WHAT GOES AROUND

Fay didn’t mean to lose the bicycle. She left it, propped up on the cobblestone wall, but someone had taken it. She’s sure – what else could have happened? A breeze passes momentarily, ruffling her hair. Oil lamps flicker.

It was a relatively cheap bicycle, but wonderful nonetheless. Fay boasted to her classmates, her wonderful bicycle that so many sought after. And now she had lost it. She trudged in the direction of her house – pausing for a moment and craning her neck to the cobblestone wall, making sure that she didn’t miss it. She half expected to see the bicycle there, propped slightly ajar, but it isn’t.

Alice didn’t mean to steal the bicycle. But it stood there so temptingly; it was practically asking to be taken. And it wasn’t for ill intentions, either. She had just received a job as papergirl. Doing rounds on foot would be dreadfully tiresome. This bicycle meant efficient working, food, money.

These are the thoughts that waft through Alice’s mind as she pedals slowly through the streets, tossing newspapers into front gardens. She’s out on the Main Street now, pedaling quickly through the highway. The bridge is wide, but very busy today. So caught up in her thoughts, Alice doesn’t see the wagon heading straight towards her. The last thing she hears is the sound of the horse’s hooves, trotting fiercely. And then everything is black.

The bicycle almost falls on Aldred’s head. It seems to have fallen from the sky. Aldred looks above him, the sound of the busy bridge heard from below. It seemed to have been flung from there. No matter, it is money in a different form. Dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, Aldred hops off his slightly exasperated horse and peers at it closely. Slightly tattered from the fall, but in good condition. He looks around – there is no one. He takes the bicycle with him.

Antonio smirks to himself. Winning Aldred was easier than posed. The way people had said, this Alfred man was impossible to win, with quick, slender fingers.

But the man was ignorant. So obsessed with winning that he cheated right from the beginning. But sense came with Antonio, and he waited for the right moment. He took Aldred by surprise, anyone could see.

And now Antonio waits, and eager grin strewn across his face. He pedals swiftly on the bicycle, ready to tell his companions. It starts with the bicycle, but soon he will make sure Aldred is spared with not a coin.

Suddenly a hand is clasped over his mouth and things turn dark.

“It’s mine,” says Ollie. Ackerly shoves him.

“It’s mine. I did all the dirty work.”

Suddenly all the boys are fighting over the bicycle – sitting supposedly innocently. Killing Antonio was surprisingly easy, the instructions given clearly to them. So caught up in the greed, they don’t see the police officers standing menacingly close.

“Looks like we meet again.”

There is no time to repel – the officers have them by the throats and move them swiftly to the magistrate. The bicycle stays propped against the cobblestone wall.

She doesn’t know how she missed it. For the past five days Fay has been searching, and it had been where she left it all along. It seemed to have collected dust over the days, but she supposed that is one of those things that just happen. It should be fine after a good clean. So she walks, the bicycle firmly by her side deeper into town, eventually winding out of sight.

3016

As a result of the confidentiality of files, it is required that agent names are not revealed. Agents’ official numbers have been placed in replacement.

Guajaras

21^st January 3016; 2354 hours

The videocom crackled.

“I think we got it, sir,” whispered 104956.

“Where on Earth are you?” hissed 748659.

“Sir – we’re not on Earth.”

“I know that. But why haven’t you updated me in the last four hours?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we were in different sides of the planet, sir. There was a huge communication gap, sir,” replied 104956.

“So where in Guajaras are you?” said 748659, the fury rising in his voice.

“I’m in Kolkodi, sir.”

“But why the hell are you there? You’re meant to be investigating the Juliasriy Mountains!”

“Hang on sir, I think I got something!” said 104956.

“What-what? Where?”

But 104956 had already cut the talk.

748659 trudged through the mist, barely able to see past a couple of metres. The fog danced around his waist, and it would soon rise higher.

He cursed under his breath as he trekked along, although no one could hear him. He didn’t know why he was here today. Guajaras was a very bland planet, just a sphere of whiteness. It was discovered around 70 years ago – before 748659 was born. About 40 years ago, scientists realised that this planet was perfect for human settlement. So people – only the rich ones, of course – began to look at the planet, wondering if it was right for them. Then one lady, a frail lady in her fifties, claimed she saw something. A blue creature, with red eyes. It was all over the papers. When asked how big she thought this creature was, she said she couldn’t remember. 748659 chuckled to himself. She remembered what colours the eyes were, but not the size of the whole thing. 748659 was not the first person who realised, though. When questioned about this…ironical situation, she said: “It just glanced at me, for a second. It all happened so fast. But those eyes, they were so red. They were a blood red. A rich red.”

