Madmother: Little Woven Words

My Red Scarf

2011-06-27T12:21:00.000+10:00

My red scarf is bright and new

It keeps me warm

Now I've lost you

My red scarf is vivid and fun

It brightens me up

Should I be glum

My red scarf breaks up the black

It stops the sads

Before I crack

My red scarf wafts in the wind

It feels so nice

Not end but begin

My red scarf it flies so high

It swirls around

Up in the sky

My red scarf has blown away

And now the black

Is here to stay

My red scarf is lost for good

I sink below

To where I should

Remain. Cold. Black. Gone.

Cinderella – The True Story

2011-06-13T15:18:00.000+10:00

Another exercise from my long forgotten writing classes. We had to write a twisted fairy tale. i think this was twisted enough. Did get an A!

I am a happily married woman? I AM a happily married woman. I AM A HAPPILY MARRIED WOMAN! I must be! I’m living the fabulous fairy tale. You know the one that ends with “happily ever after.” Though ever after ain’t looking so likely right now, let me tell you! Maybe I needed it in writing. Honestly, I just don’t get it. A man appears to be handsome Prince Charming. The glass slipper fits. Comes complete with bonus crown and title. And the palace, must not forget the accursed palace. Damned appearances, they can be so misleading! What was it my dear departed saintly mother used to say? Too good to be true? So apt, mummy dear, so apt. Wish I’d listened to you, not that useless Fairy Godmother! Would not have been taken by surprise last night if I had remembered your advice.

The wedding night, well I admit I was unprepared. A true innocent. It was a white wedding, after all. What a deflowering farce! Talk about being sold a bill of goods! That stupid thing couldn’t penetrate a midget. It was two inches and had the consistency of overcooked spaghetti. Al dente’? No. El limpet is more like it. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t help laughing. It was so not what I was told to expect (thank you dear fairy Godmother for building up my hopes – throbbing love hammer, hah!). I think I was nervous too. Maybe the pointing was a bit much though? Egad, I hope I haven’t permanently bruised his little ego. Oh no, little? Ego? Get control of yourself woman, he will see you cracking up again. You know how sensitive he is at the moment. His highness is being a right pooncey prince. What a pickle! Oh that’s appropriate isn’t it. Small, shrivelled and in the flickering candlelight it looked decidedly greenish. No, no. Mind on the job princess, mind on the job! You’ll be permanently chaste if you don’t remedy the situation.

I have to attempt damage control. I truly thought I had stuffed it after he stormed off last night. Back to the kitchens for little ole me. Imagine the glee that old bag and her two haggy daughters would have welcomed that little scene with? Thank God for the reprieve. I am to sup with him shortly. Now where is that book FG gave me? Ah, here it is. “Fairy Tricks to Satisfy Dicks” Ye olde wifely duty bible. Now what does it say? Oh Lord, I don’t know if I can pull this off! Oops, another metaphor. Get thee behind me craven images, I must maintain decorum. Read girl. Time is short. Surely those drawings cannot be true? I’m meant to do WHAT with my mouth? “Place puckered lips around pulsating pleasure tool……”

Hell, he’s here already. Remember. I am a beautiful innocent. I am a vestal virgin. I am a demure flower. Don’t blow this Cinder’s, he searched the whole kingdom for you! Daintily, let him take control. Ease into it. Oh no! Must not sneeze. Not now, not now. AH-CHOO! Oh my God, end of the Royal line!

Conversations Ignored By God

2011-06-13T14:59:00.000+10:00

This was an exercise from my creative writing class back in 2007. We had to describe an actual conversation, and the people involved. It was this week that my friend Simon lost his battle with the insidious cancer. This was our last conversation, and I wrote it all down in one stream of memory. It was burnt into my mind as deeply as the friendship and amiration I felt for this wonderful man.
I had forgotten it, but my online writing group is doing virtually the same exercise this week, and so I looked back through my files to find it. I think it deserves it's place here, for Simon is someone who should never be forgotten. At times when I stuff up or swear too much (which he hated), I here his voice and see his sardonic grin as he chastises with our running joke, "You're terrible Muriel."

“It’s back.” Veiled azure blue eyes hold startled hazel gaze. I blank. What on earth do I say? Brain freeze moment, ice cracking heart breaking. Abruptly sit.
“Fuck, how bad?”
“Bad, very aggressive”
“But they said they had it all!”
“Yeah, it’s a shock.”
I am numb. Disbelief and betrayal overwhelm. Fight to regain composure, be sensible. Supportive. “Options?”
“IF I deny treatment I might see Christmas” Less than six months? WHAT on earth DO I say? Fingers curl, uncurl, curl, uncurl. His and mine. Mine on his. He may not need contact, I do. Agitation stayed, for an instant. Time stands still. Fingers release. Movement constantly, twitchingly returns.
“Are you going to have treatment? ” Push the point.
“They want me to take Evistan to try and stem the tumours’ growth. I haven’t decided yet.” I must not cry.
“Is that more chemo?”
“Yeah. No studies on results available for this cancer type though.”
Look directly at him, stop glancing away. “Cutting edge again huh?” Grimace grates superficially.
“Not quite what I had in mind for a challenge” Frown flashes.
“I hope not!” Worry surfaces.
“Just don’t know if I can face it all again.” Fear flickers.
“Only you can make that decision Simon. I guess you have to weigh up the consequences. The pain, the quality of life as well as quantity.” State the bloody obvious, you patronising fool.
“It might buy me a couple more years with the kids.” Eyes dart. He seeks to sight the two blonde innocents. I fight back tears. Struggle, win.
“If they say two years that means at least five if it’s you Simon. You are Super Simon. You always beat the odds!” Please God, let it be true again. Attempt confidence bolster. “Damn it Simon, just look at what you have overcome in the past!”
“Yeah, right. I don’t feel super. Sure as hell don’t feel strong.” Scars from earlier battles etch deep. Handsome dash has now been superseded by weary tolerance. Bleached countenance replaces sun-bleached hair. Clothes swamp a scarecrow frame. Frailty prevails.
“How are you feeling now?” Gazes meet.
“Like crap Muriel” Glimmer of old Simon. Glimpse of past repartees, normal life. Lips tilt in semblance of shared smile. Memories. Legs cross, uncross. Discomfort emanates from every pore. Pain shadows gaunt features. I try not to notice. Not to let him notice me notice.
Eyes search across the warmth. Stare deepens as he finds the tall, cool blonde observing, guarding. Ever watchful, signal seeking. Ready to launch escape plan when deemed essential.
“She doesn’t deserve this.”
“Neither do you.”
“God, I am so tired.”
“No-one would blame you if you decided against it.”
“It?”
“Treatment.”
“Oh.” Silence.
He straightens, smiles, rallies, “How are the boys going at school?” Subject closed. For now. Forever.
Our last conversation. Simon no longer super. They lied. It’s not Christmas yet. Its not even near Christmas. God has cancelled Christmas, Simon is gone. I don’t believe there is a God anymore.

Little Words

2011-06-11T09:24:00.000+10:00

This story was initially written to enter in the Woman's Weekly competition. I have since edited and changed it, but the central theme remains. How isolating autism can be for a family and how one small gesture can change so much.

“Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” Passers-by paused and watched as the child happily tiptoed past, his gait irregular. His mother remained close, guarding her small charge. Singsong tones flowed repetitively as his golden curls bounced, head bobbing in time with the vocal rhythm. Tall, white daisies lazily leant through the fencepost gaps to join in, sunshine flitting over their jiggling windswept heads as floral movement synchronised with endless chanting. “Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.” His mother knew Steven would religiously count every picket along the way, angelically he pointed to each staunch, soldier-straight paling. “Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine.” Sharon gazed down, her heart swelling with maternal love as she worried, anticipating many arrival scenarios. He was so physically beautiful, this child of her heart. Strangers often commented on his outward perfection, though it was usually followed by the loathed “shame he’s autistic, you wouldn’t know it to look at him!” She had heard it so frequently that she now expected the remark and merely smiled at those so ignorant as to comment. Her son continued to count, intent only on the soothing rhythm and oblivious to his mother’s scrutiny and thoughts. “Two hundred and ninety-one, two hundred and ninety-two.” Her angelic child’s blue eyes focused compulsively on the regimented fence line. His father’s eyes, the father who had walked away two years ago proclaiming, “No child of mine could be autistic! This is your fault, you and your molly-coddling! You’ve spoilt him and made him autistic” The blood began to pump faster and her heart beat erratically as she struggled with the rising rage thoughts of her ex-husband’s betrayal provoked. His constant pitch did not falter until the mid four hundreds. Four hundred and seventy-four pickets added by the time mother and the child reached the towering thundercloud-grey steel school gates. Who knew, maybe today would be a good day, maybe today would be the day her six-year-old conquered some of his inner demons and walked through the entrance without trauma.

“No!”

“Steven, you have to go to school.”

“No!”

“Come on Steven, I will come in with you.”

“No! No! No! No! No!” The child’s distress quickly escalated, she looked about, futilely hoping nobody was too near. Sharon prayed quietly under her breath, “Please God, don’t let anyone say anything, don’t make it even worse, please God, just this once.” Impotently she tried to grapple his tightly strung body through the boundary, but with a burst of small boy strength Steven thrust himself forward onto the hard ground. Exhausted from the battle, fleetingly she loosened her normally tight grip. The child leapt to his feet sensing freedom and escape, fear adding agility to his normally clumsy movement. He raced unimpeded towards the busy, deadly road.

“Whoa Tiger, where’s the fire?” An arm reached out and successfully looped around the small escapee’s waist. The boy went rigid in the stranger’s arms. Shock gave a moment of silence, then the child released his pent up breath in a loud wail. Twisting, turning, arms flailing, panic set in.

