Come On (Heavy on Dialogue) by Seb

“Come on, we got to go. It’s about to start.”

* * *

I haven’t heard this song in a long time, I thought.

“Either have I?” someone said in my ear. I turned and nodded in recognition of the comment.

“It reminds me of when I was a kid. Younger.” she said. I nodded.

“Same, although I don’t remember when I heard it for the first time.”

She smiled, “Let’s just call it the “nineties” and leave it there.

I smiled, It’s great being 29. “Do you ever sing along, and then find yourself wondering when you learnt the lyrics? You never knew them before?”

“I don’t bother wasting seconds on something so massively unimportant.” She smirks at me. (Yes, smirks)

“Yeah. I have a lot of time on my hands.” She’s still smirking.

“And I love it. I love mouthing along silently.” She laughed. What? Said my quiz-ative look.

“That’s an odd comment, saying you love “mouthing” lyrics. Sounds gay…”

I agreed, “..When you say it like that.”

“So”, she says, “Why are you dressed up at this time of day? Unemployed? Job interview? What? Tell me?”

“I got a thing.”

“Ooooh. Wow. Fine. Fuck you.” She reached into her bag, found some smokes, grabbed them, pulled one from the pack and lit it. I watched the whole time.

“Something you don’t want to talk about obviously,” she confirmed.

“Yeah, for now.”

“What else do you do?”

I paused, breathed in (not for effect I assure you, I just needed to breathe in). “Work. Sleep. Listen to music. Masturbate.”

“Fair bit I presume?”

“Defo”. She raised her eyebrows.

“That’s better written than said out loud.”

“I realised that now. Never said it before in a non-email or non-text situation. So, what do you do?”

“Study. Work. Read. Drink.”

“I drink too.”

“Smoke. Hate on hipsters and their stupid bikes.”

“I see.”

“So stranger, your name?”

“You want to add me on Facebook?”

“Yeah. Right. No dating without thorough dissection of your online profile. What are his favourite films and what are his thought’s on Post-New Wave-Korean Hardcore cinema?”

“I love Post-New Wave-Korean Hardcore.” She laughed.

“Not the band silly.”

“You at school today?”

“Yeah, an early class and then one in the afternoon. Coffee now. It’s sunny right now, but still chilly.”

“Thanks for the weather update. Odd of train of thought. Choo Choo.”

“You’re odd.”

“Plans for tonight?”

“You asking me out?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t know. Maybe drinks.”

“Alcohol is fucking great.”

“You allowed to swear in a suit?”

“White collar crimes were invented by the hulking, blue, illiterate proletariat to discredit the enlightened and therefore better bourgeoisie.

“Marry me.”

“After my thing,” I said.

* * *

Their Voices Rattled on my Window Sill - Part 5

Ruby checked her diary. It had been a month since she has last written anything. That was two weeks before she heard the voices. She typed in the day’s date, and the time and began typing away.

Tom was not wearing his shirt today. He was chopping wood. Not sure where he got it, or the axe. He didn’t look too good. He needs to lose weight. Still. But he enjoyed himself.

I am finding him more hot. Attractive. What the hell else am I meant to look at? Fuck, there is nothing else around. I have this evitable feeling that we will fuck. More than that. What the hell choice do I have? Where the fuck is everyone else?

Ruby slammed her laptop shout and yelled out the window, to Mike.

“When are we going to leave this fucking place!” He looked at her, and resumed whatever he was doing. That wasn’t even a question.

Life had resumed to normal for the quartet. Tom continued his frequent trips to the G-Times’ Entertainment to get more movies to watch, and games to play on his many consoles. Mike kept himself busy too. He stayed in his shed, building things. Cutting things up. Putting things back to together. Mike felt it was his duty to learn “how to be a man” as he so aptly put it.

Ruby walked outside, stormed outside, and focused her eyes on Mike.

“Well?”
“Well what?”
“When are we fucking going to find some fucking people?” Mike rolled his eyes and walked back into his shed. He had recently been putting a car engine apart and then back together – he was thinking which tools were not necessary to fix a car on a run.

Mary followed him and slammed her fist against the shed.
“WELL!?”

“Jesus Christ. Calm down. Just because you’re horny doesn’t mean you can just yell at me.”
“How did you…? It’s not about that. I’m bored.”
“Well do something then. And you’re my sister. I have lived with you for a long time. I know your “Angers”.”
“Fuck you.”
“Illegal.”
“I think I am going to seduce Tom.” Mike, who had his back to Ruby, smiled.
“That’s a fancy word for “fuck”?”
“Well, what do you want from me. I want some romance. Some sexiness.”
“What you gonna do?”
“I am not sure. Can you and Mary go on “look out” tonight please?”



Tom thought it was odd that Mary and Mike were going to the Tower that evening, and even odder that they drove.
“Tom.” He turned around, and there stood Ruby. She looked different. That is, she looked different then she normally did. She looked really pretty. It had been a long time since she’d dressed up.

“You gotta date tonight?” Sometimes even Tom could be funny.
“Hilarious. I just felt like doing something, for myself. How do I look?” Tom looked hard. Fucking bang-able.
“You look great.”

Ruby had originally decided to cook for Tom, and then seduce him with wine and candles. But the world had changed. The world was a difference place. And they lived together, Fuck all that bullshit, she thought.

“Tom, come here. We are going to make out a little, and then we are going to sleep together.”
“That’s romantic.”
Ruby sighed, “I know… what is the point of fluffing about. We live together.” Tom kept looking at her, not making a move.
Ruby walked up to Tom, grabbed his hand and kissed him. She held his kiss, and he held her’s. She turned and started pulling him to her room.

“Oh come on…”

Their Voices Rattled on My Window Sill - Part 4 by Seb

Nothing, again.

I am going to cheat here. To give you some history of the principal characters in this here text, without making any effort to include it in the story. You know what I mean? I do like seeing (and commenting on) the different devices that cinema or television or literature use to give the characters background. I’m not talking about good cinema or television here. Oh no. It’s the poor devices that I be liking.

One devise is putting the character in a compromising situation, and then depict how a past experience/s helped them through.

For example: Tom was walking about one day, when he needed to take a dump. He jumped the fence into someone’s back yard. He looked around, and saw a small vegetable patch. He decided to shit in the vegetable patch. He enjoyed his little attempt at rebel rousing. It wasn’t until he was done that he realised that he had no toilet paper. He panicked, but then remembered that once he’d been camping, and had used some leaves to wipe his arse. He looked around, saw a pumpkin, and wiped his bum with the leaf.

See, his past experience helped him not ruin his underwear. WOW!

Sometimes you get history in dialogue, for example,

“Oh man, this reminds me so much of when we were ten. You remember, when we came home from camping, and no one was around. It was like Armageddon or something. Just empty streets and shops and homes and towns. Remember that? We never found out what happened.

Sometimes, history comes in the form of a new character, one a protagonist knew in the past.

“Ruby? You have changed so much?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you used to be so shallow, and self-obsessed?”
Ruby laughed, “True, but the world has changed. All this happened so suddenly. I had never even seen a gun until a few months ago. Now look at me,” Ruby laughed again.
“Shit, I