748659, of course, thought this was a whole load of gobschnocker. When he told 104956 this, he’d expected the other agent to agree. But 104956 only shrugged. “I think it’s real exciting.”

So of course a whole team was sent to investigate. Every bloody inch of the bloody planet.

It’s all make believe – why investigate? thought 748659. Ah, well. He just wanted to prove them wrong and get home to a warm cup of coffee.

Guajaras

22^nd January 3016; 0126 hours

“SIR! SIR! SIR! SIR!”

“What?”

“Sir – I got it, sir.”

“YOU GOT WHAT?”

“I got that thing sir – that alien,” said 104956. 748659 could see the sweat beads on his forehead.

“The alien?!”

“Sir, I shot it with a ­­­tranquilizer!”

“What? What does it look like? Move the videocom to it. I wanna see it.”

“I got it sir, I got it! It’s blue, and – she’s right! She’s right, sir! It’s got red eyes!”

“Move the videocom to it! Right now, I say!”

“Of course, sir. Right awa-”

There was a silence.
“104956? Hello?”

748659 could hear the thud of the videocom onto the icy ground. For a moment, 748659 could see the dark black sky through the videocom, and then something leaned over the webcam. Suddenly 748659 was staring into a blood red eye.

Heaven

I only saw Jules again on the 21^st of November 1954. I left my body before the ambulance came. I never really thought about what Heaven might look like. Probably bouncing on clouds, reading as much as you want, doing whatever you want. Doing everything you probably couldn’t do down there. But whatever I did imagine, it probably wasn’t this. Souls drift at their own pace, gliding more like it. No one thinks, only remembers. Regrets and the good times, everything there was. Once you’ve been up here for a while, we start to remember tiny details. Like when that person tripped you over, or your first fistfight. And then you start living, if that’s the word, on them. Sometimes people go on imagining how different their lives would’ve been without a mistake.

I know what my mistake was. It was the books.

I don’t know where I lived before it was Michigan. I know I wasn’t born in Michigan, but I don’t exactly know where it was. I moved to Michigan when I was three, in 1941. I also don’t know who my guardian was before Jules. Jules had short-cropped brown hair, and glasses that where held on the tip of her nose. I used to think she glued them there, because even though they were always on the verge of falling off, they never did. I always had the urge to raise them, but I never did, thankfully. She’d probably starve me for the night if I did. She said I had to learn manners. But I liked Jules. She had a room, and she said only if I was good I was allowed to go in. It wasn’t her bedroom, no, because I’ve been in there loads of times, when I couldn’t get to sleep. The special room was her library. I was eight when I first went there. She said that morning, when I was throwing a tantrum, that if I stopped crying, then at 6 o’clock that night she’d let me in her library. I stopped crying instantly and went to school. I was incredibly excited that night. I had finished all my homework and everything by 6 and I sat sensibly on the sofa. But because of Jules’s half hour lecture (“Jeb, if you rip the smallest rip, smaller than an ant that’s gone in a machine that contracts your size, then you’re not allowed in again …”), so I only went in at half past. Still, I got hooked. Mistake number one.

Jules said I was meant to be a writer. She encouraged me to write as much as I could. Jules was a teacher, and we didn’t have much land on us, so money was a problem. But Jules didn’t let that get to me. Jules died when I was 14, in 1952. And then I had some man whose name I didn’t even know. He was a drunken pig. If I were lucky, he’d lock himself up in Jules’s room and drink himself silly. But if I was unlucky, well, let’s just say his belt and I have gotten to know each other quite well. Take one look at my back and you’d know that.

Wanting to be a writer was the second big mistake in my life. Boys are meant to be farmers, not writers!

Clive Lair didn’t have any trouble at conveying that message. It only happened when I was nine, when I was proudly telling everyone I was gonna be an author when I was older. I wish I hadn’t said that.

