The Apprentice Writer

Broken

2011-06-09T22:14:00.000-07:00

A dark cloud hulked low over the house. The window framed a portrait of Greg, his eyes directed towards the threatening rain. A small circle of blue sat low on the horizon, far away. Greg’s gaze wandered to the weeds thriving in the scrubby garden below and the grass, like a patch work quilt of faded green and brown. He could just make out the worn sticker on the letterbox that had long ago been carefully applied by tiny fingers, overwhelmed with the responsibility of the big grown-up task. No hawkers. He remembered counting each of those little fingers, along with the toes, when she was first born. In that swaddle of blankets and blood rested his daughter, the perfect product of Linda and his great romance. Today it was their silver wedding anniversary. He had held his wife’s face in his hands that morning, kissing away the strain of sleepless nights. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Turning away she had curled into his arms, pulling them around her tight and close, seeking refuge from their tears.

The morning passed as always with a determined and strained normality. Their fears masqueraded behind loving banter and cups of tea, but in truth they lived on tenterhooks. The sound of loud bass cut through the peaceful suburban street, pulsing in time to Greg’s quickening blood. It was followed by the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. Greg tensed, looking instinctively across at Linda who had glanced up from her crossword. A strange mixture of relief and worry pulled at the corner of her mouth, falling short of words. Their eyes met as the sound of laughing and chatting filtered through the lounge room window from the street. Like hackles on a dog’s back, a familiar heightened awareness rose. “She can’t come in here.”

“Greg … not today.”

The car engine fell silent but the music continued thumping, an uneasy union with the whirring lawn mower in the distance. It offended Greg’s sense of home, like an uninvited critic in your kitchen. Greg and Linda’s eyes remained locked in silent battle. Two car doors slammed and Greg turned to look. All colour and chaos, they contaminated his footpath like weeds sprouting from the cracks. He felt his temper flair as he noted the latest colour of Joshua’s mohawk. Orange. He wore enormous 18 hole pink Doctor Martens with army disposal pants tucked inside them, black muscle shirt showing his defined but puny biceps, multi-coloured tattoo of an octopus down one arm. Clown. He wore a big smile and total love for his daughter on his shirtsleeve. Liar. “He’s not welcome here Linda. Neither of them is.”

Linda remained still, holding her breath as her husband observed their daughter from the window. She prayed he would stay calm, let them get away with one more day, one more day pretending. The relaxed chatting outside had shifted to whispers as though the couple knew of the stand-off inside the house. The whispers ceased. Time slowed. Hands clenched together in silent prayer, Linda looked into Greg’s eyes, pleading. He was a stone wall, except for the pulsing through his forehead. Deadlock.

Keys rattled and the door opened and closed with a click. More silence from the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi darling. Have you eaten?” Linda called out without shifting her eyes from Greg. Putting life in her voice was difficult. She wanted to cry. Or scream.

Both the youngsters appeared at the top of the stairs. Dirty. Linda called it punk. To Greg it was a kick in the teeth. Dreamlike, he watched as Josh marched over confidently, fluidly and stuck his hand out in front of him. “G’day Mister D. How’s it?” Like a robot on automatic, Greg smiled and received the handshake.

“Good Josh, nice to see you.” This kid had such great manners, high intellect too, it was difficult not to respond in kind. Every time they met he would feel tricked and violated for receiving him well and kindly in his home. His temples thumped in rebellion.

“Mrs D, looking good as ever. Hit us with one of the crossword clues.” His voice was loud and self-assured in their kitchen.

Linda was looking at her daughter, who was scouring the fridge for what seemed an eternity. She wore a light cheesecloth top, long-sleeved, over a black mini skirt, with those purple Doctor Martins over stripy black and white socks. Her arms looked thin under the light fabric. Her legs were bruised and dirty like a child’s. Linda had to stop herself commenting. She had to stop herself thinking. Just get through this moment, this was her mantra. When her daughter finally turned from the fridge, she looked at the back of her boyfriend’s head. Her cheekbones cut her face sharply.

“Inebriated pirates travel about. I think it’s an anagram.” She turned back to the safe harbour of her crossword.

“OK. Um. Of pirates you reckon?” Grabbing the pen from Linda he scribbled on the side of the newspaper. “Traipse. Travel about. Traipse”, he declared proudly.

“Fuck me, you are good!” Their daughter spoke to the back of his head. They had taught her not to swear. Linda smiled weakly and filled in the blank spaces, her laughter echoing uncomfortably and too loudly. Greg’s jaw clenched. “Let’s go to my room.” Their daughter slipped her hand inside Josh’s hand and steered him toward the hallway. Dirty hands.

“Bye Mrs D, grab me if you need more help. Later Mr. D.” Greg could smell their body odour as they walked past the landing. His blood boiled.

