper into the green grass field.

“You still want to be a writer,” he repeats.

“Yes,” taking a deep breath, “but there’s complications…”

“Go on.”

“Interesting, complex people, they are always, and I mean ALWAYS slightly messed up, or plain fucking crazy,” blowing out a smallish weed-cloud, “to write about, hmmm, real people, the human condition, I have to hang out with all sorts,” he grimaces, remembering his skating instructor, “or criminals, dangerous types, shitbags even,” lips wetter, “basically, to know about ‘human depth’ I need to hang out with people who are close to the edge, in one way or another, broken people,” a wry smile, a clearer face, “I like trouble, that’s when people are at their most interesting.”

“You want those dumb-blue-eyes of yours to go live in the bottom of the barrel,” Luke’s voice rises.

Laughing, “That’s where interesting shit happens,” staring at the sky, “happy people are great, wonderful, for a while… but I can only eat so much sugar.”

Pondering this, “Is everything a story to you, I think you’re obsessed,” Luke asks.

“I am, because I have a superpower.”

Luke coughs, thumping his chest with a fist for a second, or two, or three.

His friend continues, “Because I have natural blonde hair and blue eyes, everybody thinks I’m dumb as fuck, it’s the perfect disguise. I can walk into many situations and be practically invisible. Oh shit, oh shit, this is so funny, a random memory, Luke, do you remember, years ago, when we were about 19 or so, and I went to Brisbane to finally get some decent legal advice, and I met with a Barrister.”

“Yeahhhh, yeah I remember.”

“That Barrister, I saw him on TV last week, oh the corruption in this country,” he laughs, “that Barrister is in jail for tax evasion, no shit.”

Red faces of frustration and rib-splitting ganja laughs erupt.

A Few Years Later – Grey Goldfish

Outside the old-stone bank, people walk up and down the sidewalk in the business district. Bobbing up, bobbing down, different ages and sizes, everything you can imagine, but all grey.

Inside the big bank, blue eyes droop, etched with thoughts, ‘I’m so bored with looking at you, Mr fat-man and your important, cold, deadwood desk crawling with corruption.’

“This bank makes more money from the interest on your maxed-out, five thousand dollar credit card, than if we transfer that debt to a personal loan,” his violin vocal cords vibrate with rust.

Blue eyes smile, “You deny me a loan, at a lower interest rate, in the SAME week that I receive an offer, from THIS bank, to DOUBLE my credit-card limit.”

“This bank makes more money from

“Does it seem suspicious to you that

“This Bank makes more money from

“Go fuck yourself,” he says, smiling, genuinely warm, “I think I’m a wage slave and your bank is the cunt-king on the hill. I’m never going to pay this bank another cent, and

“I will force you into bankruptcy, and

“DO IT,” smiling comfortably, “I welcome it, because outside this room all I see are people wrapped in… depression, tundra, stress, no smiles. On the sidewalk, blank faces, people drowning in grey, walking up and down the street, grey goldfish in a bowl of grey water, swimming in a circle, desperate for a bit of oxygen, fooled into believing that the circle has an ending.”

“This bank makes

“Shut up, you old, half-dead fart, a lot of people are living high on the… the misery-of-the-masses, people living in wage-slave mmmmisery,” his face tightens, and relaxes from the memory of a line, “only children live, adults just pay the bills,” pointing a finger, “fuck you old cunt.”

2001 – Sandstone Speaks

Eyes flick painfully, the artificial light from above draining the blue from his eyes and brain, ‘I’m starting to think that empirical methodology, science, is the only way to understand the world, it’s driving me crazy,’ he thinks.

Surrounded by old, big block sandstone walls, sitting in the last row of an almost empty lecture theatre, looking at chairs, the lecturer, too many lights through the haze of boredom. A dry throat, drier eyes stare at the sandstone blocks, the sand gone hard, killed, cut up into chunks, machined into perfect, tight walls.

‘Go outside,’ the blocks of perfectly arranged sandstone whisper to him from behind.

Unsurprised, “I’ve been in and out of this University for,” he replies, head drooping, “years and years,” blue eyes basically grey, “I’m a year away from graduation.”

