Fear Of Darkness
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. They have an encounter with a woman in Burnie Park. Later her husband has an accident. The ambulance and police come and a shot gun goes off. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her.)
“I’m going to stay at this hotel.” Julie gives the policewoman a piece of paper with a telephone number.
In her room, she lies down on the double bed and stares at the ceiling when the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“It’s us.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. We know you’ve got five million hidden somewhere and further, you know where it is.”
She kept silent.
“You there?”
“How did you get this number? I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“We know you, we know everything about you. We’ve got a contract on you: Five million or your life. We prefer the money but we get paid either way, so don’t screw with us.”
“All right, but I don’t have five million. I don’t manage the money. My husband does - always.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I’m sure that you’ll be able to find it. We’ve taken the van apart. There must be a bank deposit somewhere. By the way, we’ve cut his left ear off but he still wouldn’t tell us.”
“He hasn’t got that much money.”
“You know he does. He’s been fixing races on the Gold Coast for five years.”
“Why don’t you leave him alone.”
“We’ll leave him alone all right, six feet under.”
”Can I talk to him?”
“No. He’s sealed up in the Winnebago. He won’t get any food or water until he tells us where the five million dollars are.”
“He’ll die!”
“That’s up to him. Have I told you that his ear is in the post? You can pickle it.”
“I have no way of knowing about the money.”
“He’s hidden some of it somewhere and you’ll find it.”
“I can’t.”
“We’ll give you a week, then you’ll get his other ear and other body parts.”
“Let me talk to him!”
“No.”
“Please, please,” she said.
“He may have buried the money. We can’t find an investment. Be ingenious, I mean, how much is he worth to you? Find the money!”
Then there was a click on the line and it went dead.
(To be continued next month.)
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Fear Of Darkness
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. They have an encounter with a woman in Burnie Park. Later her husband has an accident. The ambulance and police come and a shot gun goes off. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her.)
“I’m going to stay at this hotel.” Julie gives the policewoman a piece of paper with a telephone number.
In her room, she lies down on the double bed and stares at the ceiling when the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“It’s us.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. We know you’ve got five million hidden somewhere and further, you know where it is.”
She kept silent.
“You there?”
“How did you get this number? I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“We know you, we know everything about you. We’ve got a contract on you: Five million or your life. We prefer the money but we get paid either way, so don’t screw with us.”
“All right, but I don’t have five million. I don’t manage the money. My husband does - always.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I’m sure that you’ll be able to find it. We’ve taken the van apart. There must be a bank deposit somewhere. By the way, we’ve cut his left ear off but he still wouldn’t tell us.”
“He hasn’t got that much money.”
“You know he does. He’s been fixing races on the Gold Coast for five years.”
“Why don’t you leave him alone.”
“We’ll leave him alone all right, six feet under.”
”Can I talk to him?”
“No. He’s sealed up in the Winnebago. He won’t get any food or water until he tells us where the five million dollars are.”
“He’ll die!”
“That’s up to him. Have I told you that his ear is in the post? You can pickle it.”
“I have no way of knowing about the money.”
“He’s hidden some of it somewhere and you’ll find it.”
“I can’t.”
“We’ll give you a week, then you’ll get his other ear and other body parts.”
“Let me talk to him!”
“No.”
“Please, please,” she said.
“He may have buried the money. We can’t find an investment. Be ingenious, I mean, how much is he worth to you? Find the money!”
Then there was a click on the line and it went dead.
(To be continued next month.)
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. They have an encounter with a woman in Burnie Park. Later her husband has an accident. The ambulance and police come and a shot gun goes off. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her.)
“I’m going to stay at this hotel.” Julie gives the policewoman a piece of paper with a telephone number.
In her room, she lies down on the double bed and stares at the ceiling when the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“It’s us.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. We know you’ve got five million hidden somewhere and further, you know where it is.”
She kept silent.
“You there?”
“How did you get this number? I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“We know you, we know everything about you. We’ve got a contract on you: Five million or your life. We prefer the money but we get paid either way, so don’t screw with us.”
“All right, but I don’t have five million. I don’t manage the money. My husband does - always.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I’m sure that you’ll be able to find it. We’ve taken the van apart. There must be a bank deposit somewhere. By the way, we’ve cut his left ear off but he still wouldn’t tell us.”
