Let's Gone Warriors

At some point, we all probably do crazy things in our lives; buy a car with a gasket that’s due to blow, find what we think is the perfect partner until he has one too many beers or maybe have an online rant about the boss believing it’s perfectly justified in the light of a bottle of chardonnay and one reprimand too many. There can be nothing more satisfying than settling back in the weekend, beer in hand and putting on your favourite team and wearing them like a suit of armour, taking a dividend from their on-field success and sticking it in your own little victory piggy bank. But now that chubby little piggy has been turned upside down and gyrated more times than a cocktail shaker at a James Bond convention, the absence of any ceramic rattle indicating that the party has been over for a while. In 2014, a new fullback was named (‘the best fullback in England!’); he was to be the saviour of the club, a man signed on a huge contract who would score tries aplenty. When he eventually left in 2016 with barely a whimper, he was replaced by a man known affectionately as RTS, (‘the quickest fullback in Australia!)’ RTS was complemented the following season to create the holy trinity of the game (‘the best spine in the game!’)/  Despite all the prophetic signings, the team grappled with other cellar dwellers for the ignominy of the wooden spoon.

‘When I die, I want these guys to be the ones to lower me into the grave so they can let me down one more time’ went the internet meme. Black was the colour of the kit and the ashes that remained after a public burning of the jerseys by fans was posted on Facebook. In some quarters it was quietly asked how many partners and spouses indirectly wore the black and blue frustrations of loose fists in the aftermath within the blue collar industrial heartland of the team.

This year no great fanfare, some alterations to the coaching staff were made and the usual post-season player movements that all teams make were enacted like a gypsy day for professional sports people. The disappointments of the previous seasons, while not forgotten, were overshadowed by a lack of expectation on the media’s behalf and other sports stories that garnered more attention.

The first away game was recorded as a win, the first against this team in this distant location in twelve attempts. Heads turned, attention now turning to the first home game of the season. Another win sees the team firmly in the headlights of a now-interested media pack. The third game is won in spectacular fashion, the team now one of only two unbeaten teams. Fans rush to replace the burnt jerseys and buy seats at the next game while police hope for less trade in domestic conflict.

‘Don’t mention the play-offs’ pleads a desperate radio jock.

This could be the year.



Andrew Hawkey

Eleusis

It is like stars in the deep of the night sky over the hills of Sainte Foy, glimpsed beyond Romanesque architecture; it is like the phosphorescence of thought spreading; like endless flight across the sea of stars; it is like the elephants that, when the Moon is new, go down to the river and solemnly bathe – a holy baptism – and salute the Moon before returning to the woods; it is like the toheroa along Te Oneroa a Tohe that, in the night, thrust themselves up from the sand as the waves crash up the beach so that they may be carried higher up or lower down the beach to feed on diatoms, their shells scintillant beneath the Moon like the dragon teeth that Jason planted in distant Colchis; it is like the light of the world born in a dark stable with animals; it is like running, lost, in the cold, wet, dark of the bush of the Coromandel hills, blind and fearful of death, and the tiny, blue, luminescent points of light of glow worms marking the edge of the trail; it is like the orange fungi, smaller than half a little fingernail, growing from rotting wood in long, lush, green, wet grass, each a white stalk topped by an orange honeycomb of flesh; it is like mycelium crawling as an unseen net through soil and leafmould, intertwining with the roots of trees, the biggest living thing on Earth; it is the Eleusinian revival here in the world of weaponised consumerism. The tide has turned.

Dhiraja

Design

He realised afterwards that it was best not to read emails that were not meant for him – emails that were about him rather than for him.

It had been useful to get forwarded the email about Anne’s requests regarding the cover of her book – not so useful that that email included a whole thread of earlier discussion about the matter by other people, people that he thought – had thought – respected him.

The wooden bridge over Oruarangi awa was the gateway to a better place. As Anthony crossed, a matuku moana rose from the railing of the bridge with slow flapping wings and a prehistoric call.

This was where the stream met the harbour. Rarely had he seen the tide so full. The water was entirely still, silvery like mercury, seeming thick and viscous as if the invisible Moon stretched it to its maximum. On the other side, he ran, high stepping through the long grass, around the slopes of the two maunga, past the spring to the field where the herd grazed.

Glennis: PS Between you and me only, I think many of the new colours clash and are very OTT. Is there any chance of getting an actual designer or two to make some suggestions?

Andrea: I myself have encountered a few grumbles with the typesetters (yes they are set in their ways) but with a few nudges they give in eventually.

Baby Siegfried lifted his milky nose from nursing and the forty individuals of the herd walked over to greet Anthony. He sang for them. Two of the mother cows nuzzled at him. He waved them goodbye and headed back, past the kaitiaki village, down the line of pines to bittern swamp and back along the coastal track to the bridge.

The tide had turned and poured in swirling, muscled flows, powerful and relentless, seaward.

Barnaby McBryde

Holy Island

As the tide recedes, the vehicles snake across the causeway. The water draws back and where once there was only the surface of the sea, now there is a ribbon of tarmac, steaming dry.

A millennium ago, I trod that path on tidal mudflats more times than I can count. A humble subject of nature’s relentless rhythm, I too waited for the path to rise from the sea. Not even a Bishop can command the waves to part. Oh, how often I wished to follow in the footsteps of my Lord and walk upon those waters! The mile to the the mainland was where I fixed my gaze on what lay ahead, each time prepared for death at the hands of pagan England - my blood poured out or my bones trampled like dung in the streets - while praying it would not be so.

Even now, the end of the journey for the visitors is on foot, as they make their pilgrimage from the carpark. Where there was only the quiet hum of village life, now there is a buzz of approaching voices, like the distant swarm in the monastery’s apiary where gentle Ambrose would collect honey for mead.