‘You’re here studying a psychology degree,’ walls speak again, ‘a degree where every student is trying to work out what’s wrong with them, mmmmm,’ the stone speaks deeply, ‘there’s only one thing wrong with them, they need to spend more time… outside. Out. Side.’

Trying to focus on the lecturer, failing.

‘You’re a dreamer, a cloud eater, now is your time to RUN,’ sandstone says, ‘go now before it’s too late.’

“I enjoy this place so much, studying in the old library at night is magical,” he argues with the wall.

‘You’re starting to believe nothing is real, unless it’s proven by an experiment, and statistics, worthy tools… but those things are not inside your CHEST,’ a small hiss from sandstone, ‘adventures, ADVENTURES are also a way to understand, and a way to FEEL the universe.’

Taking a deep breath, the light in the lecture theatre impossibly bright, his eyes give up, closing.

In a daze, walking to the middle of The University of Queensland’s magnificent great court, green grass surrounded by sandstone arches, buildings, and cramped colonnades. Above, daylight and escape. Hands reaching, feeling good, looking at impossible sky-sand blowing across the blue.

‘RUN’ echoes in his ears.

LineA – Outside of Time – Taj Mahal

Trying to sing under the smile of the most beautiful building in the world, sitting in her wooden cart, the heat, the humidity, the dirt, the flies, the flies… looking at the donkey, it’s supposed to be pulling her cart. Surrounded by too much traffic, cars, scooters, people, sacred cows, anything, anything, literally anything that can pretend to move along a dirty road all choking the way ahead.

Her father already gone, working the cart by herself, looking at her donkey, disappointed lips open, “The air, I can’t breathe, I can’t believe… if there’s nothing in this world,” she whispers, a dry-drop of music on drier, cracked lips, trying to use the English words, not caring if the words make sense or not.

Trying to suck in a breath of air without flies, the glimmer of the most beautiful building in the world teasing her with its shine and its glamour, her filthy brown face reflecting the grandness of the Taj Mahal, just a speck in the corner of a desperate huge round eye.

Shaking the reins – the donkey won’t move.

2002 – Just a Leg

Old wooden doors, above him a sign saying ‘Welcome to Prawita Cottages – the Hotel with Heart,’ taking a slow step away from the safety of the hotel, the Balinese staff trying to pull him back inside, yelling “Teroris, teroris, bom bom bom,” with wild saucer terrified eyes.

One foot flat on the cold and eerily dark sidewalk, his mouth open, “It looks so different without electricity,” rapidly breathing, “this is Bali… BALI,” gasping, “this shit doesn’t happen here,” the other foot hesitates, his mind spinning from the image of the blast a minute or two ago, “that orange flame, so high in the air,” staring up the empty street, “it’s always so full of life, scooters, cars, beeping, noise, hookers, drunk people partying,” trying to sniff away the uncomfortable sulphur in his nose, walking slowly, flicking his large flashlight on, a bright beam sweeping left and sweeping right, revealing a severed leg on the ground, “just a leg,”

‘Only a leg,’ he thinks.

“Just a leg.”

The blue in his eyes pushed aside by black rolling discs, “A severed leg on the ground,” talking to himself.

“How,” his mind flash-repeating the word how, how, how, “how did this leg travel so far from the explosion,” a terrified throat compressing to a whisper, “it’s a leg, flat on the ground, bent at the knee, looking like, well… like it’s trying to run,” talking to himself, trying to grasp understanding inside this new fear, “a leg, still trying to run, where,” horrified eyes stare.

Looking up the narrow street, a battery in an ATM-booth shines lonely light. Squinting, staring further up the street, a quiet chaos, red and yellow flames, only flames, no sound.