“Hello Jebby,” he’d spit every morning. He’d taunt me all day, him and his cheering group. I was twelve when I first started getting beaten. It happened after school. And soon, it began getting bloodier. It was terrible, and when I was fourteen, sometimes, if I was getting punched after school, then when I got home that man would have another go at me. I met Ebb when I was thirteen. Lots of the boys had left school by now, all helping in their Pa’s farms. But we don’t have a farm, so I didn’t leave. Miss Charlotte said God Bless that, ‘cause she said I could write well. Miss Charlotte is one of the teachers at school. I liked her till I was nine. When I was twelve she apparently “recognised the knack I had for writing.” I didn’t know what “knack” meant, though. She started calling me in after class so she could give me extra lessons. And then Clive started giving me a harder time. It made me wonder how long ago Miss Charlotte was at school. Obviously she was ancient; otherwise she should’ve known that it wouldn’t help your social stand by calling in a student for private lessons.

“Teachers pet,” Clive called me. That, or “dung”.

Ever since Jules left I’d been literally living in her library. The other guardian never went in there, saying, “books creep me out”. Another difference between him and I. It was only when Jules died I began thinking about my Ma and Pa. Jules was Ma’s best friend, she said she knew more about Ma than her own mother probably did. Jules said Ma and Pa died in a hit-and-run. I wondered about my Ma and Pa. I didn’t have even one picture of them. No painting, nothing. I like to imagine that they are perfect. My Ma, with green, green eyes, like mine, and fiery red flowing hair. And my Pa, I’d look like him the most. The same, short brown cropped hair and handsome nose. Maybe he had the same twitch in his mouth when he fibs, like I do. But I don’t know anything about them. Just their names, Jared and Carmela. I like the name Carmela. It reminds me of the word “caramel”. When I was really good, sometimes on Sunday Jules would take me to the carnival to get me a caramel apple. Sometimes if I’m extra good, Jules lets me have some caramel on it’s own. But only if I’m extra good, ‘cause they’re expensive, Jules says. I love caramel, it’s sweet and sticky and even when you’ve swallowed it the tasted lingers, bouncing off and on your taste buds. I hope my Ma was sweet like caramel.

When I was sixteen Miss Charlotte started talking to me about university. She said that I’d really have to study hard to get into a good university. She said she’d apply for some, some good ones that were abroad.

And then, one day she didn’t come, Miss Charlotte.

“Is Jebby missing his Charlotte? Oh no! Now he won’t be teachers pet anymore! How sad! Well, Jebby,” Clive held his head close to me. “Something tells me she ain’t never coming back!” And he and his prossie team sniggered. Clive left school when we were thirteen. He went to work on his Pa’s farm. But some days, he still took the liberty of meeting me after school. Obviously someone told him that Miss Charlotte was absent.

Slap! from Clive. He punched me, before I could even realize what was happening. I collapsed onto the floor. Kick, kick! from his gang and him. At one point they kicked my head. I could taste blood in my mouth. They all sniggered again and left. It took a while for me to get up. I opened my mouth and spewed blood. I got up, and trudged home, kicking stones.

As I walked home, I prayed that he wouldn’t be there, the man. But as I opened the door, the heavy scent of smoke filled the air, and I knew he was in.

And there he was, cigar in one hand, beer in the other.

“Where’ve you bin?” he said, holding his face close to mine. His breath stank of beer. He was sickeningly drunk.

“Nowhere,” I said. “Just out.”

“‘Just out’ doesn’t cut it!’” he said. I shrugged. Another mistake. He put his cigar down and beer. I should’ve seen it coming, I could’ve run, but I stayed still and let myself be his punching bag. I don’t know why, it was just instinctive.

Blood tricked down my nose.

Finally, I had enough. But he didn’t. I reached for the knife.

“Planning to stab me, eh?” he said, pulling me back in a headlock. “I’ll show you to try an-“

“I’m not gonna stab you!”

He paused for a bit, confused.

“Oh, I get it,” he snarled. “You’re done with life, eh?” He paused again, waiting for me to say something. I didn’t.

He pinched my cheeks so hard the blood came again inside my mouth.

“Ah, do whatever ya want with that, for all I care.” And he left.

I stood outside the house, knife in hand. And I stabbed myself, just as Miss Charlotte came jogging to my house waving a paper and saying “Jeb! Jeb! You’ve been accepted into a college in New Yor-!” Miss Charlotte screamed when she saw me.

I collapsed, as blood poured out of my chest.

I don’t know if I regret that action or not. Sometimes I think New York wouldn’t have been any better, sometimes I think it would’ve. I hate regrets. I remember thinking, in that split second, if I’d recognise Ma or Pa or even Jules if I saw them. I probably would, but here everyone just glides along. There’s no chance to look for someone. I wish.

