I see fire

(Dedicated to my dear dad Graham who would have turned 80 on the 2^nd September 2017. Remembered with much love).

During the recent relocation of my mother into her new home we uncovered amongst her stored belongings an old thermette (the ultimate all-in-one outdoor kettle)…possibly mark II or III. A dearly loved item of a second generation pyromaniac. While beyond salvation, this rusty old item reignited happy memories of Sunday afternoon drives and riverside picnics. The family tradition of gathering sticks small enough to poke down the central funnel ensured that a warm cuppa rewarded our efforts whether it be scavenging through the riparian brambles for blackberries or plucking lichen from fence posts.

The lighting of the contents of this metal tower however would often be accompanied by the predictable overuse of “bugger it” and much mocking from the circling spectators. For successful combustion seemed to rely on an aligning of stars- a firm footing, clement weather and flammable flotsam. Added to this, the delicate blowing on the embers to initiate the ritual.

The picnic rug pivoted around this beaut little boiler to accommodate the shifts in wind and to escape the plume of smoke which billowed into our eyes as we waited for our brew. If by some misfortune the cavity was overfilled we would be treated to an eruption of spitting beads at the five minute mark. Now only if the damn thing could be manoeuvred to release its contents without third degree burns. Don’t be alarmed, dear readers. This task was reserved for the thermette queen with her subjects safely at five paces.

Hoorah……success.

Ah, what could be better than a family outing, roadside foraging, fire, a fancy biscuit and a cup of tea? Happy days.

Sharon Cook

Pursuit

“Mate, how ‘bout that time at the bakery?  I asked for a sliced loaf and you filled your coat with everything you could lay your hands on while her back was turned and then hit the shelf in the hurry to get out the door.  You were picking the cold mince and cheese out of your phone for months.”

Troy leans back and looks up at the sky, the limitless galaxies providing more light than his cell phone which coldly declares itself to be down to the last eight percent of its battery. Propped up against a rock, his head cradled in his hands, Mike doesn’t say much; the matted hair around his forehead disguising a burgeoning lump and a deep cut, the severity not fully realised in the darkness.  Troy looks and feels ridiculous, his puny frame is inflated with handfuls of leaves and anything that he could scrounge in the dwindling light, certain that there must be ants, wetas or centipedes crawling over his skin causing the itching.   Last week the AC/DC shirt had kept him plenty warm enough in the congregation of black tee shirts at the cake tin or maybe it was the several bourbon pre-loaders but the shirt wasn’t providing any insulation against the misty rain now.

“Wha shit ahhrre you toorkin about Troy?,” Mike says with a tongue that seems to be acting like a sheep in a drafting gate, bouncing off the sides of his cheeks and making his words much thicker. 

It was only a simple transgression but the fight or flight response took over and with the police on their tail, the car launched over a bank and was swallowed up by the vegetation, the initial euphoria of evasion replaced by the realisation that they were lost. 

The last time they had spent a night in the bush was at a school camp, the sounds in the darkness completely foreign to a couple of townies. Mike had bought marshmallows and a hip flask on that occasion, this time the only thing they had between them was a muesli bar, a pack of cigarettes with enough for three each and four sticks of juicy fruit gum. 

Troy gathers what dry foliage he can and with trembling hands sets the cigarette lighter to a crumpled supermarket receipt.  The dry bracken sparks and cracks, he’s transported to Opiti beach, Jasmine is there and he remembers seeing her face for the very first time, illuminated by the fireworks.  The flames grow and smoke starts to billow, he is on his hands and knees feeling his way amidst the black smoke to locate Mike in his bedroom when they were nine.  They made it out then but his gut instinct tells him that this time it’s different.  Troy uses the phone to send out one last text before it too expires. 

Searchers discover the campsite three days later along with traces of blood and clothing.  The bush has closed around them like a fist. 

Andrew Hawkey

The (deleted) parable of the two sisters

And Jesus saw that his followers were weary, so he bade them sit in the shade of an olive grove and rest awhile. While they were at rest he began to teach them.