He looked across at his wife seated at the first kitchen table they had ever bought; white and orange laminate with bucket seats that spun on their base. Around this table many years ago they had a family meeting that deteriorated into Linda and his daughter simply begging him to agree to buying a dog. He had relented. Whiskey sat obediently at the back door, quiet, watching, sensing. Family meetings were a place where anything could be discussed freely; problems, grievances, wants and needs. She had never complained; they were happy. She had Greg’s sense of humour, a sense of the ironic. She had Linda’s beautiful face. She was ruining their life.

“What about that hey? Traipse. He’s really quite bright.”

“He’s scum.” His eyes bored holes into the top of her head but she was good at pretending – she’d had lots of practice.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Greg. He’s just like her.”

“She’s scum too.”

“Greg let’s leave it now. We can talk about it later.”

“When later? Later never comes with you. You pussy-foot around and support them and kowtow to them.”

“Greg, I won’t do this now. Stop it.” Linda folded her paper in half and made to stand up.

“No - fuck it Lindy. You’ll fucking listen!” Greg’s temper flared violently, his face red from the exertion. His voice was harsh and loud, shocking her back to her seat. Anger and hurt mingled in his face, tears and rage battling for ascendency. It broke her heart. “We’re supposed to be a team, Lindy, a partnership. I need you to fucking stand by me for once. You always stand by her, I need you to support me.”

Inside their daughter’s room, a yellow sharps bin was open on the floor. Needles and swabs spilled out from a brown paper bag.

“What do you want me to do?” Linda walked to him as he stood and reached for her arms. This was not how it was meant to be; this was not their dream.

A bent silver spoon lay almost submerged in the shag pile carpet of her childhood room. A yellow rock, specks of dirt scattered through it, sat inside the curve.

“I want you to support me. We can’t live like this anymore Linda.” His shoulders fell forward.

Their daughter unpeeled the wrapper from a needle and passed it to Josh, like a nurse handing a scalpel to the surgeon.

“I will. I am. How? What?” Linda allowed him to encase her hands in his, warm and soft.

Their daughter unpeeled a second syringe and pierced the water balloon, drawing back to fill the chamber. Beads of sweat prickled her upper lip. Her hands shook slightly. She passed the finished product to her doctor. His dirty thumb sunk the plunger as water spurted into the tiny spoon, dissolving part of the yellow rock.

“I want her out.”

Nausea washed over her, eyes glued to her yellow salvation.

“What do you mean out? I don’t know what you’re saying.” She tore her hands defensively from his, head shaking in denial and refusal.

Their daughter pulled a filter from the brown paper bag and ripped a small piece from the corner, dropping it into the tiny pool of liquid. It expanded and absorbed the poison. Like symbiotic twins they work in unison, her hand moving away as Josh inserted the needle head into the swollen filter.

“For fuck sakes Linda!” He wanted to shake her; shake her into reality, and scream the truth until she faced it. “Out of the house. I won’t have her living here anymore. With him and her scum bag friends. She’s not getting better, she’s laughing in our face. All her friends are laughing in our face. It’s enough. I won’t have it anymore. This is my fucking house and I want her out.”

He filled the first syringe and sucked the last of the liquid into the cold steel trap. She pulled the plunger from the second syringe with a pop. Placing it between her teeth like a rose, she expertly dispensed half of the first syringe’s contents into her open vessel. Delicately she flicked each bubble down and inched the plunger higher and higher. By the time she was ready, Josh had cleaned up the spoon and put away the contents of the brown bag, organised and efficient. Their ritual was nearly complete.

“But Greg, we can’t kick her out. What would she do? Anything might happen. She won’t be safe out there.”

Each grabbed their tourniquet of choice, him a belt, she just by squeezing her upper bicep to the side a few times and flexing her fist. Her veins jumped to attention. “I swear you were built for this.” Josh laughed, flicking his needle. Her veins were the envy of many a user. Fat, wide, easy to hit.

“She’s not safe here! When are you going to face up to it?”

The needle broke the surface, scraping through her scar tissue, red angry marks up and down the vein. Breath slowed, focused, jack back, blood billows, liquid red, beautiful, direct hit, push the plunger down, down, sharp intake of breath, tingles, prickles, finger lightly across her body, crawl up the back of the neck, head rocks forward, nods down, down, down, drift.

Linda shook her head from side to side, her face scrunched up to halt the tears. “You can’t kick her out, Greg. I won’t let you.”

She was nodding, head bobbing forward, inching toward her knees, down down down. He nestled back against the foot of the bed and drifted, contentment flowing through his body, eyes rolled back under quivering lids.

“Our daughter’s a fucking junkie, don’t you get it? I can’t take it anymore. No more.”

Their daughter’s shoulders were hunched forward, head almost dropping into her lap.

“We love her Greg, we can’t kick her out. No.”