Mind spinning, eyes revealing confusion, ‘My girlfriend and I were just about to leave our hotel room and walk straight past Sari Club, and that blast, and go to WigWam bar further up the street.’ Gulping air, “The people up there, hundreds of them, they must be in shock,” words into darkness, “it’s too quiet,” shining the flashlight up the street, a zigzag beam searching for clues on the ground, there aren’t any clues, ‘ok, there’s no more body parts on the ground within the reach of my flashlight,’ he thinks, trying to work out how this leg, this bent, severed leg travelled so far, ‘how could a gas bottle explosion, or something, make a WHOLE LEG move, so, damn, far,’ he wonders, “legs are heavy,” he speaks, “the staff must be right.”.

Shifting thoughts back to the quiet chaos up the street, “Shit, shit… this is much worse than I thought,” realising that the bandages and other medical supplies he jammed inside his pockets and shirt won’t be enough, pointing the flashlight at the leg, and up the street again, and back to the leg, “That bend in the knee,” thoughts drop from his mind to eyes, regaining some angry colour, “you look like you wanted to get somewhere in a hurry, huh,” leaning in a little, “even in death, you’re still in a rush,” talking to the leg, sniffing fertiliser-air, “I think I know what you did,” scowling, “legs are heavy,” gathering all thoughts, “legs are really heavy,” looking closer, inspecting it, “you were young, and your leg, it looks Asian,” the flashlight bright, his subconscious darkening, “I think I know what you’ve done,” face creasing, standing up fully, walking away quickly towards the quiet chaos to see if he can help, the leg abandoned in the darkness under reluctant stars.

Two Weeks Later – Bali – Kumala Pantai – SouthernC Federal Police

The friendly interview is over. Polite federal police, bomb specialists from SouthernC say goodbye and walk out of the door, back into the Bali heat. Inside the hotel room, closing the door, blue-eyes fade, a hand and a forehead rest on the back of the heavy wood door, “I need a shower,” he says to the floor, “and then I need a drink.”

After a long walk into the night, sitting at Jazz Inn, a bar of bamboo walls and a sandy floor belonging to a Bali that no-longer exists, its walls draped with faded little flags and pictures posted by visitors from all around the world who had scribbled notes on old-fashioned photographs from holidays that ended years or decades ago.

Conversation on a creaky bamboo-bar with a young woman flows easly, chatting and drinking for hours.

“Why did that young man become a terrorist,” he asks her, “and do such a stupid thing… that severed leg of his, on the ground,” his face turning ugly, a deep well churns, “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the stupidity, the sheer STUPIDITY of a young man setting off a bomb, for imaginary… sky-pussy. For fucks sake, dumb.”

“I know… I know,” she raises her beer, sips it, and places it back on the bar carefully, the happy glow of her yellow G-Shock watch seems out of place, hinting of a holiday that died, “it was the worst night of my life,” shaking her head, “every noise, every night, I still think that a terrorist is coming to kill me, and it’s getting worse,” she sighs.

“Ohhh, I feel ya, I get it, that gut wrenching fear… on the bombing night,” wiping away some forehead sweat with a hand, “it started for me when my Balinese girlfriend, she, she just, fazed-out, and needed to be put to bed,” he shrugs, “the hotel staff moved us to another room, with a broken door, the piece of wood to lock it, a sturdy piece of wood that had been snapped in half from a burglary, a crime committed days, or, who knows, years earlier. I stared at it while I waited for my girlfriend to go to sleep, terrified by how quiet Kuta had become, evil was in the air.”

“Why did that broken wood spook you,” her friendly aura shines.

“Umm, because… ummmm, because it was a human, a real person who had broken into that room, sometime… earlier, a thief probably, invading someone’s… ahhh, private space.”

“And,” her head tilts, not understanding.

“The bombing, terrorism in general, for me it’s always been ‘a thing on TV,’ a thing that’s far far far away. Suddenly, it was in the same street, 100 metres away, detonated by a REAL person, who wanted us, DEAD… From the veranda, looking at Sari Club, I saw it go off and up, into the sky.” 

“…yes, that’s it,” emotion forcing her to stretch, arching her spine, “invasion of our safety, a fear that’s going to stay with us… for how long,” trying to relax.