“He hasn’t got that much money.”
“You know he does. He’s been fixing races on the Gold Coast for five years.”
“Why don’t you leave him alone.”
“We’ll leave him alone all right, six feet under.”
”Can I talk to him?”
“No. He’s sealed up in the Winnebago. He won’t get any food or water until he tells us where the five million dollars are.”
“He’ll die!”
“That’s up to him. Have I told you that his ear is in the post? You can pickle it.”
“I have no way of knowing about the money.”
“He’s hidden some of it somewhere and you’ll find it.”
“I can’t.”
“We’ll give you a week, then you’ll get his other ear and other body parts.”
“Let me talk to him!”
“No.”
“Please, please,” she said.
“He may have buried the money. We can’t find an investment. Be ingenious, I mean, how much is he worth to you? Find the money!”
Then there was a click on the line and it went dead.
(To be continued next month.)
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
A Sonnet
So tell me what you see through armour’s sight,
Is it a world that never can be judged?
Is your perception rationally right?
Is what you see too perfect to be touched?
Are all these figments growing from the soil
Created by a driven universe,
Or are these individuals who toil
Toward a struggle utterly perverse?
Is it not God who tells us what to do,
The all-purveying entity of mirth,
Who’s built himself this planet’s human zoo
To give his mind’s creation painful birth?
When all has gone and lights have dimmed to fade,
The nothingness remains where strings pervade.
© Joe Lake
So tell me what you see through armour’s sight,
Is it a world that never can be judged?
Is your perception rationally right?
Is what you see too perfect to be touched?
Are all these figments growing from the soil
Created by a driven universe,
Or are these individuals who toil
Toward a struggle utterly perverse?
Is it not God who tells us what to do,
The all-purveying entity of mirth,
Who’s built himself this planet’s human zoo
To give his mind’s creation painful birth?
When all has gone and lights have dimmed to fade,
The nothingness remains where strings pervade.
© Joe Lake
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Time rushes on as the Earth spins through space; determined and inevitable, like a mad top, it whirls on, obeying gravity’s command just as does the moon and the other planets. I can feel the draft as wind rattles at the windows of my house. This could be a ride in an amusement park or perhaps I am a disease that nibbles at the planet but the fact is that I am made of uncountable atoms that are mostly empty space that exists between the nucleus and the electrons that circle it. Scientists tell us that the relative distance between the nucleus and its electrons is the distance between Wynyard and Burnie. I am therefore mostly hot air. Think about it.
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Time rushes on as the Earth spins through space; determined and inevitable, like a mad top, it whirls on, obeying gravity’s command just as does the moon and the other planets. I can feel the draft as wind rattles at the windows of my house. This could be a ride in an amusement park or perhaps I am a disease that nibbles at the planet but the fact is that I am made of uncountable atoms that are mostly empty space that exists between the nucleus and the electrons that circle it. Scientists tell us that the relative distance between the nucleus and its electrons is the distance between Wynyard and Burnie. I am therefore mostly hot air. Think about it.
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Angry At The Death
They laid Hughie to rest,
With profanities, he left,
Angry at the death,
And the crowd which
pushed him there,
The cup was spent,
And the cup was hurled,
with hate,
Shattered in the bushes,
Staggering, he blessed
them in dark language,
Locked down,
Cursed with vigour,
Till the morning
never came again,
And there was
roaring silence,
Demons exorcised,
head clear as
flames consumed,
And rage quelled over
salad roll and chips.
© Michael Garrad March 2011
They laid Hughie to rest,
With profanities, he left,
Angry at the death,
And the crowd which
pushed him there,
The cup was spent,
And the cup was hurled,
with hate,
Shattered in the bushes,
Staggering, he blessed
them in dark language,
Locked down,
Cursed with vigour,
Till the morning
never came again,
And there was
roaring silence,
Demons exorcised,
head clear as
flames consumed,
And rage quelled over
salad roll and chips.
© Michael Garrad March 2011
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Angry At The Death
They laid Hughie to rest,
With profanities, he left,
Angry at the death,
And the crowd which
pushed him there,
The cup was spent,
And the cup was hurled,
with hate,
Shattered in the bushes,
Staggering, he blessed
them in dark language,
Locked down,
Cursed with vigour,
Till the morning
never came again,
And there was
roaring silence,
Demons exorcised,
head clear as
flames consumed,
And rage quelled over
salad roll and chips.
