tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87048342063502301512024-03-13T13:51:38.788-07:00Timothy WritesTimothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-62624101190609720042012-10-29T05:57:00.000-07:002012-10-29T05:57:40.327-07:00BOFF2: Australian Blog HopTo celebrate the launch of Best of Friday Flash Volume 2 (#BOFF2), the tiny Aussie contingent is doing a Blog Hop. I'm hosting Adam Byatt and his touching story <i>Scar Tissue</i>. If you hop over to <a href="http://foregoreality.wordpress.com/?p=505">S.G. Larner's</a> site you can read my story <i>The Iris Garden</i>. You can order BOFF2 <a href="http://emergent-publishing.com/bookstore/best-of-friday-flash-volume-2/">here</a>.<br />
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Come along to the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/events/367836579963333/">Facebook launch party</a>!<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wmEfdTmHFa8/UIxicmXbKvI/AAAAAAAAADY/wZtIMVqv0TI/s1600/adam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wmEfdTmHFa8/UIxicmXbKvI/AAAAAAAAADY/wZtIMVqv0TI/s320/adam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Adam Byatt </b>- Sydney, Australia</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Scar Tissue</b> </div>
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Sitting at the dining room table she pushed back the long
sleeves of her t-shirt, hoping to push back the voices. She heard the social
ghosts whispering their gossip and mock concern behind cups of tea. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>She’s a cutter.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>A what?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>She cuts herself. That’s why she wears long sleeves
all the time. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: black;">Behind the Story</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Scar Tissue” is a biographical amalgam of the lives of a
few people I know who suffer from mental illness in one form or another. In
recent times I know of two families who have suffered the tragedy of losing
their sons to mental illness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In particular, a friend who went through a period of
self-harm during a turbulent time in their life was the inspiration for this
story. It is not based loosely on an actual event in this person's life but is
also a work of fiction, a compilation of events and emotions I know people
close to me have experienced in their battles with mental illness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In the time of writing “Scar Tissue,” I wanted there to be a
note of personal determination, a resurrection or rebirth, a sense of hope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It remains one of my favourite pieces of writing because of
who it was written for, what it is about, and the hope I see in each and every
person. It's a testament to my belief in the dignity of the individual.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></em></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="color: black;">1 Corinthians 13:13</span></em><o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="color: black;">And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the
greatest of these is love.</span></em><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>#FridayFlash<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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“Scar Tissue” was the first piece I wrote for #fridayflash.
Prior to this I was using prompts from the old Write Anything [fiction]Friday
site. It was a small, encouraging group of people and I was using it as a place
for training and development.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The premise behind [fiction]Friday was to take the prompt
and simply write, without editing, and post it to your blog and link it back to
the [fiction]Friday page.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was aware of the #fridayflash community and began to read
and comment on the work of others. There are some fantastic writers out there
and it felt a little daunting to consider putting my work out there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Scar Tissue” was the first piece I wrote with the focused
precision to write, draft, edit and polish before submitting. It was a step out
of where I felt safe, into a wider community of writers whose work I looked up
to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I kept contributing consistently for about 8 or 9 months as
a means of developing and improving my writing. At the moment I am focusing on
other longer projects, but I drop back in from time to time to post a new story
and to read and comment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There are some awesome writers out there producing great pieces
of flash fiction. Go and check it out. Better still, buy the anthology and see
for yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Adam Byatt</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adam sifts through the ennui, minutiae and detritus of life
and catalogues them as potential story ideas. They are pretty much a pad
of sticky notes on the fridge door. Occasionally he finds loose change.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is an English teacher and occasional drummer with an
interest in literary pursuits, rhythmic permutations, theological
amplifications and comedic outbursts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
His
work has appeared in Literary Mix Tapes’ anthologies, <a href="http://emergent-publishing.com/bookstore/nothing-but-flowers/">Nothing
But Flowers</a> and <a href="http://emergent-publishing.com/bookstore/eighty-nine/">89</a>. He is
currently working on his first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><a href="http://postmarkedpipersreach.wordpess.com/">Post
Marked: Pipers Reach</a></span></i><span style="font-family: Cambria;">, an
epistolary serial with Jodi Cleghorn and a long list of ideas. </span>He exists
on twitter as <a href="https://twitter.com/revhappiness">@revhappiness</a> and
writes flash fiction and blogs at <a href="http://afullnessinbrevity.wordpress.com/">A Fullness In Brevity</a>.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b>Australian Blog Hop participants:</b><br />
Adam Byatt<br />
<a href="http://www.moultworld.com/?p=3037">Jodi Cleghorn</a><br />
<a href="http://afullnessinbrevity.wordpress.com/?p=1074">Jason Coggins</a><br />
<a href="http://foregoreality.wordpress.com/2012/10/30/boff2-australian-blog-hop-timothy-collard/">Timothy Collard</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://jodicleghorn.wordpress.com/2012/10/30/boff2-australian-blog-hop-stacey-larner/">S.G. Larner</a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-28735044758589072642012-10-05T06:46:00.000-07:002012-10-05T06:46:46.480-07:00Two of Hearts
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Shall we go to the airport
for coffee?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Many of our peers had already
headed to the Gold Coast for schoolies. I, however, wasn’t one for lying
paralytic in a pool of my own puke, and the prospect of getting laid didn’t do
it for me either. I could have simply stayed in, had a nice meal with the
family and turned in early, but the last day of school warranted some form of
celebration. So I called Rex with my suggestion, which he excitedly accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The international terminal at
Brisbane Airport was a long way to go just for coffee, and an unconventional
location at that, but it was such quirkiness that brought Rex and I together. We
sat next to each other on our first day at high school in the early eighties,
and by lunch we’d discovered a mutual appreciation of <i>The Kenny Everett
Video Show </i>and<i> Australia,
You’re Standing In It.</i> We often amused ourselves by re-enacting
sketches from these and other TV shows. It was unmistakably juvenile but bloody
funny, and in an often-intimidating environment of burgeoning testosterone and
coltish machismo those were welcome, effervescent moments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Other friends came and went
like supporting actors in a stage play, but Rex remained the key protagonist in
my high-school life. He had mesmeric blue eyes, pools of intensity and knowing
that flickered with playful deviltry. Puberty dealt him a broad set of
shoulders and sculpted jawline, and his thick mane of auburn hair would glisten
in the sunlight. I didn’t fare so well: my face, beset with acne, was an oily
page of Braille, and my mop of dark hair was governed by a recalcitrant cow’s
lick. But Rex never held any of that against me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We both studied Japanese. Rex
