The Present

Sandy bit her nails. The lure of the satin pink and midnight silk were tempting – and the stuff that marriages were made of, she thought. Never mind the idealistic 'true love’ and ‘soul mate’ blah blah blah her elders had told her about – let alone the ‘brother/father’ feeling that was supposed to indicate a good match – that had to be even more ridiculous. In the end, it all came down to what happened in the bedroom. Surely that’s what seemed to doom all the failed marriages her friends had told her about.

“Beyond Sexy" - the sign hovering just below the holy month reminder and just above the scantily clad mannequins - promised the answer. Sandy bit her nails again.

“Not for you.” A male voice distilled her from her thoughts.

She whipped around to find a male shop attendant (in a place like this?) standing next to her.

“I beg your pardon?” She was more than taken aback by the bluntness of his statement, not to mention a little offended.

“You don’t need it.”

“What? Don’t need what?”

“That.”

For someone whose job it was to sell, he wasn’t doing it well, she thought. How odd!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sandy quipped. “Perhaps you should mind your own business.”

“Ramadhan Kareem,” he greeted – wishing her generous blessings of the holy month.

She walked out of the shop, disturbed by the interaction. Who was he to say that? How did he know what she had sort of been thinking? At once she was mortified to realise perhaps it had been written all over her face. She couldn’t let it rest.

Sandy turned on her heels and marched back into the shop. That was no way for a sales assistant to be speaking to a customer, no matter what.

“Excuse me,” Sandy approached the female cashier. “Can I speak to your manager?”

“I am the manager,” the young woman replied sheepishly. “Short-handed today. How can I help you?”

“I would like to lodge a complaint about one of your sales assistants. He was really quite out of line.”

The young woman looked at her blankly. “I’m the only one here today. We don’t have any sales assistants on the floor….”

“That’s impossible,” Sandy interrupted. “He came right up to me and told me I didn’t need this lingerie.”

The young woman smiled sweetly. “Well, I don’t know who that was, but it sounds like quite a gift.”



Jasmin Webb

Bums and losers

They met at a birthday party.

‘Bums and losers’ Andrew called most of the people there – janitors with poetic pretentions, housewives with artistic delusions, the long-term unemployed. Red wine and cigarettes.

Gerard fitted right in.

How Deborah had seemed to fit in was a mystery. It is even a mystery as to why she was there – she didn’t even know the person whose birthday it was.

But somehow they ended up dancing and then it was as if twenty-five years of life apart was like a vacuum that sucked them irresistibly together. The Sun was coming up and everybody had gone home when they discovered they had spent the whole evening sitting on the windowsill lost in each other. The great affair had begun.

It was not to be expected – Gerard was a bum and a loser, Deborah was a consultant and a millionaire.

When, months later, he was taken home to meet Mother, he got lost in the family house and spent quite some time wandering in circles before being rescued and guided back to where he was trying to get. Mother took the pair of them for a drive in her carriage. Her carriage!

That birthday party had been not long before Christmas. For Christmas, Gerard gave her a small gourd decorated by some African with pokerwork elephants; Deborah gave him a book – but a book made of porcelain, an objet d’art, a porcelain sparrow alighted on the edge of a porcelain book.

‘… it is
lost as the song
of a violin in an
avalanche –
All I see are
eyes glazed with
thin pain, the
shattered diamond,
shards piercing
the quiet with
brilliant points;
the broken ring.’

It was only years later, when she was wowing high society in New York city and he was – still a bum and a loser in the sticks, that he discovered that the piece was by a famous Japanese monk artist and was worth an arm and the leg.

Perhaps he would hock it off now to some rich collector.



Barnaby McBryde

Happy Ramadan

     Dear Mum

     Greetings from the Caliphate. Hope all is well for you in the belly of the Britannic Satan. Give Mog a pat from me.

     Things progress well here – we are making great strides against the enemies of God.

     It is good to be spending Ramadan with the brothers. We feel very close together.

     With Eid drawing near I am thinking a lot about gifts to give the brothers. I know that the world thinks we are all faceless fanatics but we are in fact a very diverse bunch – which makes choosing gifts quite a chore.