“Until we find a way to beat, the…”

“The devil,” she offers, staring, smiling for the first time in weeks, slapping her thigh, adjusting the veil wrapped around her hair, “it’s my shout, let’s keep drinking,” she orders some beers from morbidly depressed staff, quickly relaxing with the coolness of the bottle placed in her hand, “terima kasih ya.” 

Looking back to the young man, “Mas,” she says, “my friend… I’ve seen you in this bar every night, you have been a part of this group,” she looks around at the people sitting in the sad old bar, “every night, the only people remaining in Kuta meet here. During the day we have watched everyone leave the island, and every night you have been here drinking with the, well, rapidly decreasing numbers of people. It’s strange to think that this has been the ONLY bar open in Kuta…” the sorrow on her face is much too real, “we have been a tight group, chit-chatting, crying, drinking, expressing… everything,” she sips, “but you never talked to me… why,” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“Because of your scarf, because you are a Muslim,” he says.

Taking a deep breath, fussing with her scarf, “This makes me feel connected to my home, to my city, to the city of Yogyakarta… it’s just a simple scarf, it brings me.. much sekuritas, security,” she smiles, “anyway,” she says, holding her beer tighter, “I’m not a very good muslim.”

Blue eyes flicker.

“I saw you, you know, I saw you the morning after the bombing,” she says, surprising him, “listrik was restored, and you were taking money out of an ATM, but you didn’t realise you were in mortalis danger, the shopping centre above you, the large panes of glass were all shattered, and hanging, glass-daggers waiting to drop and cut you into ribbon-ribbons.”

“Shit… really, that was you who yelled out to me, you called out,

“MISTERRR STEP BACK,” she interrupts.

“It was you, yes, it was you.”

“Yahh, it was me…” she smiles, “and, I was confuse by your reaction, very confuse, you didn’t react, you just… looked up.”

“I was fascinated,” gently nodding from the memory,  “looking up through those broken shards of thick glass, the broken windows above me, glass-spears hanging right above me, the glass was fracturing the sun and the sky, creating a kaleidoscope. It was… beautiful.”

She smiles and nods, relaxed and comfortable, both letting a long silence speak a hundred words.

Sipping beers in the quiet hum of the only bar open in Bali, “I apologise,” he whispers.

Weeks Later – ‘Ulah, Ulah Oh’

Blue eyes is talking to a lonely wind in Bali, “Watching from a polite distance, I saw some parents, a soft man and a gentle, kind woman. They were at the bomb site, doing a little, personal ceremony. They had a photo of their lost son, they stuck it to the fence before them, metres from where the bomb had exploded. The woman, the mother, she appeared to be coping, there was some strength on her face.  The man. He was lost. The father. The father of a dead son.”

People call me God, but my real name is Joy, go on, I say to him while he talks to himself looking at that fence, my words only wrapped in the wind, his ears deaf, a sliver of sound seeping through his skin.

“Incense was lit,” he continues, “private prayers spoken with airless lungs. The man, the dad, threw some rice grains in a curve, a broad sweeping motion, spreading rice on the ground. Finishing his ceremony, he, the provider, the protector, the father, the daddy, he was also dead. I watched a living man become… spirit dead. His eyes congealed. Dead jelly eyes, spirit gone.”

Go on, my words turning with the dust and the sand.

“Hatred had taken his child on a random street in Bali. He shut down. Off. I saw his spirit flicker out. The fat, the skin, the sinew of his face, all surrendering. His son was dead. Dead. With his little ceremony of rice, he said goodbye to his child, ‘Goodbye Son,’ a breath, ‘goodbye Son,’ no breath, goodbye.'”

Go on.  

“I remember thinking, I hope that this goodbye is temporary for that father. I hope this parent, and the child can meet again, because this pain is just… too real. I cry about this, often.”

Go on.

“The unhealed, unfixable pain. I stood on that street, gently watching those parents, and I thought, ‘are you on holiday GOD.'”

Go on, blue eyes, I’m here listening to you now. You are on the street, at the bomb site. You come here every day, and you have the same conversation with yourself, day after day, a breeze slides over his shoulder.