demonstrated a linguistic prowess, wielding complex conjugations and sentence
structures like an Olympic fencer a sword. Although my marks were above average
I had to work hard at it, but Japanese was never a chore. I relished the differences
to English, like the logographic script and liberal use of honorifics. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Our textbook was peppered with exotic images like a monk
ringing a temple bell on a misty morning or a gloved station attendant pushing
commuters into a packed peak-hour train. Our favourite was of an
ordinary-looking café with the dubious name <i>Coffee & Peeping.</i> It all
fuelled a growing appetite for the language and culture, and I dreamt of
visiting Japan one day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex and I developed a
predilection for Hi-NRG Europop, which proliferated in the charts. On the days
we walked down to Central after school we’d take a detour to <i>Dance Cellar</i>
on Edward Street. We adored sifting through the treasure trove of records and
cassettes, fossicking for the latest twelve-inches. It served as a veritable
education in a genre that was never cool at school. Rock ruled the airwaves and
was the acceptable currency among men and boys, so it was wise not to be
loquacious about drum machines and synths. Rex and I did wonder, though, if
there weren’t more than a few closet hi-energists among our peers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My parents had long hoped that
my taste in music was a mere phase. On our way to <i>The Shingle Inn</i> for
lunch one day, Mum and I walked past <i>Dance Cellar</i> as it blasted out
Stacey Q’s <i>Two of Hearts</i>. I scrutinised her face for any hint of the
euphoria I felt but she just scrunched up her nose, as if she’d inhaled
something fetid. ‘Awful noise,’ she declared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The night Rex and I drove out
to the airport for coffee I’d told my parents we were off into town for a
Japanese meal. I didn’t like lying to them, especially as it involved using
their car, but something told me they wouldn’t get the airport idea. That their
son listened to the likes of Wa Wa Nee
was absurd enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex and I had never been
abroad and only visited the international terminal on rare occasions to see
family off and welcome them home. It was an underwhelming utilitarian structure
reminiscent of an aircraft hangar. With no aerobridges, no travelators and no
undercover car parking, it was probably the <i>Best
& Less</i> of Australian airports. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Passengers were checking in
for the last flight of the evening when Rex and I entered the terminal. We made
a beeline for the café, ordered two coffees and grabbed a table facing the
departures gate. People clutched their boarding passes, which Rex likened to
the golden tickets to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and we wished we were
among the lucky few to be spirited through the gate and onto foreign
delectations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Have you decided which
Japanese subjects you’re doing yet?’ I asked. We’d both been offered places at
the University of Queensland - Rex in a combined Law/Arts degree and I in an
Arts degree - but were yet to enroll in select subjects. ‘Make sure you do <i>JA125: Japanese Popular Culture</i> - it
sounds brilliant.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex raised his coffee mug as
if to hide behind it. Those blue eyes sparkled over the rim and I could tell he
was smiling coyly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Actually,’ he ventured, ‘I’ve
decided to do Russian instead of Japanese.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Russian?’ It came out a
little too incredulously. ‘Why?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex put down his coffee and
looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I don’t know, it’s just something I’ve been
thinking about. It’s such a sexy, brooding language. And I’d love to go to
Leningrad.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Soviet Union was never on
my radar, and I never twigged it was on Rex’s, but I had no doubt that he would
master Russian with all the skill and flair of a Soviet gymnast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Well then,’ I said after a
protracted pause. ‘Leningrad for you and Japan for me. Now we just need to act
on these things.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We clinked mugs and watched
more of the chosen few disappear through the departures gate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The university engine whirred
into life at the end of January. I hadn’t seen Rex since the airport; he spent
most of the Christmas holidays down at Byron with his family. We met up at the
Main Refectory for lunch on the first day of classes. He said little about his
time at Byron, preferring to tell me all about the Russian lecture he’d just
attended. His eyes dazzled with ebullience as he shared his initial
observations of the language and of his classmates. He was less enthusiastic
about the law lecture he’d attended earlier, in particular about the law
students. ‘All <i>Country Road</i> and gold
scrunchies,’ he sneered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We saw each other for lunch
every Monday at the refectory. But as the weeks progressed I became aware of a
different dynamic between us. High school provided physical proximity and
common denominators like Japanese, but now as our paths diverged it seemed we
had less to talk about. Academic anecdotes sometimes bordered on the
perfunctory, and even though we still talked animatedly about the
popular-cultural, like Lisa Bonet’s controversial sex scene in <i>Angel Heart</i>
or the release of the sublime <i>Introspective</i> by the Pet Shop Boys,
awkward silences began to creep into our conversations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Then one Monday, Rex didn’t
turn up. When I called him that evening he made no apology. ‘Just went to
Russian today,’ he said through a yawn. ‘Couldn’t face Torts.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I invited him to come with me
to Expo, which had recently opened with much fanfare on Southbank. ‘Oh please,’
he groaned down the phone. ‘Brisbane - River City, Expo City, World City.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So I went alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Our first exams took place in
June and results were published in <i>The
Courier Mail </i>in July. Over thousands of breakfast tables people pored
through the pages of grades enquiring into the fate of family, friends,
neighbours and enemies. I was thrilled with my results and was thus spared any
public embarrassment. Rex had predictably excelled at Russian, but his law
grades reflected a festering disinterest in the subject. It was weird seeing
results so low for someone so bright.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Soon after the new semester
began I was invited to meet with the Head of Department. She informed me that I’d
made the shortlist for a yearlong scholarship to a university in Osaka. The
Japanese Embassy in Canberra would make the final decision and applicants would
be notified in writing in December. I was jubilant, and all the way home I
luxuriated in daydreams of campus life in Japan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Mum was watching TV when I
arrived home. She was happy to hear my news, but I knew she wouldn’t be looking
forward to the long absence were I to go. No one in the family had ever spent
such time abroad. I felt a pang of guilt as she went into the kitchen to put
the kettle on. I lived in such a supportive nest, yet I desperately wanted to
fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘I saw Rex at Shoppingtown
this morning,’ she shouted from the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Really?’ Our Monday lunches
had petered out and I hadn’t heard from him in a while. ‘What did he have to
say?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘I didn’t speak to him. I must
say he looked very scruffy. And the girl he was with didn’t look much better.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I often wondered about Rex’s
uni friends. I never asked and he never told, so I hadn’t a clue if this girl
was simply a friend or something more. I’d never seen Rex as a sexual being,
but only because we never spoke of sex. Weren’t teenage buddies supposed to
talk about fucking ad infinitum? As the credits rolled on <i>Days of Our Lives</i>,
I acknowledged for the first time the dysfunctional nature of our friendship.