Sharon raced to the roadside. “Steven, Steven, look at me baby! It’s Mummy, Steven take a breath, its Mummy, open your eyes, its Mummy.” She quickly pried him from the shocked rescuer’s arms and into her own, struggling to contain and calm the now hysterical boy. Groaning, she sat, splat onto solid ground and firmly braced his body against hers. She secured her arms around his small thrashing frame, gently rocked and hummed, rocked and hummed. Solely focused on him and his distress she was unaware of any prying, curious eyes upon her.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare him, I just wanted to stop him reaching the road.” The stranger crouched in front of the pair, concern etched on his worried features. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, just leave us; he’ll be all right in a moment.” Her hushed voice sounded strained to her own ears. The school bell jarringly announced the start of another school day. Oblivious to the increase in activity Steven’s mother remained rocking, humming nonsense quietly as people pushed past through the school gates. Her son stilled within her protective embrace. He began to hum his personal tone. Crisis defused for the moment, she risked a glance at the confused stranger squatting before them. “I don’t think I thanked you, thank you.”

“Reflex action. Couldn’t have this little fellow reaching that busy road. I’m Sean by the way.” He started to stretch his hand forward in greeting, then stopped as he realised her predicament with the child still imprisoned in her arms.

“Sharon, and this little Houdini is Steven.” She wiggled fingertips keeping her hands clasped. A brief flickering smile traversed her clenched jaw.

“Do you need help getting him in to class?”

Embarrassment clouded Sharon’s face as she realised she had obviously delayed him. For a moment, she had forgotten how their odd little family appeared to outsiders, those who had no idea what this life was like.

“No, we’ll be fine now. I’ll get him to class shortly, thanks again for your help.” She stumbled clumsily to her feet, impeded by the tight hugging grip of her son, now clasped around her thigh.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again, my niece attends here and I’ve started helping my sister with drop-off. She is in Grade Two with Mrs Miller. My niece, not my sister.” He grinned disarmingly, risked a glance at his wrist and cursed quietly. “Damn, have to run. Now sport, no more Olympic sprints okay?” Sean leant forward to ruffle Steven’s dishevelled blond locks but the child flinched and tightened his rigid grip on his mother’s leg. The man shrugged, admitting defeat in the face of such obvious terror. “Bye Sharon, Steven…” He pulled open the cumbersome door of the green four-wheel drive, started the engine and roared off after a brief wave acknowledging the statue-still mother and son unmoving on the pavement.

“Well sweetheart, do you think we should have told him that Mrs Miller is your teacher too? The poor man must think we are nuts, though I think he was a little shell-shocked himself.” Grinning, Sharon tousled her son’s messy blonde locks in a comforting gesture. Steven freely accepted his mother’s familiar touch in stark contrast to his reaction to the baffling stranger. “Well, we almost had a normal conversation with another adult, mate!”

Sharon picked up her son’s discarded backpack, uncoiled his grip from her leg and took his small hand in hers. She lent down in front of him, “Steven, look at me please, sweetheart. Steven, focus, look at Mummy. Don’t ever run away from Mummy like that again, it was very dangerous, you scared me!” Her son’s glorious eyes flicked to her then away, back and forth, back and forth. Her age-old instincts insisted he had heard, but how much he had processed she could not be sure. He had the ability to surprise her with his understanding, usually when she least expected it. The fair-haired twosome turned back to the school gate, bracing for another attempt at the entry gauntlet.

As she walked through the high gates, Sharon could not resist glancing around, wondering if the hero of the previous morning’s episode would appear. The afternoon sun dipped behind the tall trees as she allowed herself a minute of daydreaming, fantasy all she could summon energy for in her complicated life. She had spent her day ricocheting arguments between the various public departments who governed her child’s therapies. Her constant companions of emotional and physical exhaustion hovered near the surface threatening to overwhelm at any moment. She reached the sheltered area outside her son’s class where the other mothers congregated in groups, chatting. Steven’s ritualistic stress chant wafted above the din of the classroom as Sharon froze, intent on listening, trying to decipher the exact tone amongst garbled noise. The bell rang with the manic tones of an ice-cream truck melody cranked to high speed and the classroom door opened. Children spilled clumsily through the cavernous gap like evils tumbling from Pandora’s Box. Only Steven remained inside, his mantra echoing from the enormous cardboard refrigerator box consuming one corner of the room like a small brown TARDIS. “Soon home time soon home time soon home time soon home time,” his tumbling words almost sliding into one drawn consonant. Sharon looked to Mrs Miller; “Bad day?” one raised eyebrow punctuated the murmured rhetoric question. She always knew it was a bad day when greeted by the boy in the box.

“We had a little incident after second break I’m afraid,” the matronly middle-aged educator replied with an air of dejection. “Cyndi Turner was teasing Steven and he lashed out, quite violently.”

“What exactly happened?” Sharon was not accepting the abbreviated version, she needed details to resolve the fallout.

“I didn’t hear what was said, I only realised something was going on when Cyndi screamed that Steven had pinched her. The poor child had a large welt on her wrist and needed an ice pack. She said she was only making a joke and he became extremely angry!” Mrs Miller thus declared her loyalties with her outraged tone.

“And where was Steven’s aide during all this?”

“Jeanette was at the office copying some work for me, she was only out of the classroom for five minutes.” Defensiveness now crept into the teacher’s voice. Sharon had had enough, her emotional reserves were too depleted.

“Mrs Miller, I will find out what the actual events were from my son, and let you know, but you and I both are aware that Ms Turner is renowned for antagonising Steven to provoke a reaction. I am surprised that you allowed this situation to arise. His aide should be with him to avoid such incidents, not in the office doing errands! I am not excusing my son, and will deal with him at home, but I am not accepting he is solely at fault here. What actions were taken when it all erupted?” Steven’s mother leapt into the fray to stand up for her son.

“I assure you Mrs Kennedy, the situation was dealt with promptly considering the chaos which arose from it. Cyndi was crying in pain, Steven was screaming. I sent Cyndi to sick bay with another child escorting her, and made Steven go into his sensory box to calm down.” The sensory box filled with comforting items for her son: a weighted blanket, earmuffs, large, dark sunglasses and a balaclava. Steven could climb in and shut out the bewildering world when overwhelmed, but it was NOT designated for a punishment cell. Anger bubbled threatening to boil over.

“I am taking my son home now, but I would like to discuss this further tomorrow after I have spoken with him.” Her quiet declaration was firm, no room for argument. Sharon went over to the looming cardboard container, the daunting silence speaking as loudly as the prior chants. She leant down and opened the flap to reveal her son’s tearstained face. “Oh baby, it’s okay. Mummy’s here now.” She climbed into the constricted space and embraced her child. He shivered violently in her arms, his confused world jumbled. “Let’s go home sweetie, we can count the pointing pickets on the way.” A glimmer of a smile flashed across the small child’s face, gone so quickly Sharon wondered if it had even appeared. She gathered up her son, grabbed his backpack from his chair, and with one last disdainful look, walked out of the classroom into the sunlight of the deserted playground.

III

Sharon’s heart lightened a fraction as they approached the schoolyard and spotted the green Toyota Prado near the gate. She glimpsed a flash of blue uniform as the door opened to disgorge its passenger. Her quick intake of breath betrayed her dismay as Cyndi Turner leapt to the pavement, turned and waved calling “Bye-bye Uncle Sean!” She raised her eyes heavenwards, muttering under her breath, “Great, the jokes on me, only adult conversation in months turns out to be with an enemy spy.” She chuckled quietly in amusement.

“Mummy happy?” her son beamed up at her, his own panic alleviated by the distraction of his mother laughing.

“Yes baby, Mummy is always happy when she’s with you.” Clenching his small hand tighter, she leant and kissed the top of his head.

“Sharon! Steven! I’ve been watching for you two the last few days, no more sprints matey?” Sean drew level with the pair.

“Sean, we wondered when we would see you next. Steven wanted to say thank you.” At the mention of his name her son whirled around behind her, his face pressed into the small of her back. Sharon twisted one arm around to comfort him, encouraging him with “Steven? Don’t you want to tell Sean something?”

One hooded blue eye peeped out and a little voice reluctantly spoke, “Thank you, thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.” Repetition began to filter into agitation as the words babbled on.

“Okay sweetie that’s enough, well done.” His mother hugged him behind her body awkwardly, halting the toneless flow of words.

“That’s okay Steven, you are welcome.” Sean leant around her and held out his hand but the boy clutched his mother tighter dodging the well-meant handshake. Puzzled, Sean looked to Sharon, “Is it just me he disapproves of, or any male talking to Mummy?”

“Don’t take it personally, he’s unsure with any strangers. Sorry, I’d best get him into class, it’s better if I help him settle quietly before the bell. Good to see you again Sean.” Sharon smiled to minimise the cynicism, then turned to continue into the school. His next words took her by surprise.

“Would you have time for a coffee afterwards? I don’t need to be at work until later this afternoon.” Sharon turned, her mouth opened in disbelief. It had been a very long time since any adult, let alone a man, had asked her on a social interlude, even just for coffee. Autism was a meticulous alienator, her exhaustion and the ignorance of others combining to control the isolating campaign.

“I promise, I don’t bite,” Sean smiled in a boyishly disarming fashion “and I’d like to talk to a fellow adult about the classroom dynamics.”

Suspicion sharpened her tone.

“Sorry, I don’t think I can. I’m sure you must have a million more pressing things requiring your attention.”

“Ouch, a charming but decisive no. Are you sure I can’t tempt you? I don’t mind waiting, I can utilise my mobile for some business calls. And I would really like the chance to sit and have a conversation away from school premises, people will talk if we keep meeting like this!” Mischievous twinkle added to his devilish air, Sharon had long forgotten how to deal with a flirtatious male.

“All right, a coffee, but how about I meet you at the café on the corner. You can at least be sitting in comfort waiting and making your calls.” A sharp tug on her hand drew her attention back to the small boy, whose eyes were as big as saucers, standing beside her, listening to every word. She must be flustered if she had forgotten her number one priority tightly grasping her fingers. He needed to get to class. “I’ll see you there as quickly as I can Sean, but right now I have to see to this little man.”

Sean grinned, “See you up there shortly. Bye Steven, have a good day matey.” The boy turned as his mother led him away, continually glancing back to the man standing on the pavement. His large, round eyes were shaded by clouds of curiosity as bright blue gaze beheld the twinkling green the man. Sharon watched as the smile on Sean’s face widened further with belated acknowledgement from the quiet, aloof child.