     There are the guys who only need some pyjamas and an AK-47 to be happy. What can you get the man who has everything? These hardy jihadis are the toughest to buy for. But even all the others are not much better.

     There are an unusual number of fat brothers (you don’t want to get one of them as the gunner on the back of your Toyota pickup) – the lardy jihadis; there are the guys who seem to spend half the day in bed while the rest of us are advancing the cause – the tardy jihadis; there are the guys who think they are better than all the rest of us – the dahdee dahdee jihadis; there is one guy who seems to have some gender identity issues – we call him the pink-cardie jihadi. Some of the guys seem to be here more for the fun than for the cause – the mardi gras-de jihadis; and then there is a small group who, to me, don’t seem to be very serious Muslims at all – the Bacardi jihadis but, as the great Roman Satan priest says, ‘Who am I to judge?’.

     All this makes holiday shopping quite the headache. Good to get people something they like though.

     Have a great Eid there.

     Any time, you are more than welcome to join us here in the Caliphate and participate in doing God’s work.

     Much love

     Your faithful son



Dhiraja

The Present

Right now, right here.

I give to you, a present.

Because I am here, right now, right here.

“I came, didn’t I?” I smiled at her, the girl with the endless glare.

“Empty handed,” she says through gritted teeth. With a roll of her eyes, she turns away harshly from me and walks away.

“It’s nice that you came.” I turn to the voice behind me. He smiles weakly, giving a friendly pat of my shoulder.

“I had to,” I reply, returning his contact. “Didn’t I?”

He shakes his head. With a final weak smile, he too walks in the direction of the girl. She looks up at him as he stands beside her, with an expression I can’t fathom. Is she happy? Is she sad? As if she felt my stare, she abruptly throws a glare in my direction. His gaze follows her eyes, but he does not mimic the coldness of her eyes when he finds me. Instead, he pulls her away, out of my eyesight. I do not bother to find them again.

My mind begins to wander, what if I just stayed in front of my couch and binge watched Netflix instead of being in the middle of this depressing social gathering?

Because it’s her birthday, I remind myself.

He comes into sight once more, and motions for me to follow him upstairs. I oblige, without even recognizing which angel possessed me today, all the way to his bedroom.

“You’re the only person she wants in this party, that’s why she’s… disappointed you were late and did not bring her a present,” he explains while rummaging through a box.

“After what she said to me yesterday, she should be glad I came,” I huff.

“She loves you,” he reminds me, his voice low and gentle. “Here.”

I take whatever it is he handed me. It’s a scrapbook. I look at him in wonder and he shrugs, leaving me inside the room to open the piece of art in my hands.

I flicker through the pages, finding my face frequently amongst the beautiful scraps of paper listing the dates of our relationship. The first movie we watched together, our trip to Disneyland, the swings I pushed her off of when we were 5…

“It’s yours,” her voice startles me. “Your present.”

Her voice trembles with every syllable, her eyes glistening even in the dim lighting from the hallway. She stands stiffly, and I don’t dare approach her glaring figure.

I smile at her and start to laugh when she cries.

“Did you really think that I would show up here without a present?”

“Other than your presence? No.”

“Here,” I pull out a perfectly wrapped pink present from my pocket. “Now you have two presents.”


Katya Tjahaja

Mary Mulligan's Soliloquy

that phone call from Bridget reminds me would Millie I think she would xmas has changed over the years I can remember the dozens of Xmas cards mum and dad used to get they are nearly a thing of the past I am certainly not able to rush round town Xmas shopping now would Barney and Leo like the idea I wonder what they would come up with should I test the water or should I just do it and see what happens come to think of it the meaning or the celebration of Xmas itself has changed hasnt it I wonder is it me here I am thinking of ways to avoid Xmas shopping I used to love the hustle and bustle and the deliberations would they he she like or not like mmmmmmm i used to come home sit down have a cigarette and complain even then nearly everybody smoked in those days that certainly has changed and for the better where was I yes the hustle and bustle of Xmas was fun I will buy the jars tomorrow I wonder if everybody would think that the jar idea would be fun even the kind of Xmas music has changed maybe that is because the emphasis on church has changed this idea could work instead of Xmas crackers no I think we will try the no present idea see what happens I think presents for children should remain for the present at any rate that reminds me i have not got a present for Millies birthday next week thats easy I will just send a fifty dollar note maybe a set of movie passes the churches come to think of it a lot of them over my lifetime have changed to secular use or been demolished or are empty especially in the country how about a card not a professional one from a stationer this will give everybody the option maybe I could dictate one present one person with everybody having computers these days they will have to make one up the girls will love that I will send an email to them that one of the instructions in the main message should include the words I will yes I will I wiillll yes I wiiiiiiiiilllllllll

She drifted off and slept.