To hear of this scruffy-looking girl opened a sluice of emotions I’d been
harbouring. I was jealous of his fraternising and resented that he rarely
called me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">One September afternoon I
found myself thinking about Rex, remembering our more halcyon times. I called
him on impulse, just to hear his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Hi, it’s me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Oh my God!’ he gushed. ‘Have
you been watching the Olympics?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Seoul games were taking
place and Rex said he’d been eschewing lectures in favour of watching the diving.
I could tell he was keen to get back to the live coverage of the Men’s 10m
Platform.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Well listen,’ I said. ‘Let’s
do a refectory lunch once it’s all over.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Cool, ok,’ he replied
breezily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Bye.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The line went dead in my ear.
I put the phone down, sat quietly for a minute, then went out to uni.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">An air of calm had descended
upon campus in the wake of the bustle and mania of November exams. I’d just
returned a book to the Undergrad Library and was cutting across the Great Court
towards the bus stop when I paused. Fancying a cool drink, I about-turned and
headed for the Main Refectory, hoping it hadn’t yet closed for the holidays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A small gathering of students
were eating food around one of the outside tables, so I was in luck. I
purchased a chocolate Breaka and found a table set back from the group. They
were a grungy amalgam of flannel, flea market, piercings and hair dye. One of
them was staring at me with an unsettling Mona-Lisa smile. He had a shaved head
and looked gaunt, like a skull with stubble, then I realised it was Rex. I
froze for a second, and found myself contriving a convivial smile. He didn’t
take his eyes off me as I walked over and perched on the end of the bench next
to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Enjoy the rest
of the Olympics?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Brilliant,’ he replied
indifferently. His blue eyes were drained of their magic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The girl next to Rex wore a
flowing purple dress and black boots, and was arguing for the imperativeness of
radical student groups. I wondered if she was the girl Mum saw at Shoppingtown.
Rex took one of her cigarettes and lit it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘So what you up to?’ I asked
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He took a long drag and
exhaled over my head. ‘We’ve just picked up our marked Russian assignments.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Exams go ok?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘The Russians ones, yeah.
Didn’t bother turning up for the law ones. Yourself?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Yeah, pretty well, I think.
Oh, I’m on the s<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>hortlist for a scholarship to Japan, too
’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex nodded and, forsaking any
introductions, turned his attention back to the group. Talk turned to the
possible eviction of independent radio station 4ZZZ from their on-campus
premises by the right-wing student union executive. The vernacular was alien to
me, words like <i>fascist</i> and <i>subversive</i>. Rex interjected confidently
with informed opinions as I watched on in awkward silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Bunch of cunts,’ spat the
girl in purple. ‘They’re asking for trouble if they try to shut it down.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex extinguished his
cigarette. ‘<i>Cunt</i>,’ he purred, as if promoting fabric softener on a TV
ad, ‘which comes from the Latin <i>cunnus</i> meaning <i>cunt</i>.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Everyone laughed. It was the
first time since school I’d witnessed Rex interact in a group context and it
wasn’t surprising that he had endeared himself to a new set of friends. There
was no jealousy or anger as I sat there watching him engage the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Listen,’ I said quietly,
tapping Rex on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to head off. I’m pretty tired,
actually.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He mustered a feeble smile.