The Dreams

 

Burning. Fire. The smoke filled the place. She coughed. They’d come; she knew they’d come. And then – yes they were here. They hovered around her, their faces masked. They never spoke; only laughed. It was a hollow sound, filled with coldness. In the place, there were people on the floor. People, who’s body was like crust, and they lay, statues. The fire curled around her, growing up her legs, stomach, arms, dancing at her throat. But it never went past there. Her body was burning. She was screaming, but it was drowned in the laughter of the Masked Ones.

 

Her eyes flashed open. She looked at her daughter, who was comfortably curled up with her mother. The lady gave quickly kissed the child’s head, before sliding out of the bed. It was still dark. The lady scribbled some things on a piece of paper. Then she left. She didn’t bother to put on some boots, a coat – nothing. She simply walked out of the room and the house.

 

Her footprints were printed onto the sand; the wind though, would eventually blow it away completely. There was no one on the beach. It was too late, too cold, too dangerous. She took slow steps on the jetty, each step bringing her closer to the end. She couldn’t stand it, not being able to sleep. She always had the same dream, being burned alive. She had tried not to sleep many nights, but it wasn’t healthy.

There was only one other thing to do.

 

The lady reached the end of the jetty. The waves roared. The breeze was pushing her. The lady held her hands out to the sky.

“I’ve had enough!” she shouted, to no one in particular. She closed her eyes. All she had to do was jump. This isn’t the right thing to do. She tried to turn around, but no, she couldn’t move. And before she knew it, her foot slipped on a rock and she screamed, but her voice was drowned by the laughter ringing in her mind and the splash! of her body falling into the water.

 

 

18 YEARS LATER

 

 

The girl was sipping coffee in the university campus, reading the newspaper. Her roommate appeared.

“You know,” the roommate said, “you were screaming in your sleep last night.”

“Really?” said the other girl, not looking up from the newspaper. “I was screaming in my dream, too.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the girl looked up, thoughtful. “Yes, I was being burned alive, and I could’ve sworn I saw my mothers body, crusty… like a statue, on the floor.” 

Cultural Clash

Anita Kaur was often forced into things. Like spying on people for the sake of  her friend Lalli (Lalita Chaudhari) , or going to law school (her mother), or playing soccer, basketball and badminton (father), or knitting, and tutoring for her grandma, to name a few. Those and getting forced to marry a goat.

 

Anita was tall, her features more similar to her father’s than to her mother. Her mother was short and plump, a long, greasy plait swinging by her waist. Anita was incredibly tall, with shoulder-length black hair, and big black eyes. She had dark skin, unlike the other Punjabis. She lived in a small town, close to Chandigarh. She had a single, sandy blonde streak of hair (in her fringe) that she now questioned why she ever got.

“Now, Anita,” said Preeti, Anita’s mother, one day. “You’re of a marriageable age.”

Anita nodded. “Of course,” said Anita,

“And we’ve seen the priest, concerning your horoscope.”

“Of course,” said Anita again. Her mother sighed.

“But there’s a problem. It says your first husband will die.”

“Okay,” said Anita, but tears were welling up in her eyes.  Raju would have to wait. Anita’s mother looked away.

“I’m sorry,” Preeti whispered.

“So what’s going to happen?” asked Anita.

“The usual,” replied Preeti. She assumed Anita would understand. Anita’s own aunty, after all did the same. Anita would marry a goat and then they’d kill the goat. Then Anita could live happily with Raju. Anita though, thought she’d still be marrying Raju. Anita sighed.

“So he’s just going to die?” said Anita. Preeti nodded.

“Yes.”

By now a tear trickled down Anita’s cheek. Preeti understood or atleast thought she did. Anita often got emotional when animals were involved.

Anita informed Lalli the following day.

“Maybe we could spy on them,” suggested Lalli. Anita sighed. Her friend was much to obsess with spying on people.

“Spy on who? And what good would that do?”

“Well, you know… it would help us understand their daily routine…”

“Whose daily routine and what good would that do?”

“Well, it would help me on my spying techniques,” said Lalli. Anita shot her a fierce look that said: This is not an exercise to improve your spying technique.

Lalli shrugged. “Better than nothing.”

“Ma says that once I get properly married, we could move to Britain and live happily.”

“Well then your mum’s pretty stupid.”

Anita shot another look at her friend.

“…I mean cleverly stupid,” said Lalli. Anita put her head in her hands. At that moment, Preeti walked in. At first she was surprised at the sight, then she looked at Lalita.

“It’s about that goat she’s marrying, right?”

Anita looked up. “What goat?”

