Prudence - Part One

Hers was a narrow world.  Of scrubbed pots and polished cutlery.  Hands red and raw. Or that is to say, it had been.  What a strange thing to be unemployed?

Once accepted, a job was for life. How does a person organise themself?  She'd never really had to make decisions before.  Just do what she was told, when she was told.  Quietly without fuss.  And try and keep her hair neat under her cap.  Bits were always coming loose.  Cook had threatened to shave it once.  Cook said she'd never progress upstairs the state she was in.

Her employer had died and the heir was not interested in keeping the properties.  He resided on some foreign Island, cook had said, and did not wish to be bothered with the upkeep of houses he would never see.

The new owners already had many of their own servants.

How does one go on? She was not twelve anymore to be picked at an apprentice fair.  The governor of the orphanage had organised placement for her originally.

Freedom feels strange. Paritcularly considering her options seemed to mostly be freedom to starve and be homeless once her wages ran out.

Well, Prudie decided, I shall not be like John Coashman and drive about for ages o'cause I won't ask for directions.  She straightened her skirt and resolute went downstairs to ask her landlady what she thought she should do.

In progress and very draft - just messing about

She spun around the room in his arms. Barely conscious of her feet. Lost in the closeness of his eyes. The warmth from his face. A building warmth in her loins. Tingling desire wreathing her thighs and abdomen. Could they see her heart beating? Deep pulsing thuds beneath her breasts. Could they see her lips swollen and yearning for his touch?

If only they could be alone. She ached to give him her tongue again in that oh so shocking kiss he had taught her, but her family were watching with sharp eyes. This one last dance all they could share before she was bundled off to the country and her hearts death.

She could not imagine ever feeling this way again.

(for some reason my brain is off in Barbara Cartland/Regency Romance land today *???* mostly what goes through my brain if trapped into dancing is:  shit what do i do now, did i just stand on his foot, is there someone behind me, i hate stepping backwards, christ i hope he doesn't try to dip me - they always drop me when they dip me, etc)

The Beach

They broke up at the beach. A weekend away. A weekend of grunts and monosyllables. Irritated past apathy at the expected utterings of the other. Politeness was no longer possible. They realised they were not interested in anything they had to say. Didn't want to see themselves so unflatteringly reflected in the other's eyes.

That unedurable, annoying elephant trumphet sound he would make when he stretched. Her habitual “and things like that” when speaking.

Now the flirting was done all that was left were habits of companionship.

They realised they hated eachother.

She thought about what had attracted her in the beginning. She realised it was the 'otherness' of him. He was so very different to the people she had grown up with. She was never quite sure what he was going to do. She knew now. It probably involved football.

He had been attracted to her smile and the way she laughed at his jokes (and her tits). She had stopped smiling a long time ago. She never had liked his friends. Always bitched about the television being on.

The Incident

I don't know why I went with him?
He wasn't my type, at all.
So pale and thin.

At the time he seemed so ... sexy.
Overpowering.

He lead me out the back, through the fire exit door, into the alley behind the club.

I hardly noticed.
His eyes ...
so ...

but then it changed ...
his grip so cruel
nearly tearing my hair out
as he forced my head back ...

I came to myself
why was I here?
It wasn't like me.
It wasn't something I would do?

I struck.

Everything seemed so different then.
He seemed to just crumple.
He seemed so different.

Pale and ... and ... ferret like,
and weak.

I kicked him again.
It was as if his bones were brittle.
The slightest strike broke.
It felt so good.
Powerful.
I didn't want to stop.

His skull was like chalk.
Nothing left but an empty envelope.

I saw his teeth.
So long ...
I understood then.

We've formed a band.
A gang.
We protect the innocent.
Those that aren't strong enough to realise the truth.
Those that can't SEE.

We go out nights searching for them.
Now that we know.
It's our duty.