The afternoon breeze flowed through the playground trees as the tall blonde-haired woman sat quietly on the bench at the rim. A secretive satisfied smile played at the edge of her lips as eyes closed she leant into the embracing branches of the Jacaranda behind the seat. Other parents did a double take as shocked recognition hit. Her relaxed posture and tranquil demeanour were such a sharp contrast to the brittle, jittery woman who normally appeared at pickup. Aware of the eyes upon her, Sharon remained still, silently replaying the events of the day. A cup of coffee and interesting adult company may be an everyday occurrence for most, but it was a rarity in her world. A pleasant, brief respite from her insular, demanding world, and a chance to reclaim a part of the person she was prior to her failed marriage and the draining demands of solo parenting a special child. Sharon eased back and mused, recalling the stimulating conversation, though it had started out stilted.

The frenzied tones of the school bell suddenly pulled her out of her reverie. Sharon jolted upright, eyes meeting the startled gaze of the regular mums holding court. She smiled, murmuring “sorry, daydreaming in the afternoon sun” to those closest. Puzzled glances were exchanged, this woman sitting in their midst was far more approachable than the defensive mother who flinched when approached.

She sat and waited for the door to open. Like an overripe fruit, the classroom burst and the children spilled forth. Steven flowed through in the middle of the surge, grasping happily a large piece of paper. Clutching onto his aide’s hand he called “Mummy, Mummy.” Sharon stood and opened her arms to her exuberant child. He flung himself to her, careful not to damage the treasure gripped in his hold. “Mummy look – mummy, look!”

Sharon took the proffered offering, and gazed at her son’s unmistakable hand drawn interpretation of a family. As always, a woman and child, but with a new addition: the man. Tears welled. Both of them had taken the first teetering step upon a new path. Steven pulled on her arm directing her attention, “S, Mummy, S. S people.” His finger pointed to the three figures on the page as he recited the drawn out syllables: “Ssssssteven, Ssssssharon, Ssssssean.” Little words so simple, yet expressing so much. The ice prison door melted a trifle further. She held her beautiful son in her arms, and silently uttered a prayer of thanks for the thawing of a little of the frost covering their isolated world. A closed door was now opening, and permitting hope to enter; hope for next time, or the one after. Hope for more. ‘I have a friend’, Sharon thought as she allowed herself a Mona-Lisa smile. She glanced at the child beside her. ‘No, we have a friend!’

Muse Wars 2011 - Challenge 1.

2011-03-05T17:34:00.000+10:00

Eyes of a Gypsy, Soul of a Wife.

"Jezus, would ya look at that!" Clare would have happily thumped her husband at that point but doubted he would even know. He was lost in a fog of undulating hips, contorting limbs, heaving bosums; eyes glazed as soon as the tempo of the temptress began, the first glimpse of her sultry come-hither eyes dragging him from the bland reality of the conference into a world of unbridled lust and heathen urges. His chairman stare had not since moved from the dance floor and the woman writhing before him. As the dancer's undulations increased racing towards a climax of drums and frenzy, Clare's husband's hands had twisted and knotted the linen napkin on his lap to attempt to hide his growing excitement. Watching her husband's red, sweat soaked face become further agitated, seeing the flicking of his engorged tongue flicking in and out desperately licking parted parched lips as his breath grew more and more agitated... Clare felt she may vomit.

She risked a furious glance at the figure of her husband's lust. Oh, it was easy for her. No doubt single, fancy free, young and pretty enough to ensnare any man she wanted. Not a brain in her head. She probably had chosen this career to do just that, trap some successful, middle-aged sugar Daddy to cater to her every whim. Stupid maybe, but cunning certainly. Steal him from the first wife, the one who had worked herself to the bone to support him through University, the one who had given him two beautiful children. The one who worked like a drudge to keep the house clean, cooked his bosses gourmet meals to help woo his way up the ladder, the one who had put herself and her needs aside and now finally, was by his side as he reached the pinnacle.

Why, Clare thought in indignation watching the belly muscles of her adversary ripple taughtly, I bet she sees him as her youthful right. Her perfect body unmarred by childbirth, her days filled with lazily making herself more beautiful, more enticing. Irresistible. She looked down at her own designer outfit, the best money could buy, straightened her large diamond rings, then fanned her rising unease with the menu causing overpowering wafts of Poisen to engulf those sitting near. The music peaked as the dancer wove her body in an undulating wave down to the floor.

Clare froze as her husband moaned "Oh my God" seemingly oblivious to his peers' leers and the startled, embarrassed looks from others. He slumped in his seat as the dance ceased, oblivious to Clare's angry jabs at his side and her hisses of "Henry, I am going to kill you for this." She threw an anger-filled look at the dancer, now rising from the floor her sultry gaze fixed on the man. Clare's man. The temptress started to stride towards the object of her attention. Clare rose, ready for a fight.

...

"Did I remember the eggs this morning? Oh hell, I think I bought the eggs, surely I remembered the eggs? They will only eat scrambled eggs when I am not home for dinner." Jassy twisted down in a double belly turn, her mind running over a million things. "I hope Martin remembers the twins need a story before bed, they won't sleep if they don't hear Hop on Pop before bed..."

Glide slide, arms slowly up, head back, arching pelvis forward, belly roll. "Did I turn the dryer on? I need those uniforms for work tomorrow, better check when I get home."

What had the instructor said? Always use the eyes, they are as much a part of the dance as the body. Jassy turned her unseeing gaze around the tables, eyes lowered lashes fluttering. "Two more dips, just two more and I'm done."

She heard him moan as she writhed lower and lower for her finale. A gutteral groan all too familiar. Slowly raising her tingling body from the floor she risked a look over to where the noise had emanated to meet the steely gaze of the woman sitting beside the sagging man.

One look had her moving quickly over to the table. The woman made a sibulant hiss and leant forward but Jassy ignored and moved to the side. She reached up to touch his neck and the woman leapt, grabbing her hand in a clawlike grasp. Jassy turned and removed the grip:

"Please, I'm a doctor. He needs help. Can someone call an ambulance and then get my bag from my car for me?" She turned back to the unconscious patient, checking for a pulse, relieved to feel an irregular beat underneath her practiced fingertips.

To think this was meant to be her relax and de-stress me pastime.

The Shadow Portal

2010-07-17T08:20:00.000+10:00

This narrative was written as an assignment by my oldest, Boy 1 aged twelve. I have his and his teacher's permission to publish it here. He does not play World of Warcraft nor any other console games of a similar vein. This is all from his non-stop, churning imagination...

This story is about me, an average but different boy. My name is Boy and sometimes I practice spells and science. An unusual mix, but not for me. Now, let us start my story.

One bright, sunny morning I was trying out a little light magic. I was working on a banishing spell for the creatures of the dark. The famous Knight’s Templar, an ancient religious order, created the chant many centuries ago and I had almost perfected it when I accidentally said that dangerous word, Magia. Magia means magic in old Latin. A dark purple portal with lightening shooting out of its dark purple clouds was created instantly. It opened and every beast in hell came flowing out. When the devil himself appeared the unholy gateway vanished but only after every single demon followed him down to the city intending to create a hell on earth. The sun went black and the entire world was plunged into eternal darkness.

Luckily for all of us, one of my earlier inventions was a solar storm box. This is a cube made out of two-way mirrors; it blinded the demons as I grabbed the spell book and ran. I managed to escape but a demon, known as a fissure, came after my family and me. The fissures look like a huge crack in the ground with the split growing as they feast off living flesh. Giant flying gargoyles leapt into the air and joined the chase. We ran and ran and ran.

I finally, in desperation, used a dangerous exorcism spell to try to repel them with holy light missiles. I loudly screamed the spell like this:

“By the power of holy light I hereby summon the power to exorcise these creatures of the dark!”

I was not expert at this chant and the result was not strong enough to vanquish the demons and gargoyles. A small shimmer reflected enough magic to force them back for only a little while but it gave us some time to make a move. We managed to escape into a dense forest to hide and make our plan.

I told my family, “I need to stop and research how to get rid of these demons once and for all!” So I sat on a rotten stump in the middle of the trees and pulled out my spell book to read in the dim light of my magic shimmer. My family sat quietly with me watching out for any demons or gargoyles on the attack. I opened my spell book.

“The Swords of Divinity. A powerful tool only to be yielded by those pure of heart and soul. They contain divine enchantment and are in the super-powerful class for use against creatures of darkness. Increase light magic spells all the way to the highest level and banishes everything evil.” I took a deep breath to calm me and asked the person I trust most in the whole, wide universe, “Mum, do you think I am pure of heart?”

My mother looked at me in truth and said “You are the most pure of heart and soul living being I have ever known.” She walked across the small clearing and hugged me tight. As she let me go I began the summon chant.

“I, Boy, the purest being of heart and soul, summon the Swords of Divinity into my open palms. Lord, give me the strength to yield these tools of goodness and strike those of evil back into the dark lands of hell!”

Onto the upraised inner surface of my hands two swords appeared. Each was circled by five magic runes all reflecting light from inside. The glistening gold of each blade manifested the illumination of the runes, casting huge explosions of holy light into the surrounding darkness. The beams revealed a re-opened shadow portal just beyond the clearing where I stood. I yelled to my family:

“Get behind me, now!” With manic screams and loud hysterical cursing the legion of demons were sucked from the earth and sky. Dark purple clouds bubbled through the opening, as lightening shot into the sky. Six hundred and sixty six of Satan’s subjects vanished into the shadow portal until only the dark lord himself was left clutching the edge of the opening.

Straining against the wild winds, I flung the swords into a cross as I called out a final mantra, “By the power of Holy Light I hereby cast Satan back into the realm of hell!” With a piercing scream, Lucifer was sent back to where he belonged and the shadow portal closed once more.

In the sudden silence, the sun re-appeared as the clouds cleared. My family embraced and peace was restored once more. Until next time.

, very proud mother of Boy 1 aged twelve.