‘Cool, ok.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I stood up, smiled politely
and said goodbye to his friends. The girl in purple considered me for the first
time with a sagacious glance, and I had the disconcerting realisation she knew
exactly who I was and everything about me. Walking away swiftly, I hoped a
letter from the Japanese Embassy would come soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">One morning in December I
awoke late to find that Mum had gone to the shops and left a letter on the
floor outside my bedroom door. I picked it up and a wave of prickly heat
coursed through me as I scanned my name and address. This was it; after all
this time it came down to this moment. I sat on the bed, took out the crisp
folded sheet and began reading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Luke,</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I’m sitting in the airport
café. Would you believe at the very table we shared a year ago? I’ve just said
goodbye to a friend who’s moving overseas. It made me think about you, about
me. About us. So I decided to document my thoughts. To you. I could make it
quick and succinct but I respect you more than that. And if I wrote an epistle
I’d risk not achieving any coherency. So I’m going to leave it to spontaneity
and see what evolves.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I think you hit the nail on
the head the other week at the refectory with your parting words: “I’m pretty
tired, actually.” We’ve both been guilty of keeping up the pretence of
friendship and you’ll agree it’s been undignified and draining. I can’t
actually pinpoint the moment of stagnation, but I can recall some conversations
where we both struggled, when the rot had well and truly set in. I think of the
things that made us laugh once, the things we had in common. But Mel & Kim
is hardly solid bedrock on which to build a meaningful friendship, is it?</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I know my inconsideration
pissed you off, like the way I never called you. I’m crap when it comes to
instigating phone calls - I’m accused of that often. Subconsciously, though,
perhaps I was hoping you’d take the hint. Actions, or inactions, speak louder
than words, don’t they say?</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I’ve just seen there’s a
flight to Japan in a few hours. You’ll get that scholarship, you know. I can
picture you at the departures gate, waving goodbye to the family, your eyes
brimming with excitement at the prospect of the adventure ahead. Or are you
running from something?</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Anyway, while you’re still
here I realise we’re bound to run into each other. It’s inevitable in an
international backwater like Brisbane. But at least we’ll be able to look each
other in the eye and know where we stand for a change. So let’s just leave it
at that. I’m tired of the charade now. I know you are too, and that deep down
you wish you’d had the guts to end it sooner. “We just need to act on these
things,” you said to me across this table, do you remember? Your advice. My
action. Into words.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Rex</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The letter from the Japanese
Embassy arrived a few days after Rex’s with the news that I’d won the
scholarship and was to leave for Osaka in a month. It was hard not to dwell on
Rex’s letter in the time leading up to my departure. I reread his missive
countless times, digesting the nuances and reading between the lines. My
initial relief was tempered by a gnawing sensation of cowardice and shame; it
was a kick in the guts to hear I didn’t actually have any. I dreaded running
into him before I left and fortunately it never happened. We needed this time
apart, and for the time being there was nothing more to say to each other. The
paradox, though, was that I really missed him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On a sultry evening in January
my parents and I left for Brisbane Airport. Mum kept looking at her watch
anxiously each time we stopped at traffic lights, but I assured her there was
plenty of time. At one point I thought I saw her wipe away a tear. As we turned
onto Kingsford Smith Drive I looked behind at the twinkling lights of the city.
The beacons on the Mt Coot-tha transmitter towers winked at me in the distance,
and I clutched my ticket and passport a little tighter. Rick Astley’s new song <i>Take
Me to Your Heart</i> came on the radio. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Could you turn that up,
please?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Mum shot me a withering look,
then obliged. It made me smile. Rex, like Rick Astley, was more than a mere phase.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #313131; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">
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<!--StartFragment--><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 14pt;">© Timothy Collard 2012</span><!--EndFragment--></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-21335276321533347372012-09-27T05:23:00.002-07:002012-09-27T05:23:57.685-07:00'Two of Hearts' published on gay-ebooks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hvZCSHu8nFw/UGRFIgmFH-I/AAAAAAAAADA/Jnm7FQRqtlI/s1600/hoic12b.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hvZCSHu8nFw/UGRFIgmFH-I/AAAAAAAAADA/Jnm7FQRqtlI/s1600/hoic12b.png" /></a></div>
Gay-ebooks has just published its latest anthology 'Hold On, I'm Coming'. It includes my short story 'Two of Hearts'.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.gay-ebooks.com.au/hoic12info.html">click here - it's a free download</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" type="cite">
<div class="im" style="color: #500050;">
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Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-52013881703280227362012-09-21T14:16:00.002-07:002012-09-21T14:19:45.946-07:00Best of Friday Flash Vol II - pre-order<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ue1ME2X4IXQ/UFzZdYh9JFI/AAAAAAAAACo/yL5OVW6GXnw/s1600/blue-187x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ue1ME2X4IXQ/UFzZdYh9JFI/AAAAAAAAACo/yL5OVW6GXnw/s1600/blue-187x300.jpg" /></a></div>
I've had my first short story published in the upcoming 'Best Of Friday Flash Vol II'. Very happy! Look out for 'The Iris Garden'.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://emergent-publishing.com/bookstore/best-of-friday-flash-volume-2/">http://emergent-publishing.com/bookstore/best-of-friday-flash-volume-2/</a><br />
<br />Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-9798472935880886802012-04-24T06:42:00.000-07:002012-10-04T08:45:43.726-07:00The Two Little Boys<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I don’t think I’d ever heard a ghost story until I went to
university in Japan. One evening, not long after I’d arrived in the country, there
was a party in the Japanese girls’ dormitory. It went on all night, and when
the beer and <i>sake</i> had run out, when
the music had stopped, when the promise of dawn was on the trill of skylarks in
the adjacent woodlands, I found myself sitting on the floor in candlelight with
a few people. <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>A couple of Japanese girls were regaling us
with urban legends. ‘If children are
out on the street after dark,’ one of them said with affected portent, ‘they
might come across a woman wearing a surgical mask. The woman will ask
the child, “Am I beautiful?” then pull away the mask to reveal that </span><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glasgow_Grin"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: Arial;">her mouth is slit from ear to ear</span></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">.’ I appended
the narrative with a jolting roar, prompting histrionic squeals from everyone. It
was all unmistakably jokey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">But I went on to learn that specters lurked deep in the