“God… you must be an asshole. How do you expect us to fight for life, and respect it, when you allow it to be taken away so easily, and with such,” a sour throat thickens, “cruelty,” kicking dust with a foot, warm wind brushing his neck, circling his ears, “is that your thing, huh, GOD, you just whisper on sweet breezes,” lines on his face burrow, “if the soul is real, and it’s so amazing, and it wants to learn and to grow, why does it have to go through so much pain,” lips wet, “the only answer… the only answer to my question is this, the soul must be fucking stupid.”

More wind through his hair, We are all creating something wonderful, my words scratch a single layer, stronger wind tunnels the street.

Kicking another clump of dust with a more agitated shoe, “Why don’t you just tell us what this wonderful thing is,” he asks, “you’re getting US to do all the work, huh,” words fall from a mouth tired from arguing with itself.

My back straight, my hands brushing my white-suit perfection.

“God. You want us to be blind, and walk straight into darkness, and…

Yes, I interrupt. 

2003 – Bali – A Baby and a Young Lady

Waking in the middle of the night, blue eyes panic, worried about his newborn son. Feeling very much like a foreigner in a strange land, the only white person in the Bali Maternity Hospital, looking at his phone and a new message from Luke, 

~Wow the baby has been born, send me a picture

~Ok Luke. Wait a minute

Walking quietly away from his Balinese wife while she sleeps, through the dark Graha Asih Hospital, he looks for the little room where they keep the babies on their first night on Earth. Without any sudden movements, walking softly, finding the room, standing near the open door. 

In a corner of the softly lit room, an impossibly young Balinese nurse sits on a chair, wide eyes completely buried inside of a fun and trashy romance novel, an Indian couple embracing wildly on the books cover, the nurse devouring every word of thrilling romance. In front of her, a dozen babies, all wrapped up, clean and comfortable, dreaming, little nostrils with little snore sounds sleeping peacefully in bliss. Blue eyes look at the young, trustworthy face of the nurse clutching her book, and the gentle, pure beauty of the scene, he walks away, leaving them alone. Wandering back to his exhausted, sleeping Balinese wife, phone in hand, the screen glowing on his face.

~Luke, I found the baby room, it was peaceful and perfect, there’s no way I could disturb it, so I left. Anyway, I don’t know which baby is mine, they are all so many different shades of brown in the dark

~That’s hilarious yeahhhhh

~I know, haha, I’ll send you a pic tomorrow

Laying down with his sleeping wife, staring at the ceiling of the simple room, eyes blinking, drifting off, thinking to himself, ‘I’ve forgotten something,’ gliding into rest on hot hospital sheets, ‘and our son has an Indian name,’ smiling inside sleep.

2003 – Bali Bombing – First Year Memorial

“One year ago, already,” happy that the ceremony was sincere, brilliantly hosted, bright and sunny, his blue eyes managing to refract some sky ocean, looking down at his baby son, happily curled up in a front knapsack baby-carrier, he laughs, “Your hat is so ridiculously big,” touching his nose, “now we are going to the reception area, Mr Poopy,” his Balinese wife laughs at the nickname.

Man and wife and son walk into the reception area, shaking hands with the SouthernC Prime Minister and his wife, then the Opposition Leader and his wife. Words are spoken, thoughts are shared.

Sitting down at a table in the shade, watching people from SouthernC and Nusantara mixing, mingling, making him smile. Under the table, his feet can’t stay still, shoes tap on the floor, toes desperately wiggling, constricted.

2004 – SouthernC – Happy Birthday

A million mile stare, blue eyes trying to burn through a pile of papers on the table, bills, insurmountable debts, his dreams living in a dungeon, “Getting you and our son to SouthernC, from Bali, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he says slowly, “and, it was the most expensive thing I’ve ever done, you’ve been here a week and,” he notices that his Balinese wife isn’t really listening,  just watching tv, quiet on the sofa.

Thinking to himself, licking bittersweet lips, ‘It was fun, dozens of flights between SouthernC and Bali, my luggage full of S26 baby formula, and, it was awful, holding our son crying while getting his vaccinations, all the paperwork, the Embassy, certificates, citizenship, medicals, on and on it went, what a mission,’ his head flinches, raising his face a little, “it was my birthday yesterday, you forgot about it.”