Muse Wars: Many Coloured Love

2010-06-18T17:26:00.008+10:00

He gazed down upon the much-loved, lined face and saw not the septagenarian of today, but the vibrant twenty-something of yesteryear. He remembered the first time he laid eyes on her. It was not her beauty which caught his attention, but the infectious laughter which rang out across the square. Not a delicate ladylike giggle, no, rather a deep belly laugh from some hidden depth within the Vivien Leigh exterior.

A myriad of coloured ribbons fluttered behind her like a glorious halo of rainbow lorrikeets suspended mid-flight. Laughing, giggling, guffawing, head thrown back, she brushed past him in a mist of musk and vanilla, vanishing down the worn stone stairs before he could think of any excuse to detain her. Disappearing from his lonely life almost as fast as she had garnered his attention in the first place.

A rasp of faltering breath brought him back to the reality of the sterile hospital room as her green eyes fluttered open briefly, he clasped her cold hand tighter between his. The once rosy cupid lips moved in a short-lived tentative wan smile, then she drifted back into the pain-free oblivion of medicated sleep.

Ron allowed one single tear to escape from his brimming eyes, then he rubbed the evidence away with the back of his thickly veined hand. He did not want Patsy to see him crying if she managed to open her eyes once more, he needed to be strong for her. He had always been the strong one. Exhaustion gradually overcame his weary body, and he dozed. His gray head beside hers upon the pillow, body perched on the chair edge, fingers tightly clasped to pull her back to him if need be.

In the early hours of the frozen dawn he awoke to the twitching of her swollen fingers. The still thick eyelashes moved much as stage curtains do on opening night, swishing to reveal confused emerald eyes. They slowly cleared as her dazed gaze swept the room before meeting his wide-eyed ecstatic look.

"Ronaldo?" Rusty disused vocal chords faintly rasped his name. Never had it sounded so beautiful.

"Si, Patrizia." He smiled, hugging her forearm, and bringing the back of her hand to his dried lips.

"You found me?"

"I found you. I promised I would always find you no matter how fast you ran in your rainbow dress."

Tears welled, not only in the sets of aged eyes, but also blurred the vision of the two jaded care-givers standing just beyond the doorway.

"Oh, how sweet Paula. Aren't they a lovely old couple? Sometimes I just love this job." The matronly buxom blonde used the tip of her sleeve to try to stop mascara smudged eyes leaking down her cheeks.

Her companion wiped her wet face with an already soggy handerchief pulled from her pocket. "You have no idea Jen, this is quite the love story.

Ron met Patsy in the free-loving sixties in a little Italian village near Sienna. She was running from her arranged marriage ceremony, and he only caught a glimpse of her as she bolted past. It was love at first sight for him, but he thought he'd never find her again. He took years to track her down."

"Ooh, a tragic star-crossed love story. I love those! Did he chase her and woo her, fight off the evil fiance to marry her himself and whisk her away to a better life here?"

The brunette sighed, and raised her eyes to the ceiling. "It's quite the story. Look, I'll meet you in the courtyard in half an hour for our lunch break. It's too long to tell you now, I'll fill you in then."

The blonde grinned, nodded and walked to the next room. Paula met the bemused gazes of the room's occupants listening in to the conversation. She winked and left.

"If only they knew the truth, eh Patsy?"

"Oh Ronaldo, my Ronaldo."

"Shh sweetie, I promised you I would find you and take care of it all."

He knew the staff had romaticised the elderly twosome. He had known it from the moment Patsy had been brought into emergency with him by her side, refusing to leave it for even a moment.

"We had some great times over the years, hey, sweet green eyes?"

"Si Ronaldo, some very special times. God was good to bring you into my life."

"Are you sure Patsy? Is this really what you want?"

"Ronaldo you promised, you gave me your word on that mountainside. You took a solemn oath, remember." The green eyes, now dim with age, were sure in their conviction. "You promised."

Eyes met, gazes held. Years of binding memories flowed past.

Ronald slowly walked to the cupboard and pulled out a spare pillow. She smiled trustingly up at him as he firmly placed it over her face, not struggling, lying serenely accepting this final gift of love. He held it down, using all of his strength as he watched the clock on the wall slowly, painstakingly count off the minutes. Five...ten...finally he lifted the pillow after fifteen long minutes had passed. Her eyes stared unseeingly to the ceiling, her lips, whilst blue, smiled. She appeared so peaceful and the deep lines of pain were gone, vanquished by his final action.

Ronald kissed her cold lips, wiped the solitary tear from his cheek, and walked out of the room. He strode down the corridor, out the entrance and marched calmly for blocks until he found the park. Not once did he falter, nor look back. He followed the meandering tracks until he found the flowering, flowing hillside gardens. He climbed to the top. Under the autumn colours of the shedding chinese maple, he sat and finally allowed himself to remember.

The chattering of children had lightly covered the more agitated grumbling and arguing from the adults. The jilted groom and his family became louder and louder as all parties realised the bride had fled permanently. Ronald understood so little Italian, but it was obvious that angry, bitter recriminations were flowing freely. He looked down the tiny path she had fled on. Not even a ripple of leaves hinted at her trail, she was gone. Vanished. His heart felt... lessened yet heavier. He heaved the backpack higher and turned to continue his journey.

It was three years before their paths crossed again. Fate, well he liked to think so. He had returned to Italy annually, never admitting to himself he was searching, hoping. Yet each trip he studied every titan-haired women who passed by him, looking intently for her familiar face, never owning to himself that he had no real memories of her looks, merely the echoing sound of her loud laugh of freedom.

Again he found himself heading north, past Siena, through San Gimignano - the place she had grabbed hold of his heart so suddenly - on up to Cinque Terre, the place of the rambling villages and soaring cliffs.

He knew not what drew him, but something about the romance of these five terrace towns appealed to his captive heart. He booked into one of the many pensiones mentioned in his tattered guide book, and then wandered out into the twilight to explore.

Ron walked the Levanto streets until thirst drove him into a small cafe hidden in the corner of the piazza. The dimness made him pause in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Laughter broke out from the corner table, one woman's deep bray and his heart stopped beating. He froze, not wanting to believe until he could see for himself. The minutes seemed to drag endlessly as sight slowly cleared. Her russet hair fell onto her face as it rested in her hands and she tried to quell the uncontrolled giggling. Something in the manner of the stranger in the doorway seemed to make her pause and slowly her bright green gaze lifted to join his.

Still writing, this story has captured me and grown beyond the Muse War. Will slug away until done...

Sincerely, Miss. Saunders...

2010-04-26T10:48:00.000+10:00

The italic blue part of this story is the key challenge given by Corrie at Just Because My Pickle Talks. Her request was that others write a beginning or an end or both. For me I see what she has written as a perfect beginning and so I will add an end.

All writing and short story challenges will now be posted on this blog as my main blog was becoming rather cluttered with them. And in reality, this blog is a far more appropriate place.

Klaus Bythiner

More than half-way back in the large sanctuary, a man quietly stood. He was dressed in a simple tan dress shirt, no tie, and khakis, no belt. Although not in uniform, no one could conceive he wasn't a uniform type based upon his straight posture, his stance and his crew cut. He stood neither at attention nor at a parade rest, but something in between with his hands folded at his lower torso.

"I beg your pardon. I don't have an objection per se. But before the ceremony proceeds, I feel an obligation to answer a question Ms. Saunders once posed to me," he spoke quietly, but his voice carried throughout the old chapel.

The room of over one thousand people was eerily silent. The bride and groom turned around to face the sole standing man. From his neutral color choice to his average height and looks to his military styled sandy blond hair, there was nothing about him that would command the attention of this otherwise socially elite gathering of witnesses. Yet, at this point, every eye and ear was turned to him and waiting to hear what he had to say.

"Miss. Saunders, you asked me once if I was paying attention. I lied at the time. I'm an honorable man. What is given to me to protect and return, I cannot take. But what is given to me to protect and keep, I will fight to retain. Any of the men and women I've trained will tell you I won't leave anyone behind. I'm always at the end of their life line," he paused never taking his eyes off the bride.

"If I've misinterpreted the messages I've received, I apologize, extend my well wishes to the bride and groom and will take my seat," he spoke with dignity but no emotion. He continued standing as if he awaited a response. The thousand visitors remained stunned into silence.

The bride stood looking at the back of the room until the groom demanded, "What is he talking about?"

She turned to look at the groom for a moment, then removed her engagement ring and handed it back to him without a word. She dropped the flower bouquet on to the ground, gathered up her wedding dress and began moving quickly to the rear of the church...

... "I thought you weren't coming, I thought you lied." Her clear, lilting voice rang through the silent, still crowd. A collective sigh was sent up to the saints captured on the church ceiling. The standing man slowly raised his bowed head to bring his eyes to meet her sharp crystal blue gaze. A smile hesitently played around his grey lips.

"I did not lie, Miss. Saunders, when I made my promise. My only sin was a lie of omission when you told me of your plans. I did not maintain my attention and I missed the part where relayed this scheme. I did not take all you told me seriously, a grave mistake on my part. I am here to rectify that error."

"Merideth, I demand you tell me who this man is and what he is talking about! I am your husband and you will answer me!" The groom charged up the aisle his body shaking in indignation and anger. He reached the spot where she stood and leant forward to agitatedly shake his finger in her face. "Now, I tell you! NOW!"

The captive audience remained frozen as the tableau played on, not even the bejewelled attendants dared move to break this incredulous, theatrical scene unfolding before them. The three main players betrayed the only movement within the large church.

The bride slowly drew up the antique, chantilly lace veil with shaking fingers. Painstakingly the lace curtain rose, and she turned to her irate husband to be, "Herbert, count yourself lucky you are not my husband as yet. For if you were, you would be bound to accompany me..."

The congregation rose as one, shrill screams split the sacred surrounds, mass hysteria and panic propelled the guests into terrifying action. The church doors burst open as the horrified crowd escaped the confines of the sanctuary running from the tainted ceremony.

The man stood soldier-straight, solitary within the pews. "Now Meredeath, you know I cannot take responsibility for anyone other than you unless you are bound together in marriage." He took a cigarette from his top-pocket and lit it with a flick of his calloused fingers.