A Future

space scares me
light
it doesn't feel safe

where are the airlocks
and the irradiation lasers

some people go outside
extreme parties
they walk in the natural air
even play games
without suits
just in ordinary clothes

I don't know how they can do it
they are so ...

just the thought of the germs makes my skin crawl
i feel sick
i have a sonic wave shower to clean the shudders from my skin

I've heard some people eat dead animals and plants
instead of synthesised food
they say rich people do it all the time

a partner did extra studies
he says once upon a time
people stuck their tongues in each others mouths
he wanted to try it
*hurl*

I am not cracking my body suit for anything
let alone for some male to ...
i can't say it again
it is too disgusting
i told him he was sick
i told him i didn't want to see him anymore

i reported him to the department of social order
it was for the good of the community
who knows what he would have done next
i don't think history studies should be allowed

The Edge

She lived in a dome
on the edge
She had to bend her head to eat

which she kind of liked

a nod of respect to the scientists
that had struggled so hard to make
life in a bubble possible

she had sky living on the fringe

unlike the inner dome dwellers
tightly packed in rising towers
slivers of a spinetingling view
only available to the powerful

the rest enclosed in concrete and balconies

why do they have balconies
when there is nothing to see?
except the bundled body
of your neighbour across the way

It was always cold
saving energy on heat
and ordour filtration

bland 'user-friendly' foods

the fringe was dangerous
living on the edge in more ways than one

but the only way a ground dweller could have room
no space wasted

a tiny escape to a horizon bigger than your imagination
pressed against the perspex
at the back of a cupboard
feeling like you could fall into space
one small crack away from death

only the desperate live on the edge

School Days

I am 6 or 7 years old. My sister lets me sleep in until 6:30 am. She irons my pinafore for me. It is winter and I am cold. I dress under the bed clothes. Mother has put our black leather lace up shoes in the oven to warm.

Navy blue underwear. Uniform regulations. White socks. White collared shirt. Navy blue pinafore with three pleats front and back. I've cut my fringe again when no one was looking. It is raggered and unkempt. My short hair never sits tidy. All the other girls at school have long hair. They won't talk to me. They say I have germs.

Mother drives us to grandma's house. The bus stop is on the road outside the shed next to her house surrounded by sugar cane fields.

There are five of us. Myself and my little brother travel in the boot of the station wagon. Rust has eaten away at the wheel trims. In wet weather we have to make sure we don't get mud splattered on our clothes.

Grandma takes me with her around her garden. She cuts me flowers to take to my teacher. We wait at the bus stop.
I am scarred of the other kids on the bus. They go to the state school. It is so much bigger than my school. Hundreds of children. They are loud and boistrous and outgoing. I protect the flowers.

The bus seems to travel for ages. So many stops. So many children. There are only about twenty children in my grade/class at school. Crowds scare me.

Once we had to crawl between the legs of the kids standing in the aisle to get out. The bus driver yells for them to be quiet. His face purple.

We get to school and I place my port (the flowers next to it) on the rack. We have been told any child whose port is not on the rack will get the cane.

It is Tuesday. We have assembly on Tuesdays. I wander about until the bell rings.

When the bell rings three times I report to assembly. We line up in our grades. Girls separate from boys. We are supposed to stand one arms length from each other.

It is double arms length around me. They say I have germs.

The flag is raised. Announcements made. We are dismissed.

Girls and boys must form orderly, separate lines outside class.

I have nobody to talk to. No delays. I collect the flowers on the way and am first in line.

There is an arms length gap before the other girls line up behind me. I have germs.

We go into class. I give the flowers to the teacher. She puts them in vase on her desk. I sit at my desk. No one talks to me or looks at me.

At lunch time I buy raisin bread with butter at the tuckshop and wander about the grounds and church until the bell calls us back to class. I am first in line. There is an arms length gap before the other girls line up behind me. Nobody talks to me. Nobody looks at me.

At big lunch I am hungry but only buy an icycup from the tuckshop. The girls who won't talk to me or line up behind me, smile nicely to me and ask to borrow money. I give it. I am polite. In my mind this is my moment of triumph. The moment when I prove how much better I am to them. But I know they don't care. They just want icecream and chips. We go back in to class.

People are called to the principals office. I am one of them. Our ports weren't on the rack. I am given two strokes of the cane on the back of my legs.

