Bloodlines

Bleary eyed, I step into the entrance.  There are no other givers here that I can see.

“What is your full name and date of birth?”, asks the administrator behind the desk before giving me the sheet of probing questions that I must answer. Before long another nurse leads me into a small room and begins the interrogation, possibly the thirty-first time of one hundred and fifty times she will want to know the answers to these questions this week I calculate.

“What is your name and date of birth?”, enquires Tanya who already has one hand lining up the pricker.  The scrolling news banner on the television mentions more sexual harassment claims in Hollywood.  I make a mental note not to ask her about small pricks.

The form I have filled in just confirms the mundanity of my life; have I taken any drugs, been overseas recently or participated in hazardous activities such as rock climbing or sky diving?

I sacrifice my right fifth finger and without hesitation it is seized and unceremoniously violated by the small sharp incisor that leaps from its concealed house.  The extracted juice is placed within a small electronic sensor that determines my suitably for progressing to the next stage like a successful Bachelorette contestant. 

Having made it to the next round, I am shown to a stall like a much more sophisticated urinal and prepared for harvesting.    

      

“Can you confirm your name and date of birth please?”, asks Sally and I’m tempted to see what happens if I change my history at this point. 

I avoid looking at the long metallic lance.  A woman in her twenties is on my left looking slightly vacant as if they’ve left her for two rounds.

“You might feel a slight pr….”, err, yes, I do, but mainly I’m half expecting to say who I am again as I’m sure they have already forgotten.  It’s not the thought of the needle in my arm but the sensation of a tube of warm blood draped against my forearm that bothers me. 

Representatives from all walks of life occupy the adjacent seats, all putting on brave faces as they contemplate the good works it might achieve.  In times of urban terrorism, there is always the footage of those whose first instinct is to line up outside the donation centres.  A different call to arms perhaps.  

There are two groups who harass me, one who want to extract my fluids and the other who try their hardest to help me put it back in.  I’m giving in to the extractors this time round; next time though, it might be the turn of a deep blood red cabernet sauvignon running the other way that wins out. 

Andrew Hawkey 

President Trajkovski

‘Controlled flight into terrain’ the air crash investigators term it.

Inside the polished and elegant coffin how much was there – and how much of it was actually him? Some meat from the slopes of the ragged, winter hills of Bosnia Herzegovina. But, on his gravestone the words: ‘Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the sons of God’.

At the head of the grave they erected a bust though it failed to capture the radiance of his face; the boyish grin; the charm; the holy light; the broad shoulders of his giant frame that had made him look, in his dark suit, rather more imposing that his own dark-glassed bodyguards.

Quiz:

Name two famous Macedonians.

The obvious first answer – Alexander the Great.

Alternative history:

What if the childhood tutor of Alexander the Great, the famous Macedonian, had not been Aristotle (as it was) but had been – John Wesley. How different would the world be now? Instead of a maker of endless war – what if the world had had to contend with a peacemaker?

John Wesley:

And surely all our declamations on the strength of human reason, and the eminence of our virtues, are no more than the cant and jargon of pride and ignorance, so long as there is such a thing as war in the world. Men in general can never be allowed to be reasonable creatures, till they know not war any more. So long as this monster stalks uncontrolled, where is reason, virtue, humanity? They are utterly excluded; they have no place; they are a name, and nothing more.

(And yes, the obvious second famous Macedonian is Mother Teresa.)

But – Boris Trajkovski, second president of the Republic of Macedonia from 1999 to 2004, was tutored by John Wesley.

The Methodist Youth Group led him to training as a lay minister and being a lay minister to being exiled by the communist government to the distant hills where he tended a tattered congregation of poor gypsies in the Evangelical Methodist Church of Macedonia.

War in Kosovo: a dirty street fight between the Kosovo Liberation Army, the Albanian army, the illegal air forces of NATO, the army of Serbia and Montenegro, 13,000 dead or missing, rape, arson, terror, two million ethnically cleansed – a ‘humanitarian war’.