© Michael Garrad March 2011
They laid Hughie to rest,
With profanities, he left,
Angry at the death,
And the crowd which
pushed him there,
The cup was spent,
And the cup was hurled,
with hate,
Shattered in the bushes,
Staggering, he blessed
them in dark language,
Locked down,
Cursed with vigour,
Till the morning
never came again,
And there was
roaring silence,
Demons exorcised,
head clear as
flames consumed,
And rage quelled over
salad roll and chips.
© Michael Garrad March 2011
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
My View
Michael Garrad
I admire so much those who remain resolute in the face of adversity, even though they may know, deep down that the odds against them are overwhelming.
Regardless, they face each day with fortitude and a smile, and say hello, when that smile hides the torment - looking good but feeling very ordinary.
And we complain when we have a flat tyre! Of course it’s annoying but it doesn’t change our way of living. A mere hiccup in the day’s events.
No, I’m talking about those who battle severe personal problems or try to deal with a life-crippling or life-threatening illness.
They persevere because they know no other way. So many of us would fall by the wayside, surrender to those staggering odds. Not them. They challenge every day to live each moment with passion and will to the fullest possible extent.
No, that doesn’t mean hang-gliding, or free-fall parachuting or cycling twice around Tasmania in a fortnight. Absolutely not. What it means for those so burdened is to greet each dawn with relish and deny the enemy of illness for another 24 hours.
I would find it very hard to even come close to their determination.
So may they enjoy the beautiful air we breathe!
Michael Garrad
I admire so much those who remain resolute in the face of adversity, even though they may know, deep down that the odds against them are overwhelming.
Regardless, they face each day with fortitude and a smile, and say hello, when that smile hides the torment - looking good but feeling very ordinary.
And we complain when we have a flat tyre! Of course it’s annoying but it doesn’t change our way of living. A mere hiccup in the day’s events.
No, I’m talking about those who battle severe personal problems or try to deal with a life-crippling or life-threatening illness.
They persevere because they know no other way. So many of us would fall by the wayside, surrender to those staggering odds. Not them. They challenge every day to live each moment with passion and will to the fullest possible extent.
No, that doesn’t mean hang-gliding, or free-fall parachuting or cycling twice around Tasmania in a fortnight. Absolutely not. What it means for those so burdened is to greet each dawn with relish and deny the enemy of illness for another 24 hours.
I would find it very hard to even come close to their determination.
So may they enjoy the beautiful air we breathe!
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Seasons And Dreams
He dozes in his fireside chair;
Wears on his face a dream,
A dream of happy days
So long ago with family spent
His mother’s lovely smile
Still carried in his mind
And never lost.
By waterside with mates in sun and frost,
Golden days - all.
These days, the springs approach so fast,
Or is it sands of time?
The once long summers never seem to last,
No cheer for him with mates all gone,
The summer’s not the same.
The autumn of his life already passed
And winter waits to play its deadly game.
He wonders
When time is up does someone call your name?
He thinks not - it matters little to him.
He will leave with few regrets;
Life has treated him kindly,
No need to ask the question why?
He knows when time is said and done.
Life itself is nothing but a dream.
† Ken Richens
(Ken wrote this poem weeks before he died aged 83.)
He dozes in his fireside chair;
Wears on his face a dream,
A dream of happy days
So long ago with family spent
His mother’s lovely smile
Still carried in his mind
And never lost.
By waterside with mates in sun and frost,
Golden days - all.
These days, the springs approach so fast,
Or is it sands of time?
The once long summers never seem to last,
No cheer for him with mates all gone,
The summer’s not the same.
The autumn of his life already passed
And winter waits to play its deadly game.
He wonders
When time is up does someone call your name?
He thinks not - it matters little to him.
He will leave with few regrets;
Life has treated him kindly,
No need to ask the question why?
He knows when time is said and done.
Life itself is nothing but a dream.
† Ken Richens
(Ken wrote this poem weeks before he died aged 83.)
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Survival
Once upon a time, Lord,
You were a cradle for my weary soul,
You were a blanket for my broken heart,
You bestowed peace upon my restless mind
And I survived.
Now that I am old, Lord,
Life’s problems weigh me down.
I need your guidance once again.
Please,
Cradle me in your loving blanket,
Send me succour for my wayward soul.