A trickle of crimson blood made its way down her arm in a rivulet stream.

“It’s because we love her that we have to do this. Don’t you see? It’s so easy for her here.” Tears pricked his eyes.

Drifting she has forgotten to breathe.

“Greg, please no, I won’t let you.” Her words were swallowed up by his embrace. She wept in his arms. She was hopeless.

Silence descended except for Josh’s laboured breath as his eyes chased dreams of escape in the back of his head.

“It’s me or her.”

Her breath slowed to a halt.

Linda looked up into the eyes of the man she loved. “But she’s your daughter.”

Her lips turned blue.

“And I’m your husband.”

Home sick

2011-06-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

So surrounded by cleanness, I feel dirty. Copenhagen. I loved this city, but then the cold hit and the sun no longer lit the world. Summer was lovemaking and laughter. Winter now heartache and pain, our game in vain. Oh with stain glassed beauty, I miss my blood. Continents and oceans do nothing to silence the call from home.

I try hard to own my reality. Fearless I rise to face what little sun there is. But so palpably fear lives, lurking close, breathing rudely, face ripping heart tearing mind from limb, restricting movement.

It is so powerful for a thing that is not true. Feelings are not facts I mantra every day. Is there a dance to go with that beat?

Lost in moments divine, sick with pain, crippled by self, I need to get out.

Loathing. Don’t you know insanity breeds easy? My mind a magnet, fear a fact, opposites attracted but now home calls and its factored into the equation and the love won’t add up.

While I battle with turmoil and wear the blame, I love him. I say it every day in a different way. But where’s my casual freedom, I’ll run away cause I need some. He is nice. All sex appeal and, do you want to watch me drool? Mother fucker get a bucket, he makes me crazy like a sex puppet.

can I fuck it?

combine, a soothing word. But Synchronicity, we just ain’t got it. Face up to the fact, even if it feels like a smack to the face and a punch in the heart, it’s a start because it’s honest. Loveless and lightless and Copen in the Hagen! I want to be asunder in the land down under.

Back in my day...

2011-06-09T20:37:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s a sign of my age, but it seems to me like the young people of today don’t care about much. I cringe to hear the statement, and I can see the caricature now. I know I’d be depicted as old and wrinkly, maybe grey haired, definitely stern looking, shaking my finger at some poor, unsuspecting youths doing nothing worse than having fun. Back in my day young people had manners, or, when I was young I would walk to school in the wind, rain, hail or snow, she would say, shaking her head in dismay. Despite the obvious stereotype of a moaning old person who has forgotten what it is like to be young, I stand by my conviction.

The fight is supposed to come from the youth. They are the ones who traditionally push against the status quo, they have the balls and the stupidity combined to put it out there. Aren’t they supposed to feel 10 foot tall and bullet proof? And with that sass and confidence, use it to make a statement to the world, to their parents, to the ruling class? When I was 15, I was all about the green party and saving the environment, by 16 I was marching in hemp rallies, by 18 I was canvasing for indigenous rights. The details don’t matter. The point is I was marching, I was engaged, I was aware. I acknowledged a wider community around my tiny, immediate world and believed I could make a difference. Furthermore I wanted to make a difference.

I remember when the first McDonald’s opened in the suburb I grew up in. I was completely aghast and abhorred by its invasion into our community. I was becoming deeply committed to environmental causes at the time and had recently heard that McDonalds beef was grazed in hectares and hectares of destroyed Amazon forest. But the answer wasn’t just to boycott McDonalds. Some friends and I set up a sausage sizzle, Aussie style, just off their premises on public land, right before the drive thru. For every potential customer that came to sample the wares of the McDonalds chain store, we stole at least as many with our $1 home-made hot dogs, barbequed on the spot.

I feel proud of those days, stirring trouble, making a scene, and I notice that the youth of today are absent in the streets. Is it that it’s all been done before? Or are young people jaded so early these days that they simply give up on the hope for change before they even hit puberty? I don’t know the answer but I do know that, (lifting bony finger to shake), back in my day…..

Skin Deep

2011-06-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

The Duchess stared in the mirror as the last remnant of her most recent mask disintegrated and crumbled to the floor. An involuntary shudder passed through her as she faced the reality of her ghastly face. Her skin was drooping, and jowls had formed around her mouth and chin. Deep creases reached out like tentacles from her mouth and eyes, distorting her face into that of an old hag. This cursed aging skin was her most hated enemy. She wanted to rip it from her face and feed it to some wretched animal. Like the wretched woman she had become since he left her. Her heart lifted a little as she reached for her suitcase, knowing it contained all the tools for her salvation.

