Seven Swans

It is a ‘finisterre', the ultimate west, the end of the road, the end of the world.

There is open ground ahead, rugged, bare, grass-covered; it could be an old rubbish dump; toxic ooze might slowly seep into pools; rusted shapes might protrude through the grass; the ground might slump beneath the foot if one should venture there beyond the high, mesh fence.

The wind stirs the tattered weeds.

A kilometre and a half away – the quarried-away stump of a holy hill, and along the front of it are dark trees.

Beyond is nothing – the western horizon.

The wind whips at him, it moans and roars in the wire.

From here, at this distance, the black body of a flying swan is invisible against the dark trees, but the white pinions catch the light.

Seven swans fly down in a line in front of the trees.

It is a white line of calligraphy; a twirling scrawl of some lost alphabet; it is a song without words; it is music without a tune; the moving finger that writes unknowable words on a wall of air; it is communication; a spinning, double-helixed, branching skein of life.

The fog in his mind; the heavy rock in his guts; the cruel talons that tighten round his tiny, crushed heart – for a moment they lift.

It is worth it after all.



Barnaby McBryde

Kayda Matsushita II

The bar was in a tall building in the Akasaka District and, from the thirteenth floor, its wide, glass wall gave a panoramic view of Tokyo’s lights in the growing darkness.

Kayda Matsushita’s Junko Shimada business suit was, in the soft light falling from the discrete light fittings, an indeterminate colour.

In a jazz bar in Tokyo she could only order a Cutty Sark on the rocks – she had, like everyone else in the country, read too many Haruki Murakami novels to do anything else. Her old school friend opposite nursed something more flamboyant.

‘You always seemed,’ her friend said, pausing to find the word, ‘so … traditional.’ She picked absently at the bowl of pistachios between them.

‘Yes, my grandfather had his leg blown off by the Americans. They bombed his ship and he lost his leg. And my mother, for all her revolutionary zeal, trained originally as a kimono dyer. So, yes, it all filters down.’

Kayda paused. ‘But this isn’t the medieval world of Murasaki Shikibu.’ She waved her elegant hand indicating the bar, the lights below, the twenty-first century.

‘No, certainly – but there are still monks it seems.’

‘Yes, there are still monks,’ Kayda replied, her face indecipherable.

‘So, it’s what – six months now? How do you feel about it all? Is it really worth it?’

‘I feel – thoroughly amazed.’



Dhiraja

Mrs Stewart and the School of Fish

Mrs Margaret Stewart, known in polite Dunedin society as Mrs Walter Stewart, and her boarder Miss Isobel Tanner, seamstress, step out into the lightness of late evening. Behind them, the hall is alive with the hubbub of women’s voices.

The summer shower, which caused them to hasten down Melville St earlier in the evening, has passed leaving the air heady with a steamy warmth. They quicken their pace to cross in front of a carriage, Mrs Stewart too preoccupied to heed the fresh mud splashed up the back of her skirt.

“Mrs Morison is an inspiration,” Mrs Stewart declares. “I feel quite renewed in my determination.”

Isobel skips to keep up with the older woman’s pace, casting nervous glances at a group of men watching them from the corner ahead.

“Mrs Sheppard has the Union committed to a new petition. We must devote ourselves to this, Isobel, for nothing is more…”

“Get ba’ home t’ yer husbands.” A wild-eyed fellow lurches towards them, his slurred words punctuated by a stabbing finger.

Mrs Stewart links arms with her companion and, chin lifted, marches onwards.

“Poor sods. Home t’ a cold hearth and no dinner on table. I’ll allow no wife o’ mine t’ be part of yer shriekin’ sisterhood. In’t natural!” He staggers, blocking their passage.

Mrs Stewart stops suddenly, taking in his flushed cheeks and twisted, spittle-flecked mouth.

“I know you, Tommy Fitzgerald. You should be ashamed to be out in this state, while your wife is at home with two young bairns and another on the way.” Mrs Stewart glares at the others assembled. “I demand that you let us pass.”