And next? Macedonia.

It is not called a war, ‘the 2001 Macedonian insurgency’ – platoons of tanks and artillery, torture, war crimes, burning mosques, people’s skin cut off with knives – for less than 200 people were killed and only 170,000 people were displaced.

How much would it have taken to make it the next sorry Balkan civil war? How much did it take to avoid that? One man. One president.

As the countless drops of the boundless ocean
Or the myriad leaves of a huge banyan tree
Peacefully remain side by side,
Even so, all human beings will someday live side by side
In a perfect oneness-world.

‘Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the sons of God’.

Dhiraja

The Introverted Activist

They were comfortable in the spotlight, energized by noise and crowds. Success required confrontation and the front page headline.

Annie knew that these were not her people.

Side by side, arm in arm, the approaching mob moved in a slow surge towards the square, shouting slogans at the television cameras which fed images of conflict to a hungry audience.  Angry faces contorted and clenched fists punched at the sky in time with the chant.

REAL CLIMATE ACTION NOW!  HANDS OFF MY PLANET!  DON’T DEFILE, NO DENIAL!

As the march got closer, Annie felt the pulse of a drum beat, wood on skin.  Adrenaline ramped up her sense of panic, fuelled by enraged cries from the marchers. A thousand banners on sheets and card, printed and painted, swayed and jostled for attention. Annie shrank away, barely able to breathe in the midst of the watching crowd. Behind her, two youths laughed and jeered, like spectators at the arena baying for blood in what they hoped would be the inevitable gladiatorial clash between the marchers and the waiting police. Nausea, sour bile, rose deep in her gut, and with every ounce of courage, Annie refocused on why she was here.

She had spent weeks preparing for the march, quiet nights unpicking old jerseys and rolling balls of recycled wool, knitting until she knew the pattern by heart. She’d hand-crafted labels and attached them with rainbows of ribbon.  Each object was unique, a thing of beauty. 

Annie reached inside her satchel and chose one tiny knitted fish, gold with black fins. It crackled slightly as she squeezed it. Strands of recycled plastic bag stuffing poured from its gaping helpless mouth. At the end of gold ribbon, the attached label read save a fish - have a plastic free Christmas.  Annie took a deep breath and, standing unnoticed beside a distracted shopper, dropped the fish inside her K Mart carrier bag. She exhaled – easier than she thought. Another fish, green and silver, love your planet - have a plastic free Christmas, tucked into an open handbag draped over a shoulder. 

Annie moved through the crowd, keeping pace with the marchers.  Blue, purple, scarlet – we only have one ocean, think of the fish, fish need you – until her bag was empty and she could slip away.

Rosemary McBryde

The Corsini Collection - compare and contrast

The face of the virgin was perfect: calm, sorrowful, serene, smooth – her heavy eyelids with the sensual curve of a Tibetan arabesque, an ogive arch of adoration. The rest of the painting … one needed more time and, perhaps, chutzpah to start criticising Botticelli – perhaps.

It was interesting how many people walked around the gallery with their arms folded. Were all people so disconcerted in an art gallery? Anthony unfolded his own arms and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

The room was like a Leonard Cohen concert or a Jane Goodall lecture or the South Island – disturbingly full of white people. But then the old farts hanging on the walls were the proverbial old, dead, white men too: crusty popes, sleazy one-percenters and the long-suffering women they groped, one saint with a hole in his head …

Anthony walked swiftly round the walls – ‘Old crap. Boring old crap.’

He circled back and sat down on the low, broad seat before Madonna and Child with Six Angels by Sandro Botticelli and Workshop.

True, the composition was cool: around the calm, still point of that one face the composition rotated beautifully with just that bit of weird, stylised foliage in the bottom right to stuff it up. But one had to say – the rest of the folks portrayed had weird, misshapen faces. What was that about? And none more so than little baby Jesus Himself, intruding His ugly little mug into the centre of the painting. And why was He wearing Lady Gaga’s dress?