Long ago the Duchess had been the toast of high society, beautiful, charming and witty. Enraptured by her lover, she had lived in a parallel universe to the one she now inhabited. Transported with joy, he worshipped her equally. Yet as time passed, his gaze was less and less frequent until it no longer lingered upon her at all. Finally her rejection was complete. The years had stolen her beauty and with it her man. The Duchess was scared. She had stopped smiling, hoping this would stop the wrinkles forming around her mouth, but still they encroached her beautiful face. So she stopped moving her face at all. Her communication soon lacked any form of gesture or animation. All her good humour was swallowed by this vanity. She imagined him laughing and snickering at her fading beauty, shocked by her grotesque face. The Duchess envied with rage the string of young women he wooed. She wanted their firm, tight skin, rip it from their face and wear it like jewels upon her own. Tear him from their arms and bring him home.

As she distractedly fingered the smooth furrows of the beautifully aged leather suitcase, her attention was caught by a photo in the social pages. A burst of sickening jealousy pulsed through her. Enraged she snatched up the paper to see his latest conquest. The girl, radiant with youth, stood in his arms laughing. He was intoxicated by her, gazing at her face like he once did hers. Her hand drifted to her own face, dry and fallen, and she screamed the howl of a child.

The crack of the coach master’s whip lifted her from her pain. She quickly confirmed that everything she needed was in place. The scalpel was sharp and shiny, her heart steely with the courage to reclaim her love. She looked again at the girl in the paper lustfully. Her skin was soft and smooth and plump, her perfect new mask. Preparing the scalpel, the Duchess stepped into the shadowy night to steal her youth.

Beware wrinkles

2011-06-09T20:31:00.001-07:00

Next time you see an old person, and I mean any old person no matter how sweet or frail or kindly they might look, run for your life! They are bloody hazardous. And if they are wearing a matching tracksuit set, then they are downright dangerous.

You see they’ve reached that golden age where their physical and sometimes even mental capacities have deteriorated to such a degree that they can do as they please. There must be something about this ancient, doddery look that stirs in us nostalgia; or is it hope for some lost notion of family and community? In that sweet, wrinkly old face all the lost innocence of the ages exists, and suddenly our tough street sense evaporates and we actually want to sing “Kumbaya” and go to Carols by Candlelight.

I mean people we need to get a grip! If anyone else reversed directly into my car without bothering to turn their head and check behind them, I’d be ready to kill. But sweet old Cecil is granted complete immunity, especially when he takes half an hour to tell me all about his crook neck, along with the rest of his life story. If any of my mates decided they needed a toilet stop every half hour on the way to the coast, I’d make them wait, but lovely little shrunken Josephine with her saggy, soft skin can walk at 0.000001km per hour to the rest stop from the car and I will smile and sigh “isn’t she wonderful”.

The benefit I suppose is that one day it will be our turn, and then we can hide behind those very cute wrinkly bits and get away with murder.

On memory

2011-06-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

Isn’t it funny that our adult idea of mischief is dark and gruesome when compared to our childhood adventures? And yet that innocent mischief of yesteryear certainly leaves an impression deep enough to remember.

I have never forgotten the exciting, albeit absurd, week I had walking the kilometre or so home from school in Grade One. My two girlfriends and I would plan our attack with glee, and even though we repeated the same thing four days in a row, we didn’t tire of it.

The game plan! Sneak up to random house with front door open. Rattle letterbox noisily and call “post”. Hide behind tree and wait. Giggle uproariously if someone actually came to the door to look.

Did we convince ourselves that they came to the door because they really believed it was the mailman? I can’t be 100 per cent sure, but I actually think we did. I cringe at the stupidity, the simplicity, the unimaginativeness of our ploy. But I smile too. Because it is from a world I can never occupy again. It’s a headspace I can never resurrect. I can’t relate to the little girl who had such genuine fun, thinking she was oh so naughty and sneaky, rattling the letterbox to trick the homeowner. I think that’s why she is all the more special. She’s gone and ought to be remembered.

The Sugar Dump

2011-06-09T20:10:00.000-07:00

When the sugar hits,

it’s a body blitz.

Floating on air-born strips of jelly,

shapeless, formless, pink happiness - my belly.

Wobbling and jiggling and blobbing along,

the sugar cube wave carries your song.

You are fairy floss on a Malibu,

Shooting through a chocolate tube,

joy wrapped in candy, riding a lemonade shandy.

The wave peaks up and begins to curl,

Suddenly, an urge to hurl.

Your high is done, you’re out of fun,

The wave crashes, you’ve been overrun.

In roll the dumpers, churning fury,

your lolly shop story turning gory.

For higher and higher the sugar hit,

foretells the depth of the self-hate pit.

Now you’re riding slippery slides of butter,

Greasy, oily pools of shudder.

The wave transforms to a couch of filth,

Oozing through the seams and dripping from the beams,

Sugar coated dreams, to fat screams.

From king of the castle,

where all was possible,

to festering doubt,

until the next sugar bout.