The bride turned to her shaking groom. "Still want to claim me as your bride Herbert? You can decide to come with me, just as I chose to go with George many years ago. He did not take me seriously enough, but you will, won't you?"

Her ashen-faced companion shuddered in revulsion as he gazed at her white, worn face. The vibrant, beautiful woman he had coveted was no more, instead he faced a hollow shell of shadowed splendour, evil seeping through the still crystal blue eyes. It was the only dash of colour remaining in her now malevolent aura.

"Now Meredeath, don't toy with the man. I tole you ah was sorry." The southern tone dripped through his chilling words, the good old boy act emphasising the soothing tone. George reached for the pale hand of the ghost-bride. "Ah won't evah believe you meant to leave me forever, ah just won't. As ah said before, what is given to me to protect and keep, ah will fight to retain. I won't leave anyone behind. Ah was at the end of your life line, and so you are mine to keep. You don't need the likes of him." He flicked a column of ash at the quivering Herbert, disdain dripping from the fleeting look he threw at the puddle appearing on the floor between the groom's shaking legs.

"George, if you ever ignore me again I will return here and abandon our ghostly realm forever. You know if it had been any later and we had been joined in holy ceremony, it would be solely my choice if I were to return to you or remain here? My deal with Satan gave me the power to return to the living if I found a worthy soul to return with at the end of our lives."

"Ah know Meredeath, ah know. As soon as I received your message ah came." Blood silently seeped through the left side of his shirt where the bullet of eons before had pierced his heart. He reached for his bride-to-be's other hand, turning her to him. Blood dripped from the open slashes above each of her frail wrists, trickling over their joined hands. With a gurgled gag the nearly groom crumbled to the floor, lying in his own bodily fluids.

Without a second glance at the prostrate figure at their feet, the ghostly duo gazed at each other, then turned towards the entrance of the church, vanishing with a grim ghostly scream of pleasure well before they reached the door.

Computer Life - A Poem.

2010-01-23T19:26:00.000+10:00

I wrote this poem many years ago - 2006. It was at a time I was still running madly on the learning curve about Autism Spectrum Disorder. I had a big wake-up call when I realised how much of their lives I was missing by my choices. Reading a blog post at Whoa-Mumma reminded me of how absorbed I was back then.

Computer Life

Sitting at my laptop
Looking for a cure
Typing away madly
Can’t resist its lure
Here comes the reason
For my search on this day
Mummy what you doing
Won’t you come and play?
I’m sorry sweetheart, I won’t be very long
But this is so important
Please run along

Talking in the chat room
Giving my best view
Writing in the forums
Sending some home truths
Here comes the reason
For my getting tough
Mummy are you busy
Come and see my stuff?
I’m sorry sweetheart, I won’t be very long
But this is so important
Please run along

I glance around at my boys
To see joy slide away
And realize the stupidity
Of what I’ve done this day
So shut down the PC
Turn around and smile
Mummy isn’t busy
Let’s play for a while!
I’m sorry sweetheart
I was so very long
But you are so important
Let’s all run along!

Life With Autism

2009-11-26T17:23:00.001+10:00

I wrote this story prior to my first foray into creative writing. We were required to write a piece up to 3,000 words to submit at the first class. Once I began I could not seem to stop and the words flowed from me in a cathartic outpouring. An edited version was runner-up in 2008 My Child magazine competition. I am posting it here (and it will have been read by many on another site) after reading another blog and realising how impossible it is for many to understand our world. If this opens the eyes of one other human, then it is worth it. For Boy 1, whose strength and belief in the good of all humbles me, and for Boy 2, who is the most compassionate, supportive child, even if he is a smartie pants. I love you both infinity plus 1.

I never dreamt I would grow up to be the sort of woman who cries at the drop of a hat. I always despised women who ride a huge rambling rollercoaster of emotion. Keep it to yourself - exercise a little self-control for God’s sake. Now I have joined this emotional little clique. I read an article this morning, sitting on the toilet of course – where else would I have the time alone to read, and I cried yet again. What was this inspirational topic? Another Hollywood celebrity discussing life with an autistic child. Autism is not selective. People from all walks of life are affected by it. An elite club you do not really know much about until YOU are invited to join. Even now, when a new member is revealed, I cry tears of empathy, grief and relief. I will have another congenial companion on the journey, they will understand. At the same time, my heart breaks for the path I know they will have to tread, the challenges and compromises they will have to consider on a daily basis.
It is quite ironic that emotions erupt from me when the catalyst is a disorder associated with the lack of emotions. Of course, I now know that this impression of autism is incorrect. People on the autism spectrum still have the gamut of feelings but react and reveal them in a different way to the average person. Every child on the spectrum is an individual so the disparities are endless.

How would I describe my son? He is eccentric, unique, pure, complicated and has Asperger Syndrome. He is emotionally challenging, heart warming, and eminently loveable. My prayers are that he is happy and content in his life. I dream he will marry, have kids, follow his dreams, fulfil his potential. He is angelic of face, volcanic of nature but only those who witness him in full meltdown see those masked eruptive depths. Generally, people use the hated phrase: “he doesn’t look autistic, does he?” I wish I knew what autism looks like.

For a parent, those four words: “your child has autism” is paramount to someone telling you: “sorry, you have a terminal disease.” The phrase has a terrifying fatal ring that you did not see coming. Pow, take that. It is ironic that Time magazine nominates autism as the only condition equivalent to cancer in its genetic complexity. Gut reaction: it is a joke, right. Not your child – hey – he talks and is loving! Don’t autistic kids sit in a corner barely emoting let alone being verbal? Must be a mistake, they have to be wrong!

Your whole view on life changes, not in a split second, but gradually, little by little, as the implications of this diagnosis kick in. When a child is born, it enters into a world of parent ambitions and dreams. When that child is diagnosed with a disability, it is the parents who grieve for their lost dreams and ambitions. Disbelief, grief, acceptance, survival: these are the steps. Like a reformed alcoholic following the Alcoholics Anonymous guidelines, we follow our own AA path: autism awareness.

Enter the minefield of lovely, helpful professionals. Sadly, a high number will bombard you with worse case scenarios accompanied by literature to terrify, or offer no assistance whatsoever. Expect you to mine through the fields and find the hidden gold of therapies or support available. A secret society and they must not tell unless the parent unlocks the concealed code. It is only once progressing through the system you learn to become ruthless and track down the rare professional who understands. Don’t get me wrong, we have encountered some amazing specialists along the way, but why have we needed to fight to find them?

As parents, a pervasive, encompassing loneliness engulfs you. Like two shipwreck survivors, you cling to each other, reassure each other, and sometimes loathe each other. Too down beaten even to try to communicate with external connections, friends fall like flies. The child becomes the centre of your focus – the marriage just has to coast along under its own steam. Time is in such short supply to even shower seems an unnecessary waste. The internet and its wealth of knowledge becomes a constant lure. Conversation revolves around droplets of information to be shared. No wonder so many frailer marriages implode under the pressure of a special child. Thank God, ours has not. Thank God, we both follow the same path. Thank God, we still love each other enough.

In the dead of a long, dark night I once wrote:

“What can I say to people to let it out? They say how average, normal he seems but they don’t live it. The fights, struggles, mood swings – his and mine. And the questioning of how much damage I am doing to his brother. How wrong am I getting it? The doubts, anger and frustration of living day to day. The struggle to do normal things like taking a family break. He told me today “I will kill you” and he probably will, somehow, sometime; the heart attack or stroke from the stress, the gun when he is older and angrier… the alcohol I use to feel better... or not to feel at all. So now I sit, unable to sleep; and type and cry.”

This is still my reality though not all the time. My son makes me proud in so many of his actions, methods and beliefs. These are the moments that keep me going, that hold me to the path we have chosen. So many different therapies thrown at you, to pick a direction and stick to it is fraught with uncertainty and doubt. What if it is the wrong choice? What if I am damaging his fragile psyche and another choice would have smoothed his life for him? The consequences could be tragic if we get it wrong. Think Columbine or Arizona Tech. Asperger Syndrome was one of the terms bantered around in connection with the perpetrators of these crimes. The frustration and isolation that erupt into violence, a newsflash revealing a frozen glimpse of a parent’s greatest fear. My greatest fear. How did their mothers feel? The pain and questioning. What did they do wrong? The unbearable guilt and shame, overwhelming loss and grief.

I second guess and doubt my choices already. It is easy to feel that a decent mother would be able to fix things for him. No matter how many times I am told otherwise, I often wonder if I did something to cause this. It is so much harder because I swim against conventional thought. MY child. Don’t they get it? MY child. Nobody on this earth understands him the way I do. Not even his father who acknowledges the truly unique, special link I have with my firstborn. His little brother probably understands him well, but still not that iron, heat forged, binding chain we share. Yet I am probably the toughest with him. I have never subscribed to the school of “poor me, poor him”. I have never allowed the boundaries to differ in relation to both my children. My oldest has to live in the real world, thus he has to learn to cope with the real world. Some mothers think I am harsh. Some mothers think I am obsessive. Some just think I am delusional.

Most education professionals cringe when they see me coming, or if my name is mentioned. One very senior special needs educator said: “you are an overzealous mother who is causing her child undue anxiety and stress by your attitude. He cannot learn and you will scar him with your belief otherwise”. Five of the eight people present believed he was right. I wonder if that man considered how he was scarring me with that comment. Years later his words still taunt me in the sleepless 2am worry sessions. But time has shown how incorrect they were. If only I had the energy to track them all down to flaunt his school report cards.

The tragedy is we are meant to rely upon these “special” educators, these experts. The special needs teachers, the special needs guidance counsellors, the special needs directors in the education department. Those on the front line, the teachers and aides themselves, have allied with us. Former principals have pushed boundaries for us. For this, I am so endlessly grateful. They put their hearts into helping my child, but are often bound by the ridiculous ideas and limits placed by the so-called specialists. I despise some of these authority figures. What was it Mark Twain said? “In the first place God made idiots. This was for practice. Then He made school boards.”