“The one you’re marrying.”

Anita was furious. “How dare you call him a goat!”

“Well that’s what he is, isn’t he?” said Preeti. “ Just a useless goat.”

“So you’re just going to let him die!” said Anita angrily.

“Of course not,” replied Preeti. “We’ll kill him. It would take too long to wait for him to die.”

Anita looked blankly at her mother.

“Oh,” said Preeti. “You’ll be getting married in two months.”

“Why, so he can die faster?”

“Of course. Then you can marry a good man.”

Anita was outraged. “What do you have against him?”

“Nothing. We’re doing it because we love you. We want you to be happy.”

“And you don’t think I could be happy with him?”

Now Preeti was surprised. “Well, quite frankly, no. I mean you can’t live with that goat.”

“STOP CALLING HIM A GOAT!”

Preeti ignored her. “I mean, he wouldn’t even be able to get a job as a farmer, working with his fellow goat siblings.”

“Oh, so now you’re badmouthing his family?!”

Before Preeti could say anything, Anita continued. “Well I’m not going to talk to you because there’s NO USE TALKING TO PEOPLE LIKE YOU!”

“Fine!” said Preeti, flicking her plait aside and storming off.

“Ugghh!” said a frustrated Anita, before storming off too. And they left a wide-eyed Lalita sitting down, taking everything in.

 

Both Anita and Preeti kept their word, and neither talked to each other. This didn’t stop them, though, from sending glares the dinner table, or whenever they grasped the chance. Anita was forced to talk though, when she saw her groom. Unfortunately, that was her wedding day.

“So let me get this straight,” she said to her mother. “Or at least firmly crooked.”

“I am going to marry,” Anita looked at the white and brown furry animal, “a goat.”

Preeti was a lot more enthusiastic than Anita. “Of course! And then you can marry your Rajeshwar.”

“His name’s Rajesh, Ma,” said Anita. “Not Rajeshwar!”

“But it’s sooooo cute. He should definitely change his name.”

Anita ignored her mother. She glanced at the goat, who was in sleeping on a bale of hay, a fence around it.

“Well,” her mother was saying, “I’ll go greet the guests.”

Suddenly Anita had an idea. Once her mother was gone, Anita leaned over to Lalita, who was sitting beside her.

“Lalli,” Anita said. “Go and pull the fire drill.”

“Why?” Lalita whispered back.

“Just do it,” insisted Anita. In two minutes, an eerie sound filled the place. Anita walked to the goat, and unlocked the fence. No one noticed in the commotion. The goat hurtled out.  Anita smiled mischievously to herself. Out onto the road, the goat ran. Which was when Preeti caught sight of it. She dropped the sweets and ran after the goat.

 

---------------------------

Eventually though, the goat was dragged back to his wedding and forced to marry  Anita, it’s owner gently patting him while consoling him with repeated “it’s alright baby, it’s alright baby.”

 

                                                         *     *     *   *

Anita thought of the story as she unpacked one of the many boxes.

The doorbell rang. Raju walked into the room.

“The doorbell rang,” said Raju. Anita nodded.

“Shall I get it?” he said when Anita made no sign of moving.

“Yes please,” said Anita.

On the doorstep, two people stood. Both were slightly plump and tall. The lady had red shoulder length hair, and her husband was bald, a moustache growing above his lip. He had round, circular glasses. The lady held a batch of home made chocolate chip cookies.

“We’re your new neighbours,” she said brightly when Raju opened the door.

As they walked in, the man held his hand out.

“Brian O’Reilly,” he said. Raju shook it.

“Rajesh,” he said. He spoke with a thick Indian accent, but the couple understood.

“Raj,” came a distant call. “Who is it?” Anita spoke in Punjabi.

She walked into the room.

“Oh,” she said in English. “I’m Anita.”

The red-haired lady beamed. “Oh Aneeta!” she said in a British accent. “That’s a gorgeous name!”

Anita smiled politely.

“ I’m Christine,” said the lady.

When the lady put the batch on the kitchen counter, the four settled on the couch.

Almost immediately, Christine received a text message.

“Oh,” she said, staring at the screen. “It’s my ex-husband.”

“This is your second husband?” said Anita. Christine nodded.

“And Rajesh?”

“Oh,” said Anita, smiling. “Yes, he is my second husband too.”

“Your first didn’t work out, eh?”

Anita was surprised at the confidence. She raised her eyebrows.

“Err…” Anita smiled. “We killed him,” she said. Both Christine’s and Brian’s eyes widened. They exchanged glances.