Isobel trembles as they hurry past the mutters and scowls, and dash up Melville St, slowing only as they round a corner.

“That Tommy’s young wife has been left black and blue from his drunken beatings. I’ve a mind to report him to the constable.” Mrs Stewart grips Isobel’s arm tighter. “I swear, Henry Fish has got a lot to answer for. He stirs up his disciples from one end of the country to the other, accusing us of vituperation and condemning us to domestic servitude. We simply can’t stop the fight now."

“But what good will it do, Mrs Stewart?” Isobel puffs. “Mr Fish and his kind will find another way to block us, even if the House allows it.”

Mrs Stewart turns to Isobel, her eyes ablaze. “Is that a reason not to try, Isobel? Must we stand by while these fellows drink and gamble their money away, and not a penny left for their wives and children? Yet we are the ones lumped with the lunatics and criminals, declared to be incapable or unqualified. A man fresh out of gaol is able to vote, while the woman who has raised his children, cannot.”

Mrs Stewart turns back to the uphill path before her.

“Oh no, Isobel, we must prevail.”



Rosemary McBryde

Is this really worth it?

Mavis and John were sitting with an after dinner drink watching a TV programme about up market
homes in Australia. Mavis sighed and said, "That is my dream, to live in a home like that. I don't want to wait until our children are about ready to leave home. We should live in a home like that as
soon as we are married."

John was a bit taken aback knowing that Mavis had lived in a very ordinary home with her parents and five brothers and sisters where bedrooms had to be shared and they only knew secondhand furniture. They didn't have many modern home appliances. Why should they, with so much free labour available?

"OK," said John, "make a list of all the things you would like, no harm in dreaming."

With that, Mavis reached for pen and paper and wrote, double or triple glazing, solar panels, clothes
dryer, dish washer, all of the latest appliances for the kitchen and an up to date TV and Sky, a
bedroom for each of our children and one for guests.

"We would need to have a least two ensuites. There could be more things but I will have to give it more thought."

"Yes but dear that is going to cost us alot of money," said John.

Mavis replied,"I've thought of that. I'm prepared to work full time and not have kids until I'm in my mid thirties. Let's work it out to get a rough cost and ask some of our friends how they cope. Look at the wonderful holidays they have and shows they can go to."

So that is what she did and got a wide variety of replies. They ranged from why have snotty little kids mucking up your home, who wants to be getting up to crying babies when you are mid thirties, don't your parents want grandkids, who will look after you when you are old? Who wants to go to work on a beautiful summer's day when you could be out in the garden?

So John and Mavis did some calculations and were horrified at the cost of building and as Christians they thought will all this make us happy? IS THIS REALLY WORTH IT? Perhaps we
can compromise, have less of the latest gadgets and have kids who will open up our world and will we have friends who will have time for us and we can have time to smell the roses.

Would the Lord say "congratulations on your fine house in the best area but did you miss out on the joys of simple things in life?"


Margaret Hawkey

Is it really worth it?

“All boys are stupid.”

“They’re all so dumb.”

“I hate boys.”

“He’s not worth it.”

Melissa grew up hearing her sisters repeat those phrases to one another. Every time the words fell from their lips, the more determined she became to stay away from the opposite sex. They were disgusting, immature, annoying and weird. She truly believed, truly, that there was no boy on the planet who was worth anything.

And so she went into junior high with this mindset, without an intention to get to know any boy. Besides, she knew all of them from primary, they were all dumb.

“I heard there’s a new girl! Her name’s Sam, she’s from the other side of the country!” Anna had chirped into Melissa’s ear as they sat down together.

“Really? How’d you know?”

“Hayden was just talking about her, said that she’s pretty cool and skates or something like that. Heard that she likes to study plants, too. Just like you!”

Melissa and Anna continued to flourish their excitement about this interesting new kid who had similar interests to Melissa. They started to imagine what she would be like, her hair color, her height and her outfit.

How surprised they were when Sam walked through the door.