The painting did have a freshness and brightness, an apparent newness, which all the other paintings in the exhibition lacked. It was hard to believe that it was 530 years old – it seemed to have just come from the studio (and suddenly been lumbered with a giant gold frame as ugly and deadly as those on all the other paintings).

Enough.

Anthony exited past another of the ubiquitous bored guards. How to get out of this place? Through the International Contemporary Gallery?

The work of John Nixon – conceptual, minimalist abstraction: an orange square, a blue rectangle.

‘Ridiculous modern crap.’

At last the hallowed and reverent gloom of the gallery was broken by sunlight – the stairwell, windows and, beyond, a giant, green tree.

Barnaby McBryde

Side by Side

The school playground. June, 2005

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.” We both smiled. “Why do you have to go?”

“Daddy wants us to move. But don’t worry, mommy says we’ll have a bigger house and more toys so when you come, we’ll play together!” She clapped her hands gleefully.

“Yay! I can’t wait!” And I hugged her.

We were only five, and neither of us understood the concept of distance and the price of flights. We didn’t think that we would not meet until today, almost 10 years later…

Starbucks. January, 2015

“One tall hot chocolate for Phillip!” I looked up from my work and smiled at the barista. She was grinning at me, still holding the beverage out towards me. As I got up, her smile didn’t falter but only got larger.

“Thank you.”

“You know, I had a kindergarten boyfriend named Phillip. I think I still have a picture of him, here,” She took out her phone, unlocked it and searched through her gallery. I read her name tag, Miranda J. That name sounded familiar. Could it be?

“This one, that’s Phillip. He’s holding my hand.”

She let me hold her phone and zoom in. It was her.

“Miranda Jess,” I gave her phone back. “It’s me, Phillip.”

Her smile faded, her eyes searching my face for any sign of humour. But I wasn’t joking, it was me!

“I thought you moved to the Philippines in 2005!”

“I did! I came back last year, but I didn’t think I would meet you again!” She came around to give me a hug, one that I gladly accepted and returned. “I didn’t think…”

“Yes well, you did promise you’d never take off our engagement ring,” I pointed to her left hand. “I suppose you broke your promise.”

“If you think that 5-year-old Miranda’s fingers haven’t grown…” she laughed.

“What time do you end your shift?”

She flashed a smile. “My shift ends in 2 hours.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Is this a date?” Smirking, she returned to her counter and read the drink description.

“Isn’t it?”

“Just you and me?” I nodded. “I don’t kiss on the first date, you know.”

“Thankfully, this won’t be our first date, will it?”

The ground shook slightly. I must be nervous I thought, but why would I be nervous? It shook again, and this time she felt it too, losing her balance slightly before looking up at me. The tables started to rattle, plates slid and crashed to the floor.  I looked outside just as a violent tremor threw me down. Someone screamed, the ceiling cracked above me and the lights violently swung from left to right. We were biscuits in a tin can rattled by an angry god.

“Phillip!” I heard Miranda holler before thudding. I turned my head, but I was on the floor and a counter was separating us. I took whatever strength I could muster to crawl towards her and hold her hand. I slipped on something, hot liquid and my knee grazed against broken glass before I finally got to her.

“Shhh,” I cooed, bringing her under a table and covering our heads.

“I don’t want to die!” She screamed as the room was being turned upside down, with coffee scattered on the floor and bodies thrown here and there. I was pretty sure all the plates and cutlery, mugs and glasses were scattered on the floor, mixed with various liquids and crumbs of food left uneaten.

“You won’t die,” I looked at her, my vision hazy. “Not as long as I’m here. Not as long as we’re side by side.”

Katya Tjahaja

November

Every month I think that if there are only one or two stories, it might be time to stop. And then, as so often happens, I get four or five within a few days right at the end of the month  Thanks for your dedication to the notion of writing creatively once a month (at least).  For November, the artistic director has provided this as a starter:  Side by side. 

Happy writing and if you are new to the project, all contributions 300 - 500 words in length are welcome, emailed to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by the end of the month.