“Umm…killed him?”

Anita laughed.

“Yes.” She slid her hand horizontally across her throat. “Dead.”

“If you don’t mind me asking…why?”

“Because,” Anita smiled at Raju. “Then I wouldn’t have been able to marry Raju.”

Anita looked up to find the couple gone, the front door open, but the cookies still sitting on the counter.

 

If you lived in Cornburry, South London, the first thing I would tell you is that things spread fast. Unfortunately, no one informed the couple who lived on number 49 Speed Street, Cornburry about this. When things spread it was rather like the game of Chinese Whispers – if you began with ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ it could end up as ‘Sarah-Smith-was-caught-on-fire-because-she-put-a-dynatmite-in-a-farm-and-it-exploded’. Similarly, if you told someone that you killed your first husband, it could turn up: “Yes, Speed Street, yes that dark one, she murdered her husband when he was sleeping. Apparently she wanted some money that he wanted for safekeeping but she wanted to gamble it. Yes, the one with black hair!”

The thing about people in Cornburry was that they liked to make everyone sound bad. They’d grasp every chance they ever got.

 

The following day they moved in, Anita visited the local supermarket.

People glanced nervously at her. One small lady came up, though, confidently.

“Umm excuse me,” she said, tapping Anita’s shoulder. Anita turned around.

“Is it true you killed your first husband?”

Anita nodded. “Of course,” she said. “He was just a goat, anyway.”

“Err, if you don’t mind me asking,” said another woman who had evidently been listening. “Just was gives you the right to call someone a goat? What do you have against him?”

Anita didn’t enjoy being interrogated, and if she hadn’t already been through this, she might’ve not understood. She held out her hand at the lady’s face.

“Stop,” she said firmly before the lady could continue. “My first husband was literally a goat,” she said. The lady was about to say something but Anita continued. She bent down and pretended to pat something.

“You know, err…small, furry. It was a GOAT, not a human.”

The lady’s face was blank.

“You married,” said the lady, “a goat?”

Anita nodded, relieved.

“Err…” the woman coughed lightly. “WHY?”
Anita explained her story.

“Do you know something?” said the lady.

“Yes,” said Anita.

“Do you know what I’m thinking?” said the lady.

“No.”

“I’m thinking that I’ll never understand people.”

“Perhaps,” said Anita. “You’re not a people person?”

“I don’t thing anyone is,” sighed the woman. “No-one can understand people.”

The women left still looking suspiciously at Anita.

Courage

*THIS IS THE STORY WHICH I GOT AN AWARD FOR*

Night has fallen, and even the moon isn’t merciful enough to give us soldiers any guidance or light. In the distance I can see vague crowd. I didn’t know the soldiers would be so well built. I gulp, hoping it will wash away the fear and guilt my brain is forced to withstand. Fearing the future of mine.
Will I die? What will become of my family if I die? Of course, I’m guilty of leaving my family. I could be sitting peacefully in our house in Melbourne, in front of my newly-installed fire with my one-year old son Henry and Claire, my wife. I shake my head and try to think of what I’m doing now.
Chief frowns, and passes us soldiers one by one, examining us. We bite our lips and swallow and fidget, anxiously waiting.
“What is Bravery?” Chief yells.
“Bravery is Courage!” we chorus in reply. His teachings have come to use.
“What is Courage?” he questions.
“We are!” we raise our arms and charge into the field.

* * * * * *

I don’t want to look at the field. Blood-covered bodies sprawled on the plains, and guns in the hands of the dead bodies. I hate looking at faces that stare back at me, blank and lifeless. I collapse onto the grass and close my eyes.