And I’ll survive!
(I’m not done yet, Lord!)
© Vi Woodhouse
Once upon a time, Lord,
You were a cradle for my weary soul,
You were a blanket for my broken heart,
You bestowed peace upon my restless mind
And I survived.
Now that I am old, Lord,
Life’s problems weigh me down.
I need your guidance once again.
Please,
Cradle me in your loving blanket,
Send me succour for my wayward soul.
And I’ll survive!
(I’m not done yet, Lord!)
© Vi Woodhouse
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Survival
Once upon a time, Lord,
You were a cradle for my weary soul,
You were a blanket for my broken heart,
You bestowed peace upon my restless mind
And I survived.
Now that I am old, Lord,
Life’s problems weigh me down.
I need your guidance once again.
Please,
Cradle me in your loving blanket,
Send me succour for my wayward soul.
And I’ll survive!
(I’m not done yet, Lord!)
© Vi Woodhouse
Once upon a time, Lord,
You were a cradle for my weary soul,
You were a blanket for my broken heart,
You bestowed peace upon my restless mind
And I survived.
Now that I am old, Lord,
Life’s problems weigh me down.
I need your guidance once again.
Please,
Cradle me in your loving blanket,
Send me succour for my wayward soul.
And I’ll survive!
(I’m not done yet, Lord!)
© Vi Woodhouse
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
False Histories
How many women are revered
for what they were
perceived as doing to
get the masses of
simple-minded girls to vote?
How many historians look closely at what
these philanthropic ladies turned their backs on?
How many of these great ladies formed an
alliance with a political candidate who opposed such things as aged pensions,
reasonable wages and workers’ compensation for the masses?
Was it not the reality that many pious middle-class women wanted to protect their social preserve?
When will man learn not to revere false histories?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
False Histories
How many women are revered
for what they were
perceived as doing to
get the masses of
simple-minded girls to vote?
How many historians look closely at what
these philanthropic ladies turned their backs on?
How many of these great ladies formed an
alliance with a political candidate who opposed such things as aged pensions,
reasonable wages and workers’ compensation for the masses?
Was it not the reality that many pious middle-class women wanted to protect their social preserve?
When will man learn not to revere false histories?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
False Histories
How many women are revered
for what they were
perceived as doing to
get the masses of
simple-minded girls to vote?
How many historians look closely at what
these philanthropic ladies turned their backs on?
How many of these great ladies formed an
alliance with a political candidate who opposed such things as aged pensions,
reasonable wages and workers’ compensation for the masses?
Was it not the reality that many pious middle-class women wanted to protect their social preserve?
When will man learn not to revere false histories?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
False Histories
How many women are revered
for what they were
perceived as doing to
get the masses of
simple-minded girls to vote?
How many historians look closely at what
these philanthropic ladies turned their backs on?
How many of these great ladies formed an
alliance with a political candidate who opposed such things as aged pensions,
reasonable wages and workers’ compensation for the masses?
Was it not the reality that many pious middle-class women wanted to protect their social preserve?
When will man learn not to revere false histories?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
Puppy Love
When her head inclined towards his
he could smell her fragrant hair
and his concentration vanished
as a wisp of smoke in air.
To her softly spoken question
his mouth had mumbled words
though they were incoherent
so she’d not clearly heard,
then she asked if he’d repeat them
but his head kept spinning more,
all he wished for was an opening
so he’d slip down through the floor.
His face was glowing hotly
with involuntary red
and the thought that she may see it
simply added to his dread.
Then suddenly she’d moved away
attending to another
leaving him lost in confusion
and struggling to recover
so that no one else would notice
how he’d felt so near to Heaven
when getting close attention
from his teacher in grade seven!
© Pete Stratford
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 84, April 2011
The Thread
It’s just a thread, a lowly thread -
Holding everything together,
Though it can be cut at any time.
For some, its texture is silken -
Royalty and the very rich possess it,
But your thread may be golden or silver,
Or just plated -
Depending on where you are on the ladder
Of prestige and power - there is a difference!
For others, the thread is rope -
Hemp, wire, or heaven-forbid - plastic!
(Let’s hope rope is used to strengthen -
Not to weaken.)
Whichever form it takes,
Your thread is the most important
You will ever own -
It’s called - “the thread of life”.
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2006
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