Japanese psyche. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Every Saturday I taught some English classes at the local
municipal hall to earn a bit of extra cash. My last lesson of the day was to a dozen
or so Japanese housewives. It was a mixed-ability conversation class and I let
the women decide the topics for discussion. The subjects were light and uncontroversial,
like foreign travel or film stars. I made a point of not speaking any Japanese
to the ladies, insisting that only English be spoken during the lesson. It was
surprising that some of them came back week after week as much of what I said
went over their heads, but the hour-long session was always filled with
laughter; it was more of a social event than a structured class. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">One gloomy day in July, at the apogee of the rainy season, the
ladies said they wanted to talk about Japanese festivals. There were myriad to
choose from, like the Sapporo Snow Festival or the nationwide Doll Festival. I
was aware that the next big festival to take place across the country was <i>Obon</i> in August, when families returned
to their ancestral homes and visited the graves of their ancestors, but I was
ignorant of the significance behind the occasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">‘Okay, so let’s start with <i>Obon</i>,’
I said. ‘Why do Japanese celebrate this?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">All the ladies turned to look at Mrs Kuroki, who sat impassively
in the back row. They always deferred to Mrs Kuroki when more complex English
was required. She was the oldest in the class and also the quietest. I could
tell she was well respected by the others judging by the depth of their bows
when they greeted her each week. Whenever she spoke or reacted, it was with
measure and calculation. The others would laugh at my stupid jokes, but Mrs
Kuroki would give up a dim smile. The women would write down new vocabulary, but
Mrs Kuroki would scrutinise me as I spelled out the words. There was something
vaguely minatory about her; whenever I caught her gaze it felt like she might
just spring out of her chair and pounce on me like a mantis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">‘When a person dies,’ Mrs Kuroki began, ‘their spirit leaves
the body and enters purgatory until funeral rites have been performed. Only
then can they join their ancestors. These spirits then protect the family they
have left behind, and return to Earth every August during <i>Obon</i> to receive thanks from the family.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The women nodded in apparent comprehension. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I was feeling a little mischievous. ‘What about those who
haven’t had a proper funeral?’ I asked the group. ‘Does their spirit not watch
over and protect their family?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The ladies turned again to Mrs Kuroki, who retained her
composed mien. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">‘No,’ she said. ‘If the proper funeral rites haven’t been
carried out, or if a person dies in sudden or violent circumstances, the spirit
transforms into a ghost and can return to the physical world. It will forever
haunt the Earth until the missing rituals are performed. Or until the emotional
conflict tying it to our world is resolved.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">‘Do you all believe in ghosts?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The women nodded earnestly, some of them exchanging knowing
glances. Mrs Kuroki regarded me like I was an oddity in a bric-a-brac shop. ‘It’s
not a question of belief. We co-exist with spirits and ghosts - the benign and
the tormented.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I’d never been one to get spooked by the supernatural; I
actually laughed watching <i>The Exorcist</i>. There had to be a rational
explanation for everything, from the stars in the sky to the unusual ripples
and shadows you saw in those grainy photographs of Loch Ness. The notion of
wraiths made no sense to me, and I left the English class that day smugly amused
by the ladies’ genuine conviction in the unearthly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Early
one evening at the end of the summer holidays, the shrill of cicadas raging
against the relentless heat, some mates and I made the journey down the hill
from university to the local bar. We hadn’t seen each other for a while; some
had been travelling in Asia, others had visited family back in the UK or
Australia. I’d stayed on campus all summer, happy to earn some money from my
teaching jobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">It
was a typically bibulous evening involving cheap beer and salty conversation.
At some point, after much carousing, I teetered between mellow cognizance and fuddled
haze. If I didn’t leave soon, my friends would have to carry me back up the
hill. I couldn’t be dealing with their protestations when I made to leave, so I
slipped away through the side door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The night was still and clammy. I staggered up the hill, the
humidity almost palpable as I breathed in laden air. Approaching the top, the university
came into view around a bend. The contours of the campus buildings conjoined to
form a looming silhouette, like a slumbering giant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">My room was on the fourth floor of the foreign students’ dormitory.
I cursed at the ‘out of order’ sign on the lift. The internal staircase was avoided
by most in the name of laziness, and I only used it on rare occasions like this.
I gripped the handrail and began the sluggish climb, my footsteps echoing up
the cool concrete well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">As I turned to mount the penultimate flight I saw something
that slapped me out of inebriety. The dim lighting caused me to squint hard at
the sight before me, to fathom it. Up ahead, on the landing between the third
and fourth floors, were two small boys squatting on their haunches side by
side, arms resting on their upper legs and heads bent forward, dressed in what
looked to be an elementary-school uniform of navy-blue shorts, knee-length
socks and black shoes. They both wore yellow caps, which hid their faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">‘<i>Donai shitenno?’ </i>I surprised myself by asking after
them in the local dialect, which I’d never spoken before. They remained
motionless. I walked the few steps up to the landing and was about to bend down
to touch one of them on the arm when I realised my footfalls hadn’t echoed, as
if I’d stepped on cotton wool. The air in the stairwell was all at once close
and stale, and the crouching little boys, oddly reminiscent of medieval
gargoyles, oozed a hint of menace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I sidled past them and turned to climb the last flight of
steps. Immediately I lurched forward as two small bodies leapt onto my back,
clutching my shoulders, little legs scrambling for grip so as to hoist
themselves further up onto me. I grasped the handrail with both hands, spinning
around to face the landing as I went down hard on the steps. The beings were
instantly gone from my back, and the landing, where the schoolboys had been
moments before, was empty. I snapped my head around to see nothing but the few
remaining steps leading up to the fourth floor. The stab of pain from where I
had landed on my coccyx was almost numbed by a surging wave of panic that
pricked my skin like a thousand hot needles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I got to my feet with the falter of a newborn fawn and turned
to hurry up the stairs. The bodies sprang onto my back again like jumping
spiders, but this time their feet found a grip. They boosted themselves up and
locked their cold little limbs around my neck. Something giggled in my ear, the
carefree giggle of a content child. I spun around and at once the presences
vanished from my back, but the landing remained mockingly bare. My throat