* * * * * *

The war is over! Chief holds up his bottle of beer. Everyone falls silent to hear what he has to say.
“To Bravery!” he yells.
“Hear, hear,” laugh some soldiers. I raise my own bottle of beer and force a smile.
It’s quite hard when you’ve received a telegram saying that your one-year-old boy Henry has died before you’ve got the chance to see him smile.
I force some beer down my throat and lean on the counter, watching everyone celebrate. It’s quite funny; before we were about to go into battle or the soldiers were staring without a dimple. Now they’re all jumping about, cheering and laughing, taking swigs from a bottle of beer, and grinning and talking to Chief as if he were a friend. I grab my crutches and limp to the nearest chair, where I can rest my metal leg.
Otto Kimsby, a fellow soldier, nudges me.
“For a second there I reckoned he was gunna’ give us a lecture ‘bout Bravery! Never let’s go of that, does he?” He grins and takes a swig from the bottle. I smile wryly and take a polite sip from my own bottle.
Celebrating at the Roma Dorèe Club! Wasn’t that what my goal was – to be victorious? Something always gets in my way. I try not to cry – it’s something that Otto Kimsby would say is un-manly.
“Pretty sick of that lecture, eh?” says Otto. I nod sombrely.
“Why the long face?” asks Otto, leaning back.
“I’m not Bravery,” I sigh. Otto nods knowingly.
“I know, mate,” Otto pats me on the back. “That’s where Chief went wrong,” he whispers, so no-one hears. Chief is slightly over sensitive.
“Courage,” he begins, “comes from the heart. Truth, compassion, justice, all those things…” he pats his chest, “From this thing we are burdened to carry.
“Courage doesn’t mean to not have any fears (gosh no!), but to have the ability to face fears.
“Bravery, on the other hand, comes from the mind. To be able to do what someone else is afraid of. For example, if I tamed a lion, you’d probably think I’m brave, and I reckon you’re brave ‘cause you got married!
“The difference between Bravery and plain stupidity is narrow. You’d not ‘wanna stick your finger in fire – unless you want to learn the hard way. Harry, my brother, did. Pa reckons that we shouldn’t rely on confidence too much. Ma reckons so too.”
He sighs. “Poor Ma,” he sees me raise my eyebrow and explains. “She died not so long ago.”
I nod knowingly. Kimsby brightens up and continues.
“God,” he says, “is the only guy cool enough to be Courage.
“Well, I’m going to go to the internet café.” Kimsby sighs and nods, leaving me pondering on his theory, which seems quite true.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be Bravery (I’ve also just realised that Otto Kimsby is very persuasive). I chuckle to myself and think – I’m too young to be God!

The white rose

Tom lies on the grass, beneath the black sky. As he looks up, he sees salt scattered on a black table; white roses on a black sea; round white cushions on a black quilt; white polka dots on a black carpet. Then something catches Tom’s eye. It’s a large one – a large salt grain; a large rose; a large round cushion; a large white polka dot. A certain light emerges from it – a glow. A sudden rush of sadness envelopes him – there’s only one big white rose.
Tom’s mother enters the garden, and sits down next to him. An awkward silence finds its way between the two, but Tom isn’t even aware of his mother’s presence. When he is though, he breaks the silence.
‘Mummy?’ he says.
‘Yeah?’ replies his mother.
‘I want to go there,’ the four-year old points innocently at the white polka dots. His mother, saddening at Tom’s innocence and not wanting to break it, replies, ‘you will one day, Tom.’ She looks up at the one large cushion in the midst of the others.
‘You will one day.’


Tom doesn’t talk about it for a few days. But suddenly, a question hits his head.
‘How do I get there mummy?’ he asks one night. She smiles at him.
‘Where, honey?’ she smiles.
‘There,’ he says, pointing at the salt grains high above him, much higher that ten of his mother’s stacked on each other could possibly reach.
The smile vanishes from her mouth. She merely purses her lips and doesn’t reply. ‘Will you take me there?’ he asks. She finally replies.
‘I can’t honey,’ she answers, but adds quickly at the disappointment of Tom’s eyes: ‘But He will,’ she says pointing at the sky.
‘The dots?’ asks Tom.
‘No,’ replies his mother. ‘Someone who lives higher than that. He’s the strongest and the kindest and the cleverest man in the world!’ she says.
‘Will I meet him one day?’ Tom asks.
‘You will one day Tom,’ answers his mother. She looks up at the one large cushion in the midst of the others.
‘You will one day.’


And Tom does meet Him.

