The dance of fucking life

The sky is low and grey but the rain does not fall now. A large lake has formed along one side of the sodden paddock from the rain that has fallen, and, as the bull advances along the hedge he raises a bow wave, a surge of water before his bulk, stirred by his massive legs. He is a dreadnought ploughing through the sea.

Remember the horse chestnut trees that grew in Malvern Park and the beauty of the fresh-split green spiked husks and, seen within, the shining chestnut – not a uniform brown but a gradation from almost-black to most russet of browns, gleaming? It is the colour of the great Hereford bull, shades of dark russet against the tones of his head and chest – Isabella white – his head, huge and square, all woolly and fearsome, hunched below his bulking shoulders.

The barberry hedge has ivy growing in it and the bull forces his head through to eat the long green grass on the other side. A dark harrier hawk curls from a tall tree into the sky searching the ground below.

Seven weeks ago the truck came with harsh clanging of metal and frightening shouts and the calves, now nine months old, were driven off and their mothers bellowed and tears ran down their long faces.

Now those mothers wait two paddocks away.


Barnaby McBryde

A trivial pursuit

The sounds of home - their parents’ gentle murmurings from the kitchen, the clatter of cutlery in the sink, the kettle on the boil and coffee being ground. As familiar as the sight of vertical slopes along the Teviot Valley, shadowy blue fingers reaching in to the hills, skeletonised orchards and the slow winding magnificence of the Clutha cutting a valley far below the road.

Tom threw more bone-dry macrocarpa on the fire and opened the lid of the box. They had played since they were children, the same set. Marni long suspected that Tom had memorized all the answers – or was that just her excuse for why he so frequently won? The first time she returned home from uni for the holidays, they'd made a new rule allowing questions to be amended,  answers checked on iPhones. Which Vietnam film won the Oscar for Best Movie in 1978? morphed into which biographical drama in 2016. And still Tom won.

Tom absorbed facts. They soaked into his brain like spring rain into pasture. He could discuss anything from art history to scientific research, sports results to South American geography. Marni had always been the bookish one, the academic, her learning narrow and deep, and often short-lived. Long enough to get an A+, then forgotten. What’s the point? Tom had once asked, and she had no answer.

Tom set up the game: the dog-eared board, finger stained question cards, the familiar blue pink yellow green brown orange wedges and the circular playing pieces - pie-dishes they had always called them.

“Loser feeds out in the morning?”

“You’ll be getting a sleep-in then.”

“Hope so.” He rolled a 4 and passed her the dice. She rolled a 6.

“I’ll take that to start.” She stopped her piece on yellow. “So I’ve been thinking about what next. After I submit my thesis.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom picked up a card.

“They want me to do a PhD.”

“Is that right? I didn’t realize there was so much to find out about underemployed rural women. In what year did the Spanish Civil War end?”

“Oh God, I don’t know. 1927? There is, heaps more, and not just here either."

“Sorry, 1939.” He rolled the dice and picked up his playing piece.

“The Prof thinks I should do a comparative study, New Zealand and the US mid-west."

Tom’s hand stopped in mid air. “Seriously?”

“Sure. I’m tempted.” Marni hesitated, wondering if saying it out loud would commit her. “Or I was. At least I can, later… maybe.” His eyebrows drew together. “I thought I’d rather come home. Get a job, for a while. Work for the local women. See if what I’ve done so far makes a difference in the real world.”

“Yeah, good call.” Tom moved three spaces, and stopped on blue. “Let's play.”



Rosemary McBryde

Divorce

The first time I was in the Sydney Airport – Kingsford Smith – I was just a little girl holding my papa’s hand, a new and daunting but exciting life about to unfold in this not-the-capital city, huge and sophisticated beyond my comprehension.

Papa was austere-looking and tall for a Korean and you could imagine him dressed in green brocade robes and wearing a tall black hat in some medieval court in Hanyang and ordering peasants to be beheaded, but he held my hand with great love and kindness and solicitude. Our farthest ancestor was a carp – that is why we never eat fish and always kept goldfish, mineral in their beauty, in a crystal tank at the residence.

When, in later years, I told people that I grew up during my youngest years in Papua New Guinea they all envisaged squalor and fear and nightly machete murders but the one impression from those years is a glowing image of a great, green space dripping with water and sunlight and the iridescent unbelievable of flashing birds of paradise and my own sweet face lifted enraptured.

‘Rex’, when he appeared all those years later, was more like a bower bird which collects things – businesses, wives – and hangs them around its nest, though I mistook his plumage for something closer to heaven.

Even now, two weeks later, our wedding seems surreal – the thousand guests on the evening ship on Sydney Harbour, the lights, the crystal, the ringing laughter.

A honeymoon in New Zealand seemed eccentric – sheep and hobbits are all very well but not for me – and when, apparently casually but, in the cruel light of hindsight, as he had always intended to do, he suggested that we would make our home in that dreary country – it was then that the illusion revealed itself.