I try not to compare my children. I leave that to the school system. In the household where I grew up, we were treated as individuals. Comparisons were frowned upon. The phrase “why aren’t you more like your sister” was never uttered. I have always told both my children from birth they are unique, special, different. It is heartbreaking to see the way society likes to knock us all into the same monotonous shape. Especially the education department – submit or get out! Comparison is the name of the game. No wonder home schooling is the greatest growing teaching mechanism in the developed nations. I hope both my children survive the educational world with some eccentricities intact. Conform to cope, not to become the round peg. Have the confidence and self-belief to embrace their differences, but still be accepted within mainstream society.

Writing is an ordeal for my son due to his fine motor problems. In this day and age, you would think the system would get it. He will never be comfortable with penmanship, it tires him beyond belief. Most autistic children have low muscle tone, which affects both fine and gross motor skills and it is more difficult because of the pressure he places upon himself to be flawless. Did I mention that these kids are perfectionists? He often will refuse to attempt a task so overwhelming is his fear of failure. I have framed the first Mother’s Day letter he wrote me. My close friends cry when they see it on my wall. I know exactly how hard it had been for him to write this. It is equivalent to another child writing it in blood. The last line in it is “You are very special because you always save me from falling.” When questioned about this line, his reply was “you always save me Mummy, from falling sad, from falling mad, from falling over.” My son. Who believes Mummy will fix anything. I have to live with the knowledge that I will not always be able to save him from falling. I will not always be there when he falls. And so I have to give him the tools to be able to pick himself up, dust himself off, and keep moving. Physically and emotionally. Is it any wonder the pressure pulls me down at times? In my life there is a constant undertow of emotion, ready to drag me under at my first sign of tiring. But if I go down, he goes down, so I swim on.

My child has the typical autistic sensory issues: smell, touch, taste, sound, sight. Like a superhero, these are fine-tuned to hypersensitivity. Makes for fun on any day, is excruciating on bad days. You know he cannot help it, but it is the whinging that wears you. Oh God, the whinging. If you think all kids whinge, then multiply it by 100 and you have life with an autistic child. These children are the eternal pessimists of life. I think Murphy was autistic (you know – the one who wrote “what can go wrong will go wrong”).

It is probably why I joyously revel in my child’s cheekiness. To hear my son use sarcasm or throw a witty comeback makes me glow with pride. ASD children do not have usually this ability. Everything in their world is factual and literal. When his teacher says “good day, no hiccups.” he looks at her in bewilderment. “I didn’t have hiccups today or yesterday or at all last week.” Why would his teacher mention hiccups? He really does not get it. So when I hear him say, “you punch like a girl” or twist a word for a wholly different meaning I know we are slowly winning the battle. The anthem I can hear in the background right now is music to my ears. “My brother’s a pinhead, my brother’s a pinhead.” The chant of a champion. We struggle to teach him the things other kids just seem to know as they get older. I do not want him to lose whom he is, just to make the journey easier throughout life. And to do this he needs skills that others take for granted. If only I could transfer some of the younger brother’s excess to the older brother.

What do autistic children born to demure mothers do? What happens to the children diagnosed with autism whose mothers do not know how to fight? The reserved ones. Do the mothers learn to fight? Do the children become self-sufficient? Or are these the children who fall between the cracks? The system fails them, then Mum does. Future massacre perpetrators. Terrifying. Heartbreaking.

I am by nature a doer, but battle has now become a way of life. I fight my son every day. Eat breakfast. Please eat breakfast. Son, you will run out of time, eat breakfast. JUST SIT THERE AND EAT BREAKFAST! Get dressed. Please, get dressed. Just get dressed. SON GET DRESSED RIGHT NOW OR I AM TAKING YOU TO SCHOOL NAKED! No Mummy is not trying to cause you stress by yelling. Son brush your … Well, you get the idea. Sadly, the biggest campaigns have been waged against those who are meant to be our greatest support. The medical and educational specialists. The burnt out ones, I call them. They look at you as if you are an illiterate idiot, or an obsessive parent in denial. Don’t you understand? Your child has autism, it is not curable! I know the diagnosis. Disbelief and grief were dealt with and then conquered. We have to or the family will remain in an endless limbo. Acceptance and survival are far more complicated, and the impossible is discerning what his reality and potential may be. Exactly who gave these so-called masters a crystal ball? I want one! They are so positive of the outcome for MY child, so definite in their projections. There are so few who understand our plan, who bolster and cheer us on. Give us the positive reinforcement we so crave. Why can’t more of these professionals realise how much we need to hear those few words: “You have made the right choice.” It is not that hard to say!

I do NOT accept the restrictions and the doubt imposed on my child’s abilities. I know what he is capable of. I am aware that many things will not develop with maturity and age if we do not intervene now. Therefore we do. We give him the grounding he needs to become a happy, fulfilled adult. Teach him to use his own judgement to overcome the obstacles. To make the best choices, not the worst.

The internet becomes addictive once you have a child diagnosed with autism. I grasp onto little bits and pieces, ideals and ideas, beliefs and gut instinct. Weave them into our lives. Our path. Our way. Our desire to help him be whoever and whatever he chooses. OUR WAY. The World Wide Web can be your greatest resource or the most insidious tool in the universe. Who was it who said, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”? So true. The search for information and ideas can backfire when you stumble upon the horror stories, and the many armchair experts who prophesize doom and gloom for the autistic child. “They can’t” people, rather than “they can!”

I have a signature underneath my username. “Please don’t annoy me, I’m running out of places to hide the bodies…” The original was actually a bit stronger than this, but I adapted it to be a little more politically correct. Just to warn some people I meet on the internet highway that I am a lioness protecting her cub, the warrior queen using my wit to take down any enemies.

It is terribly amusing that I am writing all this. Baring my soul, ripping off the scab from my heart. I try not to ramble on too much about him. People’s eyes glaze when I am spilling too much. Therefore, I do not. It just seethes in the pit of my stomach until I get through it, or until I purge it all on the internet to my close coven of friends facing the same battles. Yes, we do actually call ourselves a coven or sometimes a clique. A clique where nobody ever has to fight for membership. A group of emotionally turmoiled mothers grasping hands, baring souls, trying to bandaid the wound. Now I sit, and again I cry. This time with gratitude that these special women get it. I can stop fighting and breathe. Just for a moment.

Waiting For The Dragons

2009-11-22T19:32:00.002+10:00

This piece was my 2009 entry to the Australian Woman's Weekly short story competition. It is close to my heart after prematurely losing three people I cared greatly about to the dreaded cancer. This is not counting my Dad who lost his battle at the age of eighty. I did not win, obviously.
For Boy 1, who truly believes in the magic of dragons.

I can hear the thwoop, thwoop as they swoop above me like a colony of gigantic bats, so near I can see the network of veins in their thin-skinned wings. Lower and lower they fly until the surrounding air is in gusty turmoil. The wind wildly whips the hair across my face as the dress billows around legs. I have never felt so exhilarated, so alive. I could scream with sheer joy. The largest of the dragons turns, glides, and dives downwards, closer and closer, a shimmering missile, gleaming golden eyes fixed upon me. I cannot contain it any more, exuberant laughter bursts forth, restrained no longer. The dragon bares it’s large, sharp, glistening teeth in response. Closer, closer…

I awaken drenched in quickly cooling perspiration from a night sweat and my heart pounding in excitement, or maybe fear. Beside me Jason stirs, one hand outstretched like a heat-seeking missile constantly pursuing bodily contact. What will he do when I am gone? Whose warm body will replace mine when this insidious disease finally claims my last breath? Will his hand find only an icy void where I once lay? Will he lie in loneliness, morosely recalling midnight conversations from the dreamy days when we thought we were invincible?

“Mummy? Mummy?” My mournful introspections abruptly shatter with a child’s frantic cries. Lurching to my feet the room spins, and I furtively swallow the rising taste of bile, my bitter, tangy, constant companion.

Jason stirs, and begins to move with sleepwalking slowness, sluggishly throwing back bedcovers.

“Kath, get back into bed, I’ll go to him.” An overwhelming surge of frustration engulfs me. There is no excuse for this snail-crawl pace. No physical infirmities limit his motion, though he is sick at heart.

“Go back to sleep, it’s me he wants. Please, just leave me be to do this as long as I can!” Temper quickens movement in my painful muscles as irrational emotions help win the physical battle to make my legs work. With martyred sigh, Jason reclines into the pillows, resigned in the face of such belligerence. I angrily manage a reasonable imitation of a confident walk along the dim hallway to my only child’s room.

I enter to see him sobbing and all resentment vanishes, his upturned, tear-stained face the only part of him visible from under the bedcover tent. The night terrors he had left behind at four have resurfaced with a vengeance at six. He fights his faceless fears nightly just as his mother wages daily battles for life.

“Shh, sweetheart, Mummy’s here.” I stumble awkwardly to his bed, tripping over furry toys and setting off manic announcements to the lowly lit room, “Tiggers love to bounce!” It is a wonder any semblance of slumber lingers under his distress. “Baby, Mummy is here, quiet now, Mummy’s here.” Murmuring constant reassurances, I carefully climb into the small timber bed, sliding the diminutive bundle of my son across to give space to lie. We spoon, his tiny back pressed against my chest as it has been since birth. Only now, instead of being cushioned against my nurturing breasts he is cradled against a myriad of scars. With the innocence of a child, he cannot see the changes. He only knows Mummy is here and he is safe. A contented sigh escapes his lips as he slips back into dreamtime, devout in his conviction Mummy will slay any scary monsters. Other than the broken sobbing, my child has not spoken a word since I entered the room. I ease my aching frame into a more comfortable position and prepare for a long, sleepless night. Discomfort lessened by the joy of gazing at my baby’s peaceful face, a pleasure I am terrified I will lose too soon. I kiss his slightly clammy brow, and cradle him closer, savouring his warmth and inhaling the unique scent that is Thomas.