School ends and I catch bus with brothers and sisters back to grandmas house where the bottom vegetable crisper of the fridge is filled with chocolate and lollies for us. We are allowed two bottles of lollywater (softdrink) a day between us. Uncle Sidney stocks crates in the garage. Sarsaprilla is our favourite. Uncle Sidney says it is made from beetles blood. Grandma times it so the cake she has baked is taken from the oven as the bus pulls up. She ices it while it is still hot and cuts us slices. Uncle Sidney bought a milkshake maker so he could make us milkshakes when we are there. We watch cartoons and videos (beta) and sometimes duck under the fence and down to the river to leap from rock to rock like goats. There are books piled all over at the house. Uncle Sidney has them stacked in towers on top of the bookcases, cause they are all full. I play cribbage with grandma. I don't know how to play or how to add up the cards. She looks at my hand for me and tells me how many pegs to move. I win a lot.

I never want to wake up in the mornings.
I never want to go to school.
My sister lets me sleep in.

Fiction - The Walk

The day I died was sunny.

It was a Wednesday. I'd gone to work as usual.

That is to say; I woke before the alarm but refused to get up and out and on with my day for as long as my bladder allowed. I don't eat at home. I get up. I dress. I leave.

I don't really wake up properly until I am at work. Until I have had a cup of coffee and have had to respond to morning greetings from other staff. Like a golem who only responds to outside pressures. A fitting descripton of my whole life really.

Pro-active is not a buzz word I could in all honesty apply to myself. I think that's why I have always hated that word so much. I think it neatly encapsulates and reflects all my inadequacies. I am like water. I just flow around and away.

I was coming back from picking up a sandwich for lunch. I can get them downstairs at work. There is a little shop there. I usually do that. Take as little time as possible, so I can get back to my desk and my computer.

I felt like going for a walk. It's been so cold lately.

It was only 17 degrees outside, but the sun was out. I feel like I get sun starved over the winter. Closed in by the shadows off the buildings. Overcast sky. Cold.

I always get sunburnt the first couple of weeks after the sun comes out again. I tell myself each time – don't be an idiot this year. Then the weather breaks and the sunshines and its warm enough I can force myself to ignore how cold the wind is.

I was born to warmer climes.

I heard the yelling first. From up ahead. There was a change in crowd flow.

There was no secret to the trouble. It didn't come on me by surprise. It was out in the open for everybody to ignore. A man and woman arguing.

A domestic always seems so shocking to me. I was not brought up to be so uninhibited. Fighting is for at home. Behind closed doors.

They had a little girl with them. Her hair wasn't brushed.

I'm not sure what they were arguing about. There was so much coming at me. The man with another woman. Something about money owed. The only violence verbal. The man was the calmer of the two, but there was an edge to him. The woman completely out of control.

The little girl, shoulder raised by the mother and dragged with her whenever she stormed away only to come back. The man trying to illicit sympathy from passerbys. Slouched against the wall. No one made eye contact. I don't quite have the knack of that. Small town upbringing. Say good morning and nod to everybody you pass.

I didn't do that though. I am not completely stupid. It was just eye contact and then I looked away.

He talked at me. What was he to do? He had no money until pension day. The woman rounded on me. I don't know what she said. I didn't take it in. She was standing so close. Eyes wild. So close to my face. Spitting as she screamed. You and your bitches. She had let go of the little girl's arm. I held empty palms up. Shoulders shrugged. My body saying “I am not involved” “This has nothing to do with me”. I didn't even speak. I didn't know what to say.

It was such a little thing.

Eye contact and a push. She pushed me and I fell. I wasn't expecting it. Who expects something like that? We don't even hug much in my family. Step in to shake hands. Personal space. She pushed me and I fell. My head hit the kerb.

Such a little thing.

If I were more than a shadow, more than just a memory amongst the buildings shadows - I'd wonder. Wonder what happened to them. Did I make any difference to them? Does the little girl know what happened? Does she know I died?

Or am I little thing. A forgotten thing. Just a woman who fell.

Did I ever matter?