Grant Ward



Based on Molly Bloom's soliloquy from James Joyce’s Ulysses

Einstein’s stubbornly persistent illusion

Thanks guv...very kind of you..ah, that’s a brilliant cuppa… You ever stopped to think about tea? No? I have, quite a lot. Strange thing, just a few leaves floating about in hot water. But it’s a tonic … don’t you reckon? There’s nothing it can’t fix...Ok, let me ask you this? What’s the first thing you think of when there’s been an upset? Put the kettle on, right?… Oh, sure, mostly us Brits, I’ll give you that... I think about it alot, sitting here… camellia sinensis… that’s the botanical name. Not because I haven’t got anything else to think about, mind you. I have, plenty... I just like to pay attention, be a bit mindful...there’s a buzzword for you… focus on the moment...You’d think that everyone would do the same, wouldn’t you? Live in the present, I mean. But they don’t guv... look at these people, most of them a million miles away…. Like, that guy, the one coming towards us … navy overcoat and burberry scarf, phone stuck to his ear. I see him every day bounding up the escalator from the Bakerloo.. Want to bet he’s headed for the City? A trader, I’m guessing. Shares, futures… Whatever he’s talking about, it’s not the here and now, I guarantee it. No sir, tomorrow, next week, next year... And you know what? When next week or next year comes, he’ll be there on the Bakerloo talking about the next week or the year after ….chasing pots of gold to his grave. And what about the woman, there, with the red carryall. See her?...Used to travel with a chap, could’ve been her husband. Smiling, holding hands, they were. A kiss goodbye at the ticket office every morning… Not any more. Alone since before Christmas. Break-up, maybe worse. Whatever happened, she’s in another world now... She’d say hello.. look at her - like the walking dead... she’s had happier days, nothing surer… Me? I live in the ever-present now, guv, me and my begging bowl. I’m the point of stillness in Einstein’s four-dimensional spacetime, I am….oh don’t look surprised. I’ve got a Masters in Physics... Never thought I’d end up like this, homeless, sitting in a tube station all day...just happened. One minute you’re an aerospace engineer, next minute laid off...a hundred and fifty-nine applications, no-one calls back...not at my age. Drink a bit much, no more savings then you can’t pay the rent...like I said, it just happens. Still, I make enough for a curry and a beer… what’s that?...Ok, nice chatting...take it easy, guv... and cheers again for the tea.


Rosemary McBryde

The Butterfly at the Disco

The world rushed back into focus as Barrett slid off the headphones and replaced them in the basket at the pavilion’s mouth. As the daylight stole his vision and the dream state of the dancefloor, he felt Mary’s hand on his shoulder as she tumbled out behind him.

“Mate! That silent disco might have been the peak of my life. Your presents are almost too good Barrett – I’m not sure if I’ll ever be this happy again.”

They pushed toward the bar as the screech of the nearby main stage indicated that Miley Cyrus hadn’t yet finished her slot. Mary cringed. “Ugh, that girl is garbage. There goes my zen moment!”

Barrett signalled them into the fastest-moving queue. “Mary, I’ve been on your arse for years about meditation.”

“Yes you have, pal. I just think my experience of breathing is already rich enough. Plus, if I have a thought, I typically want to follow it instead of letting it dissipate into the ether. My brain is an interesting place!”

“Didn’t you ever read Elbert Hubbard? You know – ‘we are gods in the chrysalis’?”

Mary sneered. “I always thought he sounded conceited.”