The glare of the morning sun awakens me to another day. My son sleeps, arms splayed and legs tangled in tyrannosaurus-tinted linen. I stretch my stiffened limbs, and painstakingly move to sit on the edge of the rumpled single bed, taking care not to disturb my miniature bedmate.

“Hey, you.” My husband stands in the doorway ready to face his working life in suit and tie, unrecognisable from the weekend Jase of faded rock tee shirts, stubble and old, worn trackies. I drink in his image, pausing to imprint it into my subconscious so it is there to recall during my long day. He waits patiently for a response as my eyes devour him.

“Hey, you.” This is our secret language from early university days when all was about keeping it cool and casual. When we remained totally oblivious to the fact we were never destined to be a disposable affair. “Hey you”, translates from “I love you” to “Are we okay?” In the breathtaking minutes after Thomas’s rapid arrival into the world, it quietly voiced our avalanche of raw emotion. Now it is a phrase to cover all we cannot speak of, all we dread. A code to strengthen us when this dreadful disease begins to erode our love as it eats away at my flesh.

“So?” He flashes the boyish grin that captured my heart the very first day. Sometimes I feel time has stood still for him, he is my own Dorian Gray, and I am the portrait in the attic. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Fine. I’m a big girl now you know.” I manage a crooked smile to support my words. The great pretender as I am not all right, I do not think I will ever be again. The appointments terrify me and all I want is for him to be by my side to hold my hand and reassure me all is fine. The reality is this cannot be as our savings pour into the bottomless pit of paying for pointless treatment. Futilely we attempt to slow the ticking clock, trying to decelerate the progress of this illness and buy a little time.

The bed stirs beside me, sheets kicked aside as my reason for prolonging life springs into wakefulness.

“Mummy!”

“Morning monster, sleep well?”

“Mummy, I dreamt about the dragons again. Mummy, do you want to know about my dream? Mummy, Eldred is watching us you know. He was in my dream again.” His amber eyes light up and my heart clutches at his obvious excitement. With a pang, I recognise the same exhilaration of my own early hours. I can only hope his reality is not the disappointed awakening mine is.

“Was he big and shiny with teeth all sharp?”

“No, silly Mummy. Eldred is a good dragon, he isn’t scary at all.”

“I’m glad pumpkin, we need someone nice to look out for us.” Pulling him into my arms, I tickle the small spot on his stomach where I once blew wet, sloppy, baby raspberries. He erupts into childish laughter as Jason comes over to squat bedside and join in the revelry.

“What about Dad, don’t I watch out for you guys?” An undertone of seriousness colours his words, even though the tenor is jovial. It is hard for him to feel so helpless in the face of my suffering.

“Daddy!” I watch my son launch into his father’s arms. Focused on me he had not noticed his father in the doorway, now he is intent on making the most of Daddy’s presence. Two dark, curly heads bob in unison as they tussle.

“Careful Thomas, Daddy has his good work clothes on.”

“Its fine Kathy, I can always change if I need.” Chastened, I stand back and watch the manly display as they wrestle on the carpet. Once upon a time, they would have pulled me in to join them, but now caution taints every physical connection. I loathe my frailty; abhor the betrayal of my body, the cloud of pain shadowing every movement I make. I hate all that sickness has taken from me. Each joyous squeal, every giggle from both young and old slices through my heart, I have lost my laughter.

“Okay soldier, off me. Time for breakfast, it’s a school day.”

“Awww, Dad.”

“Nope, don’t awww Dad me. Time to move it.”

I stand slowly, “Okay, who wants Weet Bix and who wants toast?” My stomach protests at the mention of food.

“I’ll do it.” Jason tries to rescue me again. I stop him with a look, he knows this is not an argument he can win. The time will come soon enough when his kingdom will expand to usurp my kitchen realm, but not quite yet. I gather my subjects, and lead them as agilely as I can into my domestic domain.

The sterile waiting room always invokes an emotional response. I often wonder if they have deliberately created a cold, barren space to combat the intense feelings generated in the clinic. I am alone and insignificant sitting here in my padded chair, flicking idly through a fashion magazine and pretending not to watch the other patents enter and exit. I will never understand the rationale behind keeping magazines full of women with complete, perfect bodies at a place where all feel scarred and damaged. Intermittent shattered sobbing of despair breaks the sterile silence. We do not risk looking at each other in this limbo land.

“Mrs Williams?” My turn in the torture chamber comes too quickly.

“Yes.”

The sombre receptionist scowls my way, and growls “Come through.” I yearn to add, “Said the spider to the fly” but do not think she would appreciate my neurotically obscure attempt at wit, so I simply smile and slide past her to the doorway. I long for Jason with his satirical humour.

The doctor stands with his back to me, intently perusing the printouts of my future. Millions of razor blades twirl inside my knotted stomach as I attempt to stop the compulsive twitching of my fingers. A nervous giggle breaks from my lips. He looks up and I have become a fly trapped in his piercing spider glare.

“Sorry, flash back to a childhood game. Church steeple, open doors, here are the people?” I hold up my entwined digits with their ragged, raw nails and wiggle them as I babble. I hope he is jaded enough to be blasé about nonsensical ramblings from patients. I watch as his thin, dry lips begin to move rapidly spilling forth the unwanted medical results. He frowns over black-rimmed spectacles.

“Jason not with you? Right, well then. I guess we’d better get on with it. I have the results of…”

Before this nightmare, I had always daydreamt about medical specialists who bore a startling resemblance to George Clooney. Unfortunately, mine is the image of Peter Sellers. In the early days, Jase and I regularly joked about yearning for ER’s strong, competent Dr Doug Ross and the poetic justice of landing Doctor Strangelove. Not now. Now I pin my hopes on the good doctor and his cache of medical tricks. All I need is just a little longer, no matter that the days are painful and tiring. Time for my child to have the mother who adores him and to create the memories he will hold warm in his heart to get him through when things are tough. The resurrected morning image of my two men tussling and tumbling happily together on the floor makes me smile. I am wrenched back into stark reality by one word. Palliative.

“I’m sorry, what?” His unusually sympathetic gaze scares me.

“Sadly Katherine, the test results leave no doubt. The cancer has metastasised beyond the original site into your bones, the lining of your stomach and excessively into the liver. I don't feel at this point you can tolerate any further treatment, nor would it be of significant benefit to you. I will be referring you to palliative care to manage the pain. I know this is not news you were ready to hear. I am so very sorry.”

I cannot hear, I cannot breathe. Encased in a thick, solid block of ice I sit, frozen in disbelief as my executioner talks on. I need to leave; I have to get up and get out of here now. It is my turn to prattle as I agitatedly gather up my cumbersome bag, stand and make excuses. I must escape. This appointment never happened.

“Katherine? Would you like a glass of cold water? Katherine? Can I get you something?” He moves as if to restrain me, or maybe he is merely trying to reassure but I flinch from his touch. I cannot bear for him to lay a hand on me. You want to get me something, then get me my life back.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. I am late to pick up Thomas. I have to pick up Thomas. I have to go now, yes right now.” The room is shrinking, and no matter how fast I inhale, I cannot get enough oxygen into my lungs. I trip over the chair leg in my haste, as a startled Doctor Bellington follows in my wake, stuttering questions to quell my flight. A mass of mouths form surprised circles as I burst into the crowded waiting room.

Escaping into the bright sunshine, I stumble to the carpark entrance and double over gasping for air. I want to vomit.

III

I can feel the thwoop, thwoop as his majestic wings sweep upwards and downwards in giant brush strokes. The constant, rapid beat of his heart is drumming against my clenched calves and I tighten my hold on his silver, scaly neck, gripping for dear life. My burnished bronze hair billows out behind me, thick and lustrous blowing blissfully in the turmoil of rushing air surrounding us. We are flying. The night lights below glimmer like a million tiny candles, guiding our way. A myriad of diamonds reflect from my dragon’s skin, whilst shimmering above us, the stars illuminate the skies. I am free and the world is mine to go where I will, wherever I choose. We fly over small continents in quickly passing moments. I am content. I am happy.

“Muuummy!” I am snatched rudely into wakefulness on some level partially aware this yell holds no terror, no desperation. It is a scream of triumph, pure joy. Ineffectively I attempt to throw back the anchored bedcovers, but before I can summon the strength Thomas explodes into the room. He leaps into the icy void where Jason once lay, jiggling and bouncing our bed. His energy exhausts me.

“Mummy, mummy. I flew! I flew on my dragon!” The whole room seems to quiver with his excitement. He pauses only to catch breath.

“Mummy, it was Eldred, he jumped into my dream! Told you he is magic. He took me lots and lots of places.” He flashes the gap tooth smile I love so much followed quickly by a fleeting, pensive frown. Something is on his mind. We wiggle giggling down into the covers, hiding from the world in the dead of night. Billowing sheets a cave, the bedside light a flickering campfire. This is our time for exchanging confidences; it is not as difficult to talk about the hard things in the solitude of early morning. However, tonight our tales are happily full of daring dragons and glittering jewels.

“My dragon is magic too, sweetie. Her name is Hildegard and she has shining jewels all over her humungous body. She’s really big, and so strong.” My subconscious wandering has left me with a buoyant lingering sense of freedom.

“Eldred is more magic, Mummy. He doesn’t need girly jewels. He flies real fast. Like a rocket.” Thomas pauses, and chews on his bottom lip the way he always has when lost in thought. “Mummy?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Do you really believe in Eldred?” His earnest, tawny eyes hold me captive, pinned.

“I believe there are a lot of things we don’t know for sure in this world, Thomas.” Pupils widen in wonder as he considers the possibilities. He pensively worries his pouting lower lip again.

“Mummy. I know some secrets. Dragon secrets. Real magic.” This last declaration is delivered in hushed, reverent tones. He pauses, and sighs deeply before continuing with a whisper.

“Mummy. Eldred is so magic he can fix up the bad bugs inside you. He told me he could.”

“Oh baby.” My heart breaks into a million pieces in the face of my child’s steadfast belief in miracles. My faith had been lost from the moment the term palliative was introduced. “It’s not that easy darling; the doctors have tried all sorts of magic to make Mummy feel better. Sometimes even magic cannot help.” He stubbornly shakes his head.