burned where their arms had crushed my windpipe and a throbbing pulse screamed
in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Slowly I edged up the stairs backwards, my eyes rooted to the
vacant landing. With each step I gripped the handrail hard, steadying myself
for another ambush, but nothing happened. Once on the fourth floor I reversed
out into the dormitory corridor, and the landing disappeared from view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">But I didn’t dare turn around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I continued walking trance-like backwards, fixing my gaze
straight ahead, until I arrived at my room. Once inside, with the door locked and
lights on, I shuffled back towards to the bed, reaching behind until I felt the
soft welcoming futon. It was
cool to the touch as I lowered myself gently onto the cushioned fabric. The sun
was already up when I drifted into a troubled sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14pt;">© Timothy Collard 2012<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-71659460511018309172011-10-28T02:11:00.001-07:002012-03-30T01:05:59.303-07:00La Cage<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20px;">Digby felt smug gazing across the tableau of Paris from the terrace of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L’Institut du monde arabe</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 20px;">. He exuded the smarmy content of a foreign resident, linguistically at ease in daily discourse, derisive of his transient counterparts with their superficial regards of the city, and enriched by a compendium of local knowledge afforded only to a denizen, like the existence of this terrace and tearoom nine floors up, in the heart of town, free to access and thankfully, for now, absent from any guidebooks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">He hadn’t appreciated the view two years back when a pretty but vacuous civil servant from the <i>Minist</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ère de la Défense </i>invited him here for tea. She had quickly bored him, so he took her to a nearby hotel where he was able to extract the necessary information after a couple of libidinous hours. He promised to call her, which of course he never did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">Carrie was pretty too, but he knew not to cross that line. Each month she informed him of the time and place. He would hand over the flash drive and she would leave, often without a word spoken between them. There was nothing to link the rendezvous points: a bookshop in the Marais, the bric-a-brac of Clignancourt markets, once even Modigliani’s grave at Père Lachaise. And today, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">this terrace at the Arab World Institute.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">Digby leaned on the railing as he waited for Carrie. He scrutinized the exposed skeleton of colored ducts on the <i>Centre Pompidou </i>and a carved angel atop <i>Notre Dame </i>before savoring a cluster of bronzed sunbathers on the cobbled embankment of </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">Î</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">le Saint-Louis.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">A man appeared by his side suddenly, facing him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">‘Carrie can’t be with us today, Mr Digby.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">He couldn’t place the accent. ‘I’m sorry, I –’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">‘The flash drive, please.’ The stranger smiled genially.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">Digby squared up to him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, veiling unbidden alarm with incredulity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">The stranger sighed and a flash of discountenance flickered across smoky eyes. ‘You live at 1408 Avenue Daumesnil; your wife is a part-time kindergarten teacher in Nogent-sur-Marne and your two children attend a prestigious school across town in the 16</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">th</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">; after your wife – Madeleine, isn’t it? – goes to bed you have a predilection for spying on your nubile young neighbor across the street.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">Digby was in a daze and the stranger’s smile turned dark and hollow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">‘Who the hell are you?’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">‘I am your contact from now on, Mr Digby. You’ll know it’s me when I call. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and all will be fine.’ He extended an open hand. ‘The flash drive, please. And don’t do anything foolish.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">Digby fumbled in his breast pocket for the object and thrust it into the expectant palm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;">‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merci. Bonne journée à vous.</i>’ The stranger strode off whistling the chorus of <i>Big Yellow Taxi</i>,<i> </i>leaving Digby alone on the terrace against the exquisite urban backdrop. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15pt;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">© Timothy Collard 2011</span></div><div><span lang="EN-US"><br />
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</div>Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-44708832343804224002011-09-14T13:38:00.000-07:002011-10-28T02:20:43.380-07:00Communion<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hf_EK4ezhM8/TnEq6r2--hI/AAAAAAAAABg/XXrjJxwKNas/s1600/open24hrs.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hf_EK4ezhM8/TnEq6r2--hI/AAAAAAAAABg/XXrjJxwKNas/s320/open24hrs.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It strikes me as I pause outside the metal door that the throbbing muted pulse of the beat beyond might just match my heart rate. Not that I’m nervous; I’ve been here often enough. Every time I pass the all-night drug store (and unwillingly inhale the hint of menace on the antibacterial breath it oozes onto the sidewalk as its sliding doors swallow and discharge customers), turn the corner and see the fluorescent sign winking at me at the end of the lane, I feel an excitement brew. Halfway along I hear the first indication of the night ahead, a soft and recurrent thump, a rhythmic invitation, and my stride falls into its metrical line with wanton ease. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There are other places to go if I want to cut to the chase, arcane alfresco locations under the darkest of shadows and steamy indoor labyrinths, places where prescient encounters, sometimes wordless but always physically candid, satisfy a common need. But I enjoy a more involved ritual, one not so stripped, sensorial cocktails of beer and music, conviviality and camaraderie. Sometimes it yields a handsome payoff ending back in my apartment a few of blocks away, and sometimes I’m happy to leave just with tinnitus. Tonight, though, I’m angling for the former. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I push through the door and am greeted by the roar of music. Gyrating shapes on the dance floor fizz like champagne bubbles, and to the side clusters of punters engage in blithely conspiratorial banter. Along the far wall by the bar stands a line of men in stoic masculine poises, elbows on ledges and bottles firmly gripped. Full-length mirrors are positioned strategically on columns to facilitate furtive scanning as much as self-regard. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A couple of buddies beckon me to their little group by the dance floor. They embrace me and bellow the names of their friends, which are rendered unintelligible under the thunder of syncopated baselines. I clasp an invisible bottle and jerk it a few times in the gesture of swigging, and everyone politely declines. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I make my way to the bar, acknowledging some other familiar faces en route, and order a Bud. The first gulp is cold and succoring. This is where I prefer to loiter, far enough away from the howling Bose speakers to allow the luxury of conversational interaction and positioned perfectly to afford a tasty prospect of the whole establishment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I tell the barman to keep the change, and when I spin around I lock, as if inevitably, onto you, casually propped against a mirrored pillar, out from the dark recesses of the back wall and close enough to the dancers to be daubed in disco light. You take a sip of beer and graze languorously on the shifting shapes on the dance floor. A trimmed auburn goatee neatly frames a gentle and cushioned set of lips. Wiry tufts spring through the V of your open-neck shirt, and I trek further south, over your beaming chest and down into the ripe contours of your jeans. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I feel the onset of blush when I look up to discover you’ve clocked me, that moment when the surreptitious becomes the apparent. I wonder if places like this heighten our frequency and make us more alert to the searching, penetrating, predatory sizzle of a man’s gaze. I don’t dwell on the supernatural, but in moments like this, two pairs of eyes in mutual transfixion, loaded and cocked, telepathy seems utterly possible, with tacit actions and words and hopes and desires colliding in a supernova of startling clarity. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">You make the first move, sauntering over to me, smiling in shrewd collusion. A popular hi-NRG track announces a shift in tempo and more punters charge onto the dance floor, their rapturous limbs illuminated by kaleidoscopic swathes of light and occasionally punctured by the hectic staccato of strobe. They remind me of a shiver of sharks in an orgiastic feast. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘You like this crap?’ you ask in a silky baritone timbre, flicking your handsome head in the direction of the dance floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I actually adore this particular slice of Europop - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Searchin’, </i>it’s called<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> - </i>and I suspect the glorious irony isn’t wasted on you. ‘Can’t stand it,’ I say with a coy moue. I want to add something but am deliciously spellbound by our new physical intimacy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">You put your half-finished Bud down onto the bar. I’ve a case of that in the fridge at home, I remember. ‘Then let’s get outta here,’ you say. ‘Buddy.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #404040; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span lang="EN-US">© Timothy Collard 2011</span></div><div><span lang="EN-US"><br />
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</div>Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-6277935290336484572011-06-10T09:13:00.000-07:002012-09-06T06:10:41.758-07:00Statue Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--gKRM3Rp7s0/TfJCayWEfDI/AAAAAAAAABc/e6powfmjsSQ/s1600/Martyr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--gKRM3Rp7s0/TfJCayWEfDI/AAAAAAAAABc/e6powfmjsSQ/s320/Martyr.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The brakes hissed and the engine growled. Guy and Marcus shivered as the
bus pulled away, leaving them on the side of a lonely stretch of road </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">on the desolate western fringe of the city.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> They had spotted the
gates to Statue Park through the fog too late and missed their stop. By the
time Guy had convinced the driver to pull over, they were half a mile further
along the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">When the two friends arrived in Budapest days earlier a merciless cold
and an oppressive fog had greeted them. Much of Hungary was gripped in an icy
vise, although the ground remained unseasonably snowless. They felt like the
only tourists in town, which was a welcome change to the relentless sweaty
throngs they’d encountered in Prague the previous summer. ‘We’re almost forty,’
a weary Marcus had said then, ‘and I feel like we’ve gone into battle.’ The delicious
payoff of winter in Budapest was that they had the run of all the museums,
thermal baths and cobbled backstreets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Guy had always been interested in post-war
European history and was looking forward to visiting Statue Park, an outdoor repository
of monumental statues from Hungary's communist days. They decided to go on
their last full day in Budapest. Marcus would have preferred to spend the
morning in the soothing thermal waters of the </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Rácz</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">or the </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Gellért</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">, especially
after the amount of vodka they’d consumed the night before, but he knew how
much a visit to Statue Park meant to his friend. Bleary-eyed, they jumped on
the 150 bus and</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> thirty minutes later, having missed their
stop, were ejected onto the misty roadside. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">As the din of the bus faded, Guy tightened the scarf around his neck. ‘It’s
not that far back,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Anyway, a brisk walk will clear the
cobwebs.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Marcus felt in his pockets and cursed. ‘I’ve left my gloves on the bus.’
But Guy was already marching back up the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">There was no footpath, just a narrow strip of grass that dipped steeply
into a gully, along which was strewn an array of litter – cans, newspapers,
plastic bags, even a washing machine. The taloned steel supports of a pylon
came into view in an adjacent field and a low drone of electricity hummed from
unseen wires overhead. They listened out for the sound of oncoming vehicles but
only heard their own dull syncopated footfalls on the acned bitumen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Something caught Marcus’s eye ahead in the ditch. At first glance it
looked like an overturned wooden sawhorse, like the one his father had kept in
the tool shed, but he averted his gaze abruptly when he realised it was a large
dog, motionless, its legs rigid like boughs and its short coat of fur tinged
light blue. He said nothing to Guy, who hadn’t noticed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Towering effigies soon appeared through the fog like bruises on waxen
skin, and the men found themselves standing in front of the closed gates to
Statue Park. A large sign dangled from the chains: <i>ZÁRVA. </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">‘Damn,’ said Guy. He looked over to the tall wire fence that encircled
the park. ‘We can still get a look from the outside.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">‘I’m not sure –’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">‘We’re the only ones here,’ he said eagerly. ‘Come on!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The visitors were afforded a worthy view of select pieces close to the
perimeter as they followed it round. They passed the charging soldiers of the
Béla Kun Memorial, then came to the looming Republic of Councils Monument which
depicted a striding virile worker, flag flying from one fist, the other poised
to strike. Marcus regarded it warily, almost expecting the figure to lunge from
its plinth. Guy focused on a point deeper into the park and thought he
recognised the silhouettes of Lenin and Engels through the wintry shroud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">They came to a halt at a section of fence by the Martyrs’ Monument, a
giant bronze cast of a man, head flung back, arms outstretched and knees