He stood confidently before the class, his chest straight and chin up. He slung his backpack on one shoulder, both his shoelaces were untied. Melissa’s jaw nearly touched the floor, quickly making eye contact with Anna who just shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m Sam. I like skateboarding and plants.” Sam introduced himself with a smile. The teacher told the class to greet him before allowing him to sit down next to Melissa.

“Hey,” A rather unfamiliar voice called out to Melissa, who looked up at Sam. “Could I please borrow an eraser? Forgot to bring mine.”

Melissa was taken back by his chocolate brown eyes and pearly-white teeth. She quickly handed over a spare eraser and looked away before he could thank her. Who doesn’t bring an eraser to the first day of school? All boys are dumb.

“Who can tell me the reaction of photosynthesis in plants?”

Only two hands shot up, Melissa’s and Sam’s. She looked over at him when the teacher chose him to answer.

“Carbon dioxide and water react to form glucose and oxygen!” He answered, making the teacher smile and compliment him. A proud expression danced on his face. Okay, maybe not ALL of them are dumb.

Halfway through the lesson, a post-it was slapped on her notebook. It read, in the scribbliest and thickest handwriting, ‘thanks for the eraser - here’s a kiss.’

Melissa squirmed in her seat, but was relieved when a Hershey’s Kiss landed on her desk. She looked over at Sam, who gave her an unapologetic wink and wide grin. She quickly turned towards the front of the class, feeling her cheeks reddening.

“Hey Melissa,” Sam ran to her at the hallway. “I heard you’re interested in plants. We should sit together at lunch! Here’s my number! See ya.”

He ran in the other direction, almost tripping over his own shoelaces.

All boys are dumb. But maybe, some, might be worth something.



Katya Tjahaja

October

It's been a busy September so now we settle back into a slower pace with time to think and write stories. And for October, the starter idea is 'Is it really worth it?' Goodness, see what you can do with that enigmatic phrase!

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

Detour Ahead

“I hate how camp is mandatory,” Jake growled under his breath, throwing a rock at the path before him.

“I think it’s rather exciting, we all get to bond with one another,” Amelia yawned out, stretching her arms. “And we get to be in an atmosphere of clean air, which is pretty great to wake up to.”

“You know our phones are dead, right?” He completely ignored her, instead choosing to walk away. She followed after him. “And we have to do this stupid trek, you know I hate trekking.”

A group had gathered in the middle of the open field. Most of the people were still yawning, lids half open, stretching as they tried to shake off what remained of their slumber. Amelia grabbed Jake’s arm and dragged him towards the crowd as he cursed to himself silently.

“Good morning Amelia!” Sam called out, embracing her tightly. She started a conversation with him, one that Jake completely ignored as he tried to escape.

“Jake!” Liam’s voice, a little too loud for the morning, startled Jake’s footsteps. “Excited to hike?”

“Not particularly, but I see you are.” Jake commented, pointing at Liam’s hiking sandals.

“You bet I am!”

The trek started faster than Jake anticipated. After a few more moments of playful conversation the walking tour guide had appeared, and all of them were off. Jake was separated from Amelia; instead he was stuck with the overzealous Liam, who was able to identify every single flower and type of grass. Somehow, out of his consciousness, Jake had made it to the very front of the group, Liam leading them. His mind was wandering, there was nothing he wanted to do more than go home and sleep on his bed.

Their guide paused in front of them.

“Detour?” Liam asked immediately. Jake snapped out of his daydream.

“Well,” The guide smiled at them. “I think we should go to the lake instead, how does that sound?”

At this, the collective of students applauded and yelled in approval.

“The lake sounds better than another hour of trekking,” Jake said to Liam, who nodded vigorously.

After a few quick minutes, all of them had arrived at a lake that was just large enough to fit them. The water was clear, though the bottom of the lake was dark. There were a few people already swimming and splashing around, but the group of students did not mind.

A few of them hastily stripped down and jumped inside, followed suit by more. Jake tossed his shirt and discarded his shoes before racing into the water. There he found Amelia once more.

“Isn’t this exciting?” She laughed, making him smile. Amelia swam closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she giggled.

“Best detour I’ve ever had.”



Katya Tjahaja