“No. Dragon’s save people. That’s what dragons do. He could fly you to heaven, Mummy. He would be very careful. Then God could fix you.”

“What are you two up to under there?” Sheets drawn back, we sit blinking owlishly in the glare of the lamp. My husband leans in the doorway; dark circles rim tired brown eyes, curly hair matted from fingers running endlessly through, a face grey with exhaustion. No more is he my Dorian Gray. I know he has been sitting in the darkened, cold kitchen staring sightlessly into the night. My poor, poor love. I smile and catch his eye before I speak.

“Hey you.” He tries to smile at our private code. What does he see now? Is it as I was when all was well or do my ailing looks pierce his heart? I know what the mirror shows, I have grown ugly in my illness. I avoid reflections but sometimes when walking past I catch an unguarded glimpse of who I have become. Then I cry.

“Hey you. Shouldn’t you two be sleeping?”

“Sleep? Bah, sleep is very overrated. We have been dragon adventuring!”

“Eldred is going to fly off with Mummy, Daddy.”

“Oh, so a dragon is my competition. I think I need to have a talk to this Eldred.”

“No silly, Eldred is taking Mummy to heaven.” I see the jerk of Jason’s head as this unexpected missile hits home. Our concerned, solemn gazes link across the room.

“Sweetie, Mummy is still here. I’m not flying off with anyone just yet.” I do not want to crush all his dreams; he will need an element of magic in his life when I am gone.

“Room for Daddy in this hideout?” Carefully, trying not to jostle, Jason climbs into the queen size bed beside Thomas. Our son provides the buffer to be not too close. It has been an eon since he could bring himself to hold me. All we seemed to do in those first weeks after my death sentence was hold each other, now it is as if he is scared I will break if he touches me. I am scared I will break if he does not.

As my anger has abated, his has grown.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah matey.”

“Don’t you love Mummy anymore?”

Jason’s face loses the little colour it had. Thomas is a perceptive little man, he doesn’t miss much. He is closely watching his father’s reaction.

“Of course I love Mummy, why on earth would you think I don’t?” Jason is drowning in emotional turmoil. I cannot save him, I cannot save myself.

“You don’t kiss Mummy anymore Daddy. Are you mad at her?” Our eyes meet across the top of our son’s head. I can read my husband’s thoughts as clearly as if they were my own. He is mad at me, he is furious at the whole world. Rage consumes him. We desperately need to talk, but not with little ears listening.

Besides, this night waking time is reserved for fun.

“Oi, you two, no serious talks allowed in the cave. Now whose coming back under for some dragon training discussions? My Hildegard has a huge flatulence problem I need to rectify.”

“What’s fatnuence, Mummy?”

“Mummy means farts, kiddo. Who is Hildegard?”

“Mummy’s dragon. That’s gross Mummy! “

“Come on you two delicate little petals, I need some advice. Surely you blokes would be the farting experts!” Giggles and guffaws bounce around amid loud, protesting denials, and the darkness of our lives is lifted a little. Time enough for reality in the harsh light of day.

My heart is breaking as I watch him struggle, how hard it is for him, how sad for all of us. We are talking once more, there is much to be said and so little time. I am content in the knowledge my husband will get through when I am gone, now we both see life will go on. I have told him I hope he will love again. He denies he could. He does not see as I do that great love begets great love.

Some days I lie around in an opiate-induced trance, unable to move. As the weeks pass, these listless, lifeless periods are becoming more and more frequent. The dose of morphine pumping into my body to hold back the pain is getting stronger and stronger. I am at the point where peace and the desire to be free of pain are enticing me away from life. I have no strength left, I crave serenity. It hurts even to breathe on the bad days.

My son lies with me most evenings. We spoon, his robust young body cradled against my frail, skeletal frame. His only desire is to be close to me, but I insist on his daily routine. I tell him I need him to go out into the world, as I cannot. He brings me back precious tiny tokens, snippets of normalcy. My bedroom is overflowing with fragrant blossoms, remarkable rocks and vibrant, colourful drawings of dragons; always of dragons. We talk, and though he knows I cannot return once I leave, he does not cease insisting the dragons will help to ease my way wherever. My child, my glorious child. Jason assures me he will keep me alive within my boy’s mind and heart, but I know memories fade. All I hope and pray is that when he thinks of me as the years pass, he will still feel the warm glow of my love surrounding him. My son, my Thomas, how can I bear the agony of leaving you? It surpasses the worst I have endured on this journey, and yet I cannot fight on any longer. Be strong and brave, my beautiful boy. Remember, Mummy loves you.

I can hear the thwoop, thwoop as he comes closer and closer, spiralling lower and lower. He is so beautiful, a myriad of jewel-like colours cover his majestic wings and body. This time he is coming, there is no stopping him. He is coming for me. Tears run in rivers, melding with sweat on my face. I can feel the moisture flowing, seeping into the cracks of my bloodied, split lips. A surge of turbulent air from flailing wings cools my fever-ridden torso, pushing adrenalin into dehydrated veins, pumping pulsating shocks of life into my fragile body. The beating of his wings grows louder and louder, thump, thump, until my whole being pulsates with his rhythm of life. The closer he comes; the further the beat slows. As my final, deep sigh of bliss leaves my lips, he sweeps me gently into his strong yet tender grasp. A beloved little voice murmurs sweetly into the ear of my earthly shell: “Mummy, Mummy, I was right. The dragon saved you.” It is the last I hear, his precious, small voice fading into the distance as the agony recedes and I am swept, cradled safely within the dragon’s embrace, into the brilliance of the light.

Dad’s Boy

2009-11-22T14:08:00.000+10:00

This short story was written about my childhood experiences with my Father for the ABC National Rural Short Story Competition. Of course, the year I decide to enter was the year they decided to terminate the competition due to a lack of funding. It has since been published in our small rural newspaper.

My shiny black leather shoes are resting on the edge of the truck’s cold bench seat. I cautiously stretch my small legs in an attempt to drop an ankle over the rim to sit like a big girl. Not a chance. I am wearing my sensible lace-ups, double bows lovingly tied by Mum in near darkness. I don’t want to scuff the glossy shoe surface as I can see myself in their reflection. At almost four years old, I’m off to help Dad on the freezing morning milk run. We sit silently, and our rapid breathing produces heated hazes of damp vapour condensing in the early morn clouding the interior of the windscreen. Dad wipes it with crumpled newspaper; there is no demister in the old girl as he fondly calls the lorry.

Dad’s boy they call me, though I am the second of his two daughters. The tomboy shadow persistently tagging along behind as my weather-beaten, craggy-faced giant of a Dad strides about our backyard feeding chooks, tilling the vege patch, and chucking papers into the ancient incinerator until billowing black belches of smoke mask everything around us. His large calloused hand holds my soft plump fingers tight. Dad’s boy is safe from harm; she’s with her Dad. I am his diminutive companion for all tasks, though my big sister always tells him I’m a nuisance and annoying.

After weeks of whining, begging and beseeching, finally I am deemed old enough to accompany my former cow-cocky father on the four am milk run. My sister, who is eight, has outgrown these adventures. In fact, she never really, truly enjoyed the daring moonlit escapades. She is such a girl.

Mum woke me up when the stars were still shining bright, winking at me. Now, I am bundled so deep in thick, warm layers of clothes all I could manage was a penguin shuffle to the truck. Dad hoisted me like a plump package into the passenger seat, and now I sit entranced by my reflection in my black shiny shoes and the steam flowing from my mouth with every breath.

“All set petal? Gunna give your old Dad a hand with the milk cans?” In the darkness his shiny eyes twinkle as he turns the key. The engine splutters once, twice, a third time grumbling at this cold early morning start, until at last she catches with a shake and a rattle. We are off, waking the slumbering neighbours with a clatter and a clank as we roll down the bitumen road through the sleeping country town, before heading into the gloomy fog of the rural farming area. Cluttered houses on the quarter acre block give way to barbwire fences and hazy shadows of dairy cows as the dawn sun slowly crawls its way above the horizon, darkness still holding most of the land in its gloomy embrace. We turn up dusty tracks, rattle over rusty metal cattle grids, and turn into ramshackle timber sheds where the daybreak milk rumbles through monstrous milking machines as they sigh and groan with lives of their own. Giant metallic robots rhythmically sucking at the udders of placid caramel coloured Jerseys whose long-lashed chocolate brown eyes blink slowly, sleepily at me through the morning mist.

“See you got yourself an offsider today. Looks a bit on the scrawny side to be of any use!” A decrepit moth-eaten hat shades the farmer’s gnarled face whilst the sun weakly struggles to break the fog’s hold over the frost-covered paddocks. The stench from his hand-rolled cigarette wafts past as I smother a cough. Dad’s boy is tough and the smoke is weak compared to the bilious fumes from our backyard burnings.

“She’s stronger than she looks. She’ll be right.” Dad winks at me as the old man walks away. His laconic voice echoes back through the stillness of first light.

“Wanna cuppa? Just brewed fresh.”

“Nah, better keep moving. Don’t want the offsider to fall asleep on me.” Dad smiles at me to take the sting from his words, his white teeth glisten brightly in the new day’s sunshine. He heads to where the tall silver cans sit sealed, waiting, and hoists one effortlessly onto his broad shoulders, “Petal, stand by the back of the lorry you’ll have to help me haul it on.” I stand to attention, Dad’s boy ready for service. He lumbers to the rear of the old girl, drops the can to stand for a minute on the ground as a solitary sentinel. Opens the flaps, ties them back with frayed rope.

“Ready?” He looks at me, nods curtly and grips the hard metal lid. I squat, grab the cold clammy bottom ready to help with all my childhood strength. Effortlessly the can flies upwards into the back. Who would have thought those big tin things full up of fresh milk would be so light? I jump for joy as Dad goes to get the next one and the next. I am Dad’s boy, and I am telling my sister she is a nuisance and a Nancy girl.

We churn off down the dusty road towards our next stop. My black lace-up shoes are covered in mud, scuffed and dull. I don’t care. I am Dad’s boy.