So – full circle: Sydney Airport and a new life to create.



Dhiraja

Flounder Bay

It was still dark, but dawn was not far away. Jack was just waking up, and sleepily looked at his watch. It was 5am. Another 5 minutes he thought. "Nooo!I if I do that I will drop off, sleep in, and there will be no point in going." He tumbled out of his sleeping bag, dressed and put on his swani and boots. Turned on the gas cooker and, while the water, boiled checked his backpack, adding a couple of oranges. Fifteen minutes later after drinking a mug of hot coffee he picked up his rifle and walked along the beach which was still in darkness.

It was very still, no wind, not even the lapping of a wave. At the end of the beach he stood for a while. No sign of life so he headed up river with the dawn breaking behind him. The bush on the river's edge was close and scrubby, not conducive to quiet stalking so he decided to climb up onto the ridge. Here it was open.

He continued on at a leisurely pace, listening, watching. At one point he sat on a log where he had a good view but nothing was seen or made a noise. Except a kiwi came past and walked right up to him. Maybe the lanolin dressing on his boots attracted him. After a brief sniff he trundled off without even looking up. Jack decided to move on, with no success. He stopped a while later beside a beech tree where the oranges came out. After consuming them his watch said 7 o'clock, time to backtrack to camp. Jack left.

Sometime later he thought the bay would be coming into view. However minutes later, instead of the bay he come across a familiar looking tree. It looked just like the one where he had eaten his oranges. He looked down and there were the remnants of his orange peel. Jack had travelled full circle! In utter disbelief, he stared at the peel for a long moment, took the backpack off, pulled out his map and spread it on the ground then orientated it. Bloody hell!!!he said to himself, this is showing everything lying in the wrong direction. He checked again making sure the map and compass were orientated correctly. Yes they were. After a few more moments of contemplation he put the map away, hung the compass around his neck and hesitantly followed the indicated direction. He checked every now and again to make sure he was traveling southeast. At last the inlet and bay come into view. Up until this point there was a lingering doubt that the compass was wrong but it was obviously right.

Ten minutes later he was back at camp.



Grant Ward

Trigonometry

“Trigonometry does not make sense.”

“Yes it does! Unit circles make sense, you just have to calm down and listen to me!” I cried out to him. He slumped in his seat, licking his lips as his fingers picked up the handout in front of him. His eyes flickered towards me, eyebrows raised and shoulders shrugged. I sighed out to him in agony.

“Alright, I’ll try, I’ll try. What is a unit circle again?”

“Unit circles are used in math to help with trigonometry, they have a radius of one, making it easier for us to understand the coordinates of specific angles.”

“And it helps with sohcahtoa how?” I glared at him, making him mumble an apology for cutting me off.

I drew out a circle for him, dividing it up into four sections and drawing triangles. As I began to explain the use of angles and points in the circle, he started to nod his head. By the time I was finished, he had already been able to explain back to me everything I just said.

I smiled at him as he finished his last sentence, to which he grinned back at me. He started packing his things when he opened his mouth again.

“So, why’d you choose to become a math tutor?” Zipping up his backpack, he turned to look at me.

“I like helping people,” I offered him a smile. “And I do enjoy math, that is, compared to other subjects.”

“I’m more of a history kind of guy, and literature, but mainly history.” Martin put down his backpack and leaned back against his chair. “So I’d like to get to know more about your history. Who are you, any siblings, where are you from, any particular childhood memories you want to share?”

My introverted soul trembled a little bit at the thought of opening up. Instead of saying something, I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. He responded with a chuckle, running his hands through his auburn locks as his eyes looked directly into mine.

“I’ll start. My name is Martin, I was born on the 15th of November 2001 to Jean Pierre and Kristi. I have three younger brothers, triplets, named Jack, John and James. I also have a sister named Sierra, she’s two. My parents are from Hong Kong, but I was born in Chengdu before living here. When I was younger I saved a stray cat at a park near my childhood home and named her Tam before figuring out she was a he and named him Tom.”

He tilted his head and motioned for me to begin an introductory paragraph about myself. I still didn’t want to say anything, so he just sighed in return.

“Well then, if you don’t wish to talk about yourself then it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“No, no! It’s chill. You’ll be talking more about this circle anyway,” Martin took out the handout and pencil from before and placed them in front of me.

“What?”

“I still want you to talk, so explain to me about these numbers,” He pointed at the coordinates.

“What?”

“Well, the only thing I know is that we’ve just come back in full circle,” he smiled cheekily.



Katya Tjahaja

June

The short short story project had one of the best responses ever last month with eight stories - thanks to all the contributors for such a varied and entertaining selection. Working on the basis that less obscure starters get a greater number of responses... this month try 'Full Circle' for size.  Stories to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 30 June. 

Happy writing!