There were two sisters who were also neighbours. The elder sister worked hard all day to keep her fire burning to bake bread for her husband and her sons.

Every day, the younger sister watched as her sister laboured. When the elder sister’s husband and sons left early in the morning for the fields, she would go out to gather fuel. 

One day the younger sister called out, “Sister, why do you leave your home so early?”

And the elder sister replied, “I must have fuel to stoke my fire.”

And the younger sister said, “You have ten days of fuel in store. Sit with me that we might grind grain together.”

But the elder sister did not listen.

In the  midday sun,  the elder sister would stoke her fire to a fierce blaze.

And the younger sister called out, “Sister, you work so hard in the heat of the day. Your fire blazes when there is no use for it.”

And the elder sister said, “If I do not stoke the fire, it will go out and my husband will be angry.”

Her sister replied, “There is enough breeze to blow on the embers and keep the fire alive. Come sit with me a while and I will draw water from the well that we might drink and rest.”

But the elder sister did not listen.

In the afternoon, the younger sister called out, “Sister, your bread is ready for the fire. Come sit with me and sing songs of praise.”

And the elder sister replied, “I will not sing with you, for soon my husband and sons will return from the fields and all things must be ready.”

And the younger sister said, “I too must prepare food for my husband and my sons. But how much better will I work if I am rested.”

But the elder sister did not listen.  And in both households, their families were fed but the elder sister was weary from her labours.

Then Jesus asked his disciples which of the sisters served her family best.

But when they heard of this,  the Scribes and the Pharisees and all those in authority were angered by this question and began to plot against him.

Rosemary McBryde

Ethically non-monogamous

Ethically non-monogamous. Jocelyn turned the phrase over and over again in her head. Not that she was surprised  – she had long suspected it, though certainly not ethically - (how typical of him to justify immorality with nobility) - she was relieved he had finally been honest about it.

Naturally there was the pain of confirmation of something she had never wanted confirmed , but something inside strangely let go. Now at least they could be honest and get on with whatever was going to come next.  He knew her well enough to know she sure as hell wasn’t going to Ibiza, but she had indeed been looking forward to romantic sunsets on the beach, listening to Blank and Jones (despite the math dissertations).

The afternoon sun encapsulated the car in heat, roasting her like an oven. She had read the email on her phone, noticing it just after buying the pink bikini – something she hoped would sort of spice things up. With the Macy’s bag beside her on the seat, she stared out the window, oblivious to the heat beginning to fog the windshield.

What next, sort of popped into mind. Maybe he did love her, but it wasn’t only her and he didn’t WANT it to be only her, more to the painful point….so now what?

Her thoughts turned to Anthony. She had met him only once – the only man she knew who loved cows as she did – yet the connection had been instant. Sure, they had shared texts and emails on an account she had created especially for him – but it was an innocent flirtation. Harmless, yet strangely satisfying.

OK, maybe she DID picture him once or twice during times perhaps she should not have, and at times toyed with the idea of strolling by the pasture during his afternoon run…..

So?

“Dude.” The text message popped in. “What about the kids?”

She picked up the phone.

What about them?

Jasmin Webb

Put it out

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

I could no longer tell whether the drops were from the rain or from my eyes. Everything seemed as hazy as my vision, relentless burning thoughts urging me to save myself from the terror just a few steps away.

All I wanted was to go home. I wanted to escape, I needed to be safe.

One step forward. One flame out.

I was shaking from the cold, from the fear.

They were so loud, screaming, howling like wolves to the dark sky above, addicted to an obsession that will end me. The rain did not cleanse, did not purify, did not calm as it does in movies and novels. It seemed to make them even louder, and fan the flame inside me.

They didn’t know I was there, but they were waiting for me, luring me to the Eden they thought they lived in, dragging me to the hell I was fighting to avoid.