“AND I SUPPOSE YOU’RE ANGRY ABOUT THAT,” her voice thundering to his ears, somehow out of place, a Balinese voice in SouthernC.

Is she a good mother, I whisper to his chest.

‘…she is the best little mummy in the world,’ he thinks to himself.

Opening his mouth to argue with his wife, and closing it, ‘There’s no way my baby son was going to run around fatherless in a foreign country,’ remembering the sight of children in Bali whose foreign fathers had simply disappeared when their pregnant sweetheart had become too fat, or the legal situation too difficult.

Standing behind him, my hands reach out, resting firmly on his shoulders, a firmness he can’t feel, Remember, speaking to mostly-deaf ears, blue eyes pop to a memory, his million-mile-stare reflecting Bali, a street, a young boy isn’t looking where he is going, he’s riding his push bike too fast, too carefree, a huge truck rumbles toward him, deaths-tyre’s spinning.

Remembering how his blue eyes screamed, ‘I should yell out to the boy, tell him to stop.’

My hands clasp his shoulders tight.

‘No,’ he thought, ‘yelling at the boy might make him turn and look at me, taking attention away from his riding skills, and he will go under the truck and be crushed,’ he stays silent, pulling up his jaw and closing his mouth with infinite difficulty, deciding in a billionth of a second, to trust the kid.

Hitting the brakes, the boy stops his pushbike half a metre from death, the truck rumbles past, the kid shakes his head, shocked, but safe.

‘That boy… it was my son,’ he realises, ‘am I going insane… reality is…’ shaking his head, blue eyes pop out of his million-mile-memory, looking at his son crawling happily on the carpet, safe, here in SouthernC.

Sensing that his wife is staring at him and wants to talk, he turns to face her, “The Universe put us together to make our son, thats, and only thats,” she says.

Looking back at the pile of bills, breathing out, he nods, ‘worth it.’

2005 – Another Bombing in Bali

“Where are you now,” Luke asks with the phone tight in his hand.

“I’m in SouthernC, I’ll be going back to Bali in about a month,” his friend answers with wide blue eyes, looking at the news flashing on TV, “Luke, the restaurant they bombed, on Jimbaran Bay, it’s my favourite beach resto where I go with my son,” shaking his head, “and the restaurant they bombed in Kuta Square, it’s my favourite restaurant, again, to go with my son, in Kuta Square,” eyes drowning, curdling emotions shaken.

In the soft glow of light from his phone on his face, “Muslims really are trying to kill you,” taking in a large breath, “you must be running out of luck, soon, yeahhh, stop going to Nusantara, stay away from Bali.”

Still fixated on the television news, “That’s Big-Ears-Big-Hands, I can’t believe it.”

“Big-Ears-Big-Hands,” Luke asks.

“He’s a politician from SouthernC,” eyes taking in every detail, “he’s giving first aid minutes after the bombing on the beach,” his voice cracking at the sight of injured people, his mind dissolving another fraction, and another.

“Keep talking… yeahhhh,” grey eyes in near darkness never blink.

2006 – Minutes After the Divorce

Walking out of the divorce court together, his Balinese ex-wife has a worry, a concern, the richness of her culture bouncing off dark, oily Nusantara skin, “Our son rrrreally likes living between my place and your place. Your house is full of students, people, of different ages and from places-places, from all the world. He is happy when he stays with you, senang-besarrr yaa, fun fun fun, but remember, you gotta remember his big dream… yes,” her Balinese eyes are as big as her island.

Breathing out, blue eyes full of shadows, “His dream is having a mommy and a daddy living under one roof… I know.”

Her eyes, deep and strong, “Preparing yourself, my ex-husband, one day, thats-dream, our son’s dream will be bigger than anythings for him. Bouncy-bouncy between Bali and SouthernC was fun, really fun, and bouncy-bouncy between my house and your house, here in BrisVegas, oooooh lots of fun for our little boy, for our son,” looking at the depth of Bali in her eyes, the sound, the smell, the music, “BUT HE IS MINE,” she says, “and he is BALINESE, and I will ALWAYS GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS.”