Barrett ordered two beers before turning back to her. “Conceited? Nah. ‘Gods’ is just a representation of the paramount state of being; something like honouring the biology and tradition that made you, and acting with truth and virtue despite the inexorable tragedy of existence.”

“Keep the change, man,” Mary dispensed with a twenty and they shuffled back into the sunshine. “That’s all fine, but acting with virtue and feeling like an irate piece of shit are still perfectly compatible.”

“Ha-ha, yes! Cheers,” Barrett knocked his cup against hers and took a generous guzzle. “That’s the point of the chrysalis, my friend: thought trumps deed, and you create your future self in the things to which you pay attention right now. It’s like this: say you fix in your mind that you’ll be a grand architect, and suddenly every time you walk down a street you’ll be soaking in the work of previous architects, noticing things that will literally facilitate this future. Optimism is the same.”

Mary nodded into her cup and gulped in agreement. “Sometimes when I’m checking out a fit guy in public, I’ll pretend that I’m a fashion designer so that I can feel exonerated from my voyeurism.”

Barrett chuckled. “That’s a twisted example, but also a perfect one. The point is that it’s not the circumstances in which you find yourself that matter the most; it’s the state of mind you build that actually shapes your experience in the present.”

The squeal of ten-thousand teenage girls erupted in the distance, and Mary’s face softened. “Ah, hell. Let them have their fun.”

“That’s the spirit. “Barrett drained his beer and let out a tidy belch. “You can’t be too judgemental if you want to keep dancing like that.”

“Oh piss off, brain-on-legs!” Mary spied a friend and ran to greet them, and Barrett smirked.



Brendan McBryde

The Present

Just to put you in the picture, Isabella was 75, a widow and at times she would get confused with names but she could still do puzzles and look after herself.

She was at the time of life when the first thing you read in the paper is the death notice column and this morning Isabella saw that a friend of a few years ago had died. The funeral was tomorrow. Robyn had been the lady who came and did her garden and never pulled the wrong plants out and over a cup of tea would put the world to rights. But Isabella had moved into a smaller place and the small garden she found she could manage herself.

So Isabella rang her daughter and said she was off to this funeral the next day and would use her Gold Card to get the bus to St. Aiden’s church. Now in the other direction was St. Andrew’s and St Patrick’s and the Methodist Church.

Daughter Barbara said, "Whose funeral is it this time?"

“It’s Robyn’s."

"But you haven't seen her for years. Why do you have to go to every one's departure? It’s almost an every week occurrence."

That didn't put Isabella off and next day she caught the bus to St Aiden’s for the service at 10.30. When she got there she saw the hearse at the front door but no-one around. The vicar came out of the church and said,"No it’s alright, come in. Just sign the attendance list with your address.”

Isabella thought, that's odd I don't usually put my address but if that is what I have to do, I'd better do it.

10.30 came and when she looked around there were only two other men there. The vicar began the service and said, "We have come today to honour the life of Mr Robert Ainsworth." Isabella thought, oh heck I'm at the wrong service. Perhaps it was at St.Andrews but I can hardly leave now.

It wasn't a very long service and she tried to slip away quietly but one of the men said "We would like you to come to the late Mr Ainsworth's lawyer, Mr William Hollbrook's chamber next Friday at 2 p.m.”

Later that day Barbara rang her mum and asked how the funeral went. Isabella said, "I went to St. Aiden's but I see by the paper I should have gone to St.Andrew’s. The one I went to was for a Mr Robert Ainsworth. There was only me and two older men and now I have to go his lawyer's chambers next Friday at 2.30 p.m.”

"Oh mum, what have you got yourself into?"

Isabella had some sleepless nights but at last Friday came and with butterflies in her tummy she appeared at the lawyer. There were the two men again who were at the funeral. The lawyer opened his file of Mr Ainsworth and proceded to say that as Mr Ainsworth was a very private man he had left his estate to those who came to the funeral. Isabella's share was $500,000!

The last laugh was on daughter Barbara.


Margaret Hawkey

May

A certain person who used to write said "The starters are getting too enigmatic. How about this? It's got a nice ambiguity about it". I agree, so here it is. Just for our former writer who is now expected to submit a story this month: The Present.

Stories to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 31 May. Happy writing.