I have my back to them. Not my choice, you understand, but who has the luxury of deciding how they are portrayed? My way was always to visit face to face, to speak the milk of gentle doctrine to my people in their homes and villages. I walked until my feet were blistered and broken, a servant of King Oswald and of my God. And then always, back here, back to Lindisfarne, to peace and healing.

Why do they come? Is it the novelty of the causeway alone, for there are more than enough castles and fine abbeys, from Melrose to Tintern? Perhaps there is a Moses in every human heart that wants to believe he can command the waves. For me, I have faith that the transformative power of one small island has lasted down the ages and amidst the necessity of stalls and cafes and memorabilia, there is stillness and peace to be found here.

My face is lifted to the sky, where gulls circle and cry, swooping to the sea. To my left, the lofty castle. Ahead of me, what remains of my beloved Priory upon whose walls I leant and, one day, died. The visitors stroll the transept and nave. So many languages, like Babel I muse, although my stony gaze gives nothing away. I am photographed from every angle, in groups, in silhouette or moody shadow. Quite the celebrity!

The tide turns, and the water creeps back. In just a few hours it begins to lick the causeway and the last of the visitors return to their cars and dice with danger to journey back to the mainland. Above me, the gulls whorl, the clouds pattern the sky below jet stream. I remain.

Rosemary McBryde

Sweet talk

His words were so sweet, it made my teeth ache. There he was, in all his glory, throwing his head back and slapping a hand against his lap. I hated him. I hated him. I hated him.

“My wife here,” He extended an arm towards me, calling me over. I stood up and strode towards him, not paying attention to the sounds his poison-filled lips were making. I smiled at his guests, the ones that smiled back. I pity them, they feel obliged to be here, standing before the multimillionaire I have the burden to call mine.

Just a few more hours, just a few more hours…

“Well, it is rare to find a woman who is both captivating and able to speak like a man,” one of his business partners states, as if it were a compliment.

“Yes, I am still looking for one,” he retorts, and I crumple my fist hard enough for blood to peek through the palms of my hand. But they laugh, and they laugh and laugh again.

“But I pay her enough to stay here with me.” He smiles at me, like I do not understand English. He strokes the back of my hand forcefully, his nails digging through the flesh of my palms. His eyes demand that I smile, so I comply.

Just a few more hours, just a few more hours…

“Thank you for coming, we look forward to having you back.” He firmly gives his last handshake before we stand together, watching the cars drive away. I anticipate a slap from him, but it never comes. Instead, we stand there in silence, a slight fear unable to shake my intention for the night.

“And darling, thank you. After that dinner, we might even buy a new mansion.” He laughs, walking back inside the house. “Come in, come in…”

Now, now…

He sits there on the couch, reading a magazine. I walk towards him, unnoticed by the sharp eyes and dangerous intuition of the man in front of me. I walk towards him, raising my hand to aim just between his eyes, above his nose. I walk towards him and stop just three inches away.

It is not until the gun clicks that he looks up at me.

“Darling?” He starts, his eyes wandering from mine to the firearm in my palms. I instinctively clutch the gun with two hands, my eyes never leaving him. “We can talk through this, I can give you money, I can-“

“Shut up.” My grip firms on the handle. He closes his mouth.

“I control you, darling. You live because of me. You serve at my pleasure.”

“Not anymore,” I press the barrel against his forehead. “The tide has turned.”

Katya Tjahaja

It could happen

She knew what she would find when she opened her email that morning – she had guiltily been expecting it for a few days now and was hoping she would have a witty reply when it did, but she hadn’t yet, so when it did appear, she had to give him credit for waiting so long to ask. She knew the end of the month was indeed approaching and she should have finished by now.

“How are you getting on with it?”

She bit into the salted tempe cracker – one of the foods she loved in this Asian country to which she was returning after several long bitter months in the cold of the West – wiped the sweat from her brow (why did she always perspire after eating), took a sip of the soft drink that for some reason tasted SO much better in this country than its own, and pulled out the computer.

“Yeah yeah, I’m getting on with it…” she muttered to no one, and that’s when it happened.

“Ayo! Ayo! Keluar! Astagh firullah….keluar! Keluar!!” Some local was suddenly shouting for everyone to get out. Very strange for this gentle culture where any kind of commotion was taboo. She turned her head towards the door – left open just a touch to allow the hot air to circulate through the apartment – to see who was making the fuss, when the panicked voice was drowned out by a tremendous force of sudden wind that blew the door open and knocked her off her chair.

“Ampunilah, Tuhan! Ampun!” Someone begging for God’s mercy and forgiveness returned her to consciousness. Her cat, previously luxuriating on the couch, was tucked under her arm there on the floor, meowing loudly, as if she were the one begging forgiveness.

“What the…..what’s going on?” she hazily wondered, bringing herself upright, cat in her arms. The wimpering and crying outside melded into a dull roar as she surveyed her apartment. Nothing irreparable, except the computer perhaps, laying smashed on the floor – otherwise just papers strewn everywhere as if an angry god had thrown a tantrum.

With the cat still meowing and clutching her arm, refusing to be released to the unreliable ground, she walked towards the doorway where she saw her local neighbors huddled together, crying, wimpering, begging forgiveness of an unseen force.

“What happened?” she asked.

One raised his head from the huddle.

“The tide has turned,” he said, and returned to praying.

Jasmin Webb

March

We are heading into the autumn /spring equinox. There's change in the air. Viewed from my window, the Bay below is constantly on the move.  With this idea of fluidity in mind, the Artistic Director has come up with The tide has turned to inspire us for March.

As usual, 300-500 word stories to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 31 March.

Happy writing, one and all.