He nods, accepting her words while they walk towards the taxi-rank. Standing beside a cab, looking up at him with a face of memories, “Hey, hey… we had some fun, yes, Mr Lobster,” she asks.

Laughing, remembering how his white skin could so easily be sunburned in Bali at the start of their romance, “Yeah… we did. We sure did.”

Living in the Wrong Universe

Blue eyes look down at yet another message from Yoda on his phone,

~kill you. we will. to bali you come. Death. waiting you, white shit, blue eye shit you are. Bom more. See, you will.

Eyes narrow, fingers typing a reply,

~Hey Yoda. You dumb fuck. Are you still in Jawa?

~Jawa, I am. If you BALI again, I will bee. death is.

Shaking his head, “Fucking Jawa,” muttering and texting,

~Yoda, you hairy little fuck, does your stupidity ever end? You are always in Jawa. What the fuck is wrong with you? We’ve argued for years, you never change. Why?

His phone beeps again,

~Bali is death. more.

~Yoda, you fucking hairball. I’m not giving up on your stupidity. I think you’re jealous, because I’m from SouthernC, and I go to Bali often. Mmmm? When will you admit it?

~admit. I. Not. never

Bored with it, slipping his phone into a pocket, walking quickly towards a bar to wash away the latest argument with the man he has nicknamed ‘Yoda,’ a black streak of lightning shoots across the sky on a perfectly sunny day. Turning to look at it, fast, his neck hurts, the sky is just blue. Confused, trying to walk towards the bar, holding his chest with one hand, finding it very difficult to breathe, worried that his blood has frozen, or suddenly boils, walking through dry, imaginary rain, directionless, no colour in his eyes.

“Oh,” he stops, “I know what this is, I’ve been waiting for it,” closing his eyes, “I wonder why one try-hard terrorist shit-head is cracking my spine,” trying to walk towards the bar.

Months, maybe more, dissolve into a black soup. 

2007 – Dr Amandaland

Knock knock, a soft sound from outside the room.

“The bombing was the first time I’ve been in a situation where someone was trying to kill me, I felt their hatred,” his blue eyes close to defeat.

Dr Amandaland, comfortable in her doctor’s office, listens carefully.

“The dreams, the sweating, the horror in my blood, dead blood that won’t drain. I’d be happy for all my blood to, empty, if it would take the horror away… ahhh it makes no difference, I guess,” leaning back in the chair, “it feels like I have a gutful of liquid-knives that I can’t burp,” he says to his doctor, “young girls in party dresses and high heels, horrifically injured, young men dying in the dust,” looking up at her, “I’m less than a millimetre from a nervous breakdown.”

Knock knock, a soft sound from the other side of the door repeats.

With almost dead eyes, “The Bali bombing… that night, I saw a Balinese man, he’d draped his leather jacket over the top of a young man laying on the ground. The Balinese man was holding the young man’s hand and singing a prayer. I thought it was ridiculous, so I reached down and pulled up the jacket to see the injury,” he talks and weeps without water, “the young man on the ground, he didn’t talk,  his eyes were begging, begging me like I have never imagined possible, begging, lying on the ground, eyes begging, but, but all of his stomach-fat and muscle were gone, his bloated intestines were exposed, burnt, genital area all gone, seared black and bloated,” a long breath in and out, “I gently pulled the leather jacket back down over his injuries,” nodding slowly, “the Balinese man was actually doing the best possible thing, singing a prayer for that very young man, a young man, twenty or so, just a kid, who knew his life was already over,” his mind almost breaking, ready to crack, “nature can be so cruel… a human can be terminally injured, and still conscious,” shaking his head.

Knock knock knock.

Realising that he is seconds away from a complete breakdown, “There was nothing you could do,” Dr Amandaland offers in her bouquet of educated, motherly tones, “listen, I am a doctor, and there is nothing that I could have done. Nothing. The injury you describe can’t be fixed,” her soft eyelids flutter painfully, “it is so cruel that he was still conscious, this… this happens often with terrible injuries,” she laments.

