It took a life time to sketch our love story. There is magic in this old medium where beauty crafted from painstaking attention. It would be ideal if we recorded our first encounter and played it back when we wanted to walk away from each other. If we could make a copy of our honeymoon and broadcast it throughout our hardship, it would have been an easier journey. Video held old memories as new, we wanted to believe. But after a life time of creation, our story became a piece of intriguing art.
Life dealt him a bad hand that no child should have had withstood. A broken soul became a harden man who experienced no pleasure nor pain in the act of violence. Prison life gave him a chance to be a vigilante who did justice for the abused and murdered children.
He thought about the Boss upstairs a lot actually. He thought to himself ‘I am only an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I will make it to heaven. My life isn’t such a bad deal after all.’
She sits in her grandma’s rocking chair crocheting the blanket she started but too frail to finish.
It’s hard to imagine a nebulous future when grandma passes. They have been looking after each other all her life. She doesn’t know otherwise.
She knows for a fact that she will be without a home when that inevitably happens. However, there is also this deep set of knowing and belief that it’s going to be ok, just like grandma always says.
Rhyming is like a pencil grip. I started to write poetry in forms and rhymes which guided me and trained me in discipline.
I long ditched the once safe guard. I figured that if I kept walking with a crutch, I hardly walk in freedom.
There are still times I rhyme, given the word chosen is the best fit to the line. There is comfort in knowing a satisfying piece of work finds its way back to basic, the pencil grip.
She knows all the seasons from the bottom of the well.
The fragrant rain of red and white Ruby Cascade drizzles in Springtime.
Her skin is covered with mosquito bites all through Summer.
She hears the honeyeaters singing and imagines them hovering whilst feeding off the Grevillea.
When the bats start returning to share the well, she knows it is Wintertime.
If you have been held captive in a well for seven years, you would learn to notice all seasons without counting the days.
The farmers survived the calamity of the bushfire. They ran out of adrenaline. What they have to face now is the remnant of destruction.
The ground is covered with green again but they still smell char. It’s both painful to hear people talking about the fire and stop talking about the fire. The farmers are desperately trying to get on with their life to smile at each other with desolate eyes.
She popped open a chilled bottle and sculled down an overflowing glass of bubbly to calm the adrenaline rush she got after making expensive purchases.
It’s 2:30pm, soon she would need to pick up the kids from school. She hurried down the basement with bags of luxury fashion items from Madison Avenue and stuffed them in the empty archive boxes. On her way out to do the school run, she intercepted the mails addressed to her from debt collecting companies.
She had been waiting anxiously till the front door opened when the clock had just struck 8pm. His presence gave her great relief for another week of pay cheque to maintain their facade.
She caught his sharp lion eyes with her subdued aura, permeating the buzzing party like cool air on a summer night. Her liquid scent weighted down his judgement. He became unsure of himself.
Powerful is her vulnerability, driving him to move mountains for her. The day will come. She will ask him for the impossible and he will gladly obey.
There was a King. His power was no rivalry on earth and in heavens. He became friends with an ordinary man named Abram so He blessed Abram and his descendants.
Now Abram is long passed but his descendants are fighting in Gaza. In the midst of the crossfire, the oppressed lift up their voices to cry out ‘YHWH! Allah!’ The King has compassion to Abram’s sons and daughters and He weeps.
He makes a living improvising Elvis. Such talent gives him the means to feed a family of four plus two dogs and a tour van which is also their humble mobile home. Living like gypsies, playing music, singing and dancing by the fire under the milky way, is far from their reality.
Home-schooling and moving with tour schedules around small country towns are 24/7 work with the reward of barely surviving. The real disaster comes when he no longer fits into the Elvis white jumpsuit with his middle aged gut and overall puffiness from sleep deprivation.
What now is the question he pleads with his gods while sewing up the buttons on the well worn jumpsuit.