Things I am burdened to observe

‘You stupid idiot!’ shouts Jeremy McFarlane.
I’m placed on the kitchen counter, apparently undisturbed, but watchful and cautious. Little do Jeremy McFarlane and May Ellay know that they are by far disturbing me. Little Ella McFarlane is, fortunately for the bright soul, away at her school. Her school isn’t far, and I know this, for I sit here quite a bit, for when Miss May washes me; she lets me sit here till I dry. The rich Cambel’s, down the road suddenly cross my mind. The daughter, Rachel Cambel is superior – or so she thinks of herself as – and confident. She often comes down to our home, and might I mention now that I don’t have the teeniest idea of how little Miss Ella can stand her.
The fire flickers in the distance, and Miss May has tears streaming down her face. Jeremy McFarlane slaps Miss May again.
It is of the most terrible and hurtful sight to experience that I do hope you are not unfortunate enough to observe.
The tiniest squeal makes its way out of Miss May’s mouth, as she is afraid to make Jeremy angrier. Miss May has a brown fringe covering all of her forehead, her thick eyelashes bearing it up. Green eyes fall beneath it, with a short nose following. Thin – usually pursed lips – beneath it, and freckles scattered along her cheeks.
‘You stupid, stupid idiot!’ repeats Jeremy.
‘Please, sir,’ Miss May pleads. ‘I did not know that Mr. Chapleberry would bring his whole family along. Was it not you who said he most probably won’t?’
‘Probably?’ says Jeremy. ‘Probably?! Well I probably shouldn’t get angry at you but I am. Probably doesn’t cut it!’
‘You have every right to be angry sir,’ says Miss May.
‘I don’t need your permission, peasant!’ sneers Jeremy.
Miss May lowers her soft eyes. Jeremy lifts his palm again. The last thing I hear is the crash of glass on the floor and I, a mere glass cup, lay shattered.

Complaints to the Principal

Dear Mr. Crestfed (the principal), A brilliant idea has hit upon me, and it is my wish to negotiate it with you, running the school and all. My brilliant plan has a few 'minor' changes to the students’ daily routine. I can assure you that there'll only be a couple of things swapped around and that'd be about it. Things change, and isn't that what life's all about? Oh, and you might have to discuss my brilliant idea with the government. I thought we could have five days holiday, and two days school. I've given this some serious thought, and I reckon we should share the decision with the whole school. Democrition. Or was it democracy? Well, anyway, I thought we could all vote. It would be absolutely lovely if you could give some time to think about my brilliant idea. Please don't rip this up, Jake Nelson - Grade 5

Dear Mr. Crestfed,
I am very disappointed to say that last night when my first grade son came home he bit me. Being his mother I couldn't hit him, but still punished him. By what way is irrelevant. But I am afraid that if I am to punish him everyday, I shall have to remove him from the school. Of course, I do wish that won't happen. Please notify Mrs. Lewis about this at once, as I will not be able to tolerate this violent nature for much longer. Regards, Maria Mentson - Mother of Tommy Mentson

Dear Mr. prinsipal, Pleez don't lissin to mummy. She is not truthing. I am a good boy and wood never bite anyone. Pleeze do not tell Mrs. Lewis about wot mum sed. Thank you a lot. Love from Tommy.

Dear Harry, I am indeed sorry to say that the time for me to retire has come. Being 63, I think it is the rightful and correct age to leave, as I have my grandchildren and my own children to look after. I hope you don't mind. I would be most willing to help find a new teacher, that is if help is needed. I have decided to leave in the end of this term. Kind Regards, Jacob Graham - Grade nine teacher

Dear Harry Crestfed, It would be much obliged if I could buy some math equipment for my grade four class. It seems they are finding it difficult without some blocks to help. Now they have a greater need of them as we have just begun fractions. Being the teacher, it is my job to make sure that in the end, they understand. Please send some class money. Yours, Elaine Doris - Grade four teacher

Dear Mr. Crestfed (the principal), This letter is concerning my previous letter, as you haven't yet replied. PLEASE reply to it as soon as possible, as I am most eager to hear your decision. If you don't remember what I said because you ripped the letter up, it was when I suggested that we have five days holiday and two days school. I hope there is not already too much on your hands. If there is, please still reply quickly.
Hurry up,
Jacob Nelson - Grade 5

Dear Mr. Crestfed, I have inconveniently forgotten the school email address. I hope you know it. Well, I'd think you would because you're the principal. If you don't then you're a rubbish principal and I'll MAKE SURE I GET EXPELLED or I'll TELL MY MUM ON YOU. Please take notice of the last sentence.
Lesley White
P.S. Sorry I have anger management problems

To Mr. Crestfed,
It is indeed unfortunate that my grade six son has been complaining of back aches. It seems that his bag is much too heavy (which it is), and he is unable to carry it to and from school. Please notify his class teacher (Ms. Woodson), as I have the odd feeling that this crisis relates to the amount of homework he has been given.
Yours,
Anne Gray
P.S. If anything happens to my little Scottie I will SUE you.
P.S.S I really will sue you.

To whom ever it may concern,
I am hereby resigning from my place as principal as I have other things to do at home.
Regards, Mr. Harry Crestfed (Who is no longer the principal)