The house was dark. Possibly as dark as what lay inside. The rain made my vision hazy, but the sight of the house was full of horror. The sight of a broken infrastructure, as if not a single soul has touched even the slightest on the house sent a shiver down my spine. The sight of unmaintained wood on wood, it seemed like termites had already devoured the structure of the house, and it was ready to tumble.

Maybe it could tumble on me, then I would not have to deal with it.

Two steps forward. Two flames out.

They howled once more, and a choir of cries stung my ears. I gulped, and I was ready to bolt in the other direction.

But they were screaming. They were yelling. The sound of their cries lured me in, dragging me forward as I continued to shuffle.

This is the last of me. The last this town will see of me.. This night is my last.  The last moments I will remember, the cries and the howls and the shrieks as the time nears midnight and the stars finish coming out. For the last time, my voice will become hoarse from screaming with them. The last time, and I will disappear. The last time, and I will be gone..

Tomorrow, I will be gone. Tonight, I will be free. I will be free. And a part of me will disappear.

Three steps forward.  Three flames out.

One night, one night. It will all be over tomorrow. The sun will come out, and we can begin a new journey. I will become a new canvas, one that is free.

It would be as if the fire never existed, and my mind was never burnt.

I realize, I didn’t need the rain to purify or cleanse me. I needed them.

So I walk to the door, and I breathe as I grab the doorknob.  I can still go home. I can still go home. I can run for it, I can escape from it now, if I wanted to. I let go of my grip on the doorknob as I shiver from fear. I can go home. I can go home.

Peeking from the window, I see confetti and balloons covering half of the living room. A long table was placed to the right of the room, allowing various snacks, meals and beverages to be put on full display. There are candles, and colorful banners decorated the walls. A few of them see me, and they hurriedly motion for me to come in, smiles plastered on each of their bright faces.

Drenched from head to toe, I open the door, shaking from the cold.

One flame still burning.

They become quiet, their eyes dart to mine as the music stops playing in the background.

“HAPPY GRADUATION!” They yell in unison.

“It’s so depressing you have to leave for university tomorrow, we could’ve had more time to celebrate,” He says to me, embracing me into a warm hug. “Come in! Come in!”

With the pouring rain, the fire ceases. And I step inside.

Katja Tjahaja

It was winter

It was winter. The mud was thick and soft and Anthony sank into it with each step. The giant, shattered cypress tree was in the corner of the paddock. The little, muddy-faced, hereford-angus calves were with their mothers at the other end of the paddock. The sky above the low silhouette of the sacred mountain was a rococo display of clouds and crepuscular light in all the shades of blue and grey and gold and lavender.

The new manager had got the windows in the office tinted: Tintpro uses only the best-quality window films. The difference is obvious. Protecting your investment has never been easier. Window tinting blocks 99% of harmful UV rays …

Also: Flick Anticimex air freshener dispenser and fragrances bring back quality to your washroom, with digitally programmed dispensers and tailored odour neutralisers …

Not to mention: dangerous bacteria can become airborne after a toilet is flushed, but our WC sanitisers effectively combat this …

In the cupboard: Healthy touch hand sanitizer KILLS 99.99% of germs without water.

Death. Death. Death and darkness. Ashes.

Father Hopkins, the unipolar, chronic depressive who died at the age of 44 with the words: ‘I am so happy. I am so happy. I loved my life’ knew that life is fire.

Nature is a Heraclitean fire …

Million-fuelled, nature’s bonfire burns on.

But quench her bonniest, dearest to her, her clearest-selved spark

Man, how fast his firedint, his mark on mind, is gone!

Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark

Drowned. O pity and indignation! Manshape, that shone

Sheer off, disseveral, a star, death blots black out; not mark

Is any of him at all so stark

But vastness blurs and time beats level.

Anthony works and ‘feels the fell of dark not day’, his prayers ‘dead letters sent to him that lives alas away’ but here in the mud and the cold of winter dusk – ‘Glory be to God for dappled things’.

Barnaby McBryde