Knock knock knock knock, glowing orange dust drops from India’s rough brown dress with each new, knock knock.

With a hand on his heart, “I think I understand this feeling,” eyes grey, “everyone has a belief that the universe is a good universe… Some people’s beliefs must be stronger than others. Some people can go to war for twenty years and come back fine, looking for some more action. Some people can be in a tiny car accident and be destroyed. For me, seeing hundreds of people blown to bits drew me to the very edge, I’m at the edge Amanda,” his skin draining, “my belief, my faith that the universe is… worthwhile,” tapping his phone, fingernails on the glass, sharp taps on the device holding Yoda’s messages, “I’m sitting on the blade of a knife… almost, almost at my limit, I’m right at the edge of going insane.”

KNOCK KNOCK, from the other side of that closed door.

“What are you going to do,” Dr Amandaland’s soft voice asks, her years of experience keeping the conversation stable, “keep talking.”

“I spent over a thousand dollars on my son’s 7th birthday a few weeks ago, after he unwrapped every present, I said to him, ‘do you want another present,’ his happy face, so, so perfect.”

Dr Amandaland nods, the creases of experience on her face assuring.

“Each present was worth fifty dollars or so, and it went on, and on.”

She smiles, remembering the many times she has tendered to his son, ‘Overcompensating,’ her eyes ask him.

‘Yes,’ his face replies, taking a moment, “Dr Amanda, I know that if I don’t do something, I won’t make it to my son’s next birthday,” wincing, “and even if I do, I just know that I’m going to lose him, I’ve always know that…” holding his chest, ‘this feeling of fear, horrific fear, I can’t shake it. The terror that I felt on the night of the bombing, and the next day, it was, and still is, urghhhhh… claustrophobic,” lifting his face a little, wondering why his chest feels warm.

Knock knock knock knock KNOCK.

“I’m broke, I’ve lost almost everything.”

“Keep talking,” Dr Amandaland prompts.

“Depression has defeated me,” his face blank, “the debt from bringing my son and his mother to SouthernC, oh for fucks sake I don’t care anymore,” shrugging, his face acknowledging some selfishness, “I put money into a seafood restaurant in Bali, but the second Bali bombing took that away… all that money is gone… I’m bankrupt again. l worked 18 hours a day in my leased taxi, trying to pay off the debt, working so many hours it nearly crushed me.”

“Are you a little bit bored with Islam now,” she asks, a twinkle in her eyes, using their friendship wisely.

Tapping his phone louder, eyes stirring, “Nope.”

Dr Amanda’s head tilts, noticing the way he taps on his phone, “My blue-eyed friend,” relaxing into her experience, “you will end up in a mental institution unless you follow… something,” gesturing towards his tapping fingers.

Knock knock, knock knock, knock knock.

Dr Amandaland’s purse-pink lips prepare serious words, “You need a plan… no, you have a plan, correct,” she smiles.

Eyes closing, his mind still within a millimetre of complete defeat, his line about to be crossed.

…Knock.

A drop of warmth settles in his chest, he stops tapping on the phone, “Dr Amanda, does it have to be a good plan,” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” she says, reaching for her keyboard.

Knock Knock, please state the nature of the ‘I’m being a big-pussy’ emergency, India’s tapping fist and voice finally reaching his ears, pushing a speck of blue into eyes and a tiny grin on the edge of wet lips.

Dr Amandaland’s humming printer spits out a piece of paper, handing it to him, “My friend, you think too much, you always have,” she smiles, remembering their long friendship, “this is a prescription for some happy-pills, take one when you need to switch off your brain for a few hours,” looking at him with deeper concern and leaning in close, “what you really need, is this… listen…” her face stern and rosy, “whatever plan you have, FOLLOW that plan,” taking a chance on something new, “you can go insane… or,” her motherly hands, the wrinkles and wisdom reach out and hold his tightly, “whatever the plan,” licking her lipstick-lips, tasting adventure and the salt of triumph, she smiles, “just… follow… it.”