buckled, appearing to fall. Guy bent down to grip a corner of fencing that had
come loose from the post. He jerked it upwards, creating a small rent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Marcus looked at him, puzzled. ‘What are you doing?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Guy winked. ‘We can crawl through and get a closer - ’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Behind them, a menacing growl brewed from the fog. They turned around
and stiffened their bearing. Another growl was now discernible, a little
further back. Then two more, one on either side of the men. Caliginous smears
began to emerge, becoming more cogent as they drew closer. Quadrupeds, low on
their haunches, crept through the slab of fog. They resembled emaciated feral
canines. Ribs and vertebrae punctured their thin smoky fur in places. Their eyes
were cadaverous voids, as listless as the fog that had borne the breed. The
creatures’ snarls intensified, and one of them curled up its lips to unsheathe
a ghastly rictus of scything fangs that didn’t belong to any animal the men
knew of. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The four beasts edged closer to their quarry. Guy and Marcus backed up
against the fence. The creatures were only eight or nine feet away. The men had
seconds to act. ‘On the count of three,’ said Guy, his voice a hoarse whisper, ‘climb
the fence as fast as you can.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Marcus was crying. One of the beasts snapped its jaws erratically at him
and expelled a deathly reek from its gut that made him want to gag. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">‘One –’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The pack surged in an ululating frenzy, felling their prey like
woodcutters a rotten oak. Then they gorged. Only when sated did they retreat, wisps
of fog almost herding them back under the icy veil. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Snowflakes began to fall on Statue Park, at first in playful sprinkles,
then in an unrelenting barrage. The monuments stood defiantly in their wire
compound, the martyr’s scream, the soldiers’ roar and the worker’s rage frozen
in perpetual tumult. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8704834206350230151.post-23320228447189139822011-05-27T04:09:00.000-07:002012-05-11T01:49:24.375-07:00The Iris Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Kenji manoeuvred his bike around the pitch like an expert. The August sun, low and fat in the late afternoon sky, cast long fluid shadows on the baked earth. He often came to the local elementary school on the other side of the park as it was the ideal place to practise some neat tricks on his BMX. Most of his friends, indeed most other ten-year-olds, were inside playing Super Mario, the current craze gripping Japan as BMX bikes once did, but Kenji never cared for computer games. He missed showing off to his friends on the bike, and kind of resented Mario for it. </div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Undeterred by the heat and heavy cloak of humidity, Kenji persevered until he had mastered a new move, and it was only then that he looked at his watch. Six forty-five. Be home by seven, his mother had said. The last time he disobeyed this instruction she locked his bike away for two weeks. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Normally he followed the flat streets bordering the park, but this would take too long now. Kenji pictured the park’s vast network of pathways that meandered through forests of red pine and oak, up and over grassy knolls and along groves of cherry and plum trees. He quickly calculated the fastest route home, stood up on the pedals and powered across the pitch into the park.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The park was the focal point of the neighbourhood, a place everyone could enjoy all year round. But this evening there were no couples strolling, no families clearing up after a picnic, no dogs running off their leashes. It was still and silent. The sun now hid behind Mt Kongo, and Kenji made out the pointed grey roof of the local temple tucked into the foothills like a nesting scops owl. He felt sluggish as he pedaled up a steep incline, like the air was compressing him from above. Gliding down the other side he passed some lavender bushes, and thought it odd that they remained motionless in his wake. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">As he rounded a corner he espied old Mrs Kuroki and some other ladies from the neighbourhood down in a clearing, dressed in their colourful summer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yukata</i> and in a circle rehearsing their folk dancing for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Obon</i>. In a few days Kenji would come here with his parents and many of the local residents to celebrate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Obon</i>, a Buddhist custom to honour the spirits of one’s ancestors. It reminded him that he would have to go to the Mie countryside with the family next weekend to visit the graves of his grandparents, and he outwardly groaned at the thought. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The pathway narrowed as he approached a large mature garden of blood irises. There had always been irises growing on this spot, even before there was a park. They stood in their thousands like serried guards, many of them taller than Kenji. Their purple blooms, like delicate folds of silk, were iridescent even in the wanness of dusk. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Kenji slowed a little as he negotiated the sinuous path through the iris garden. He looked ahead to where the pathway widened and led away from the irises up a hillock towards one of the park exits. He wasn’t far now. He checked his watch. Five minutes left. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">At that moment a stringy root sprung out from the undergrowth and coiled tightly around Kenji’s ankle, yanking him abruptly. His head collided with the handlebars on the way down, and the teeth of the sprocket gouged deep into his forearm as he was dragged off the bike and into the irises on his back. Instinctively he forced his palms and heels hard into the ground to brake, but they only ploughed through loose topsoil. Iris blooms flashed by, looking down at him like mocking giants, complicit and unmoving. Searing pain began to course through his body as he was crudely drawn deeper into the iris garden. He looked like a rag doll being dragged along by an ungrateful child. Kenji tried to scream but his voice was gone, ripped from him, rendered a guttural rasp. Suddenly he was still, but the ground underneath was not. Manifold roots erupted through the soil and latched onto him like a jellyfish its prey. Adrenalin surged through his little body as he struggled to free himself, but the roots pulled down harder. He watched helplessly as first his legs vanished beneath the surface, then his arms. A tendril snaked across his neck. It felt coarse on his skin, like his mother’s hessian rug. Tears streamed from his eyes. Kenji’s last memory was the taste of earth: rotten and burning. Then silence and stillness descended once again on the iris garden. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Old Mrs Kuroki led the ladies through one last sequence of steps. If you had looked into her eyes at that moment you would have seen plumes of dark red ink emanating from her dilated pupils and clouding her sclerae. But no sooner had they formed than they vanished, sucked back into unseen recesses like scurrying trapdoor spiders. Invigorated, Mrs Kuroki smiled and made a mental note to take a detour through the iris garden on her way home. The child’s bike would need to be removed.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">© Timothy Collard 2011</span></div>
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<br /></div>Timothy Collardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17820495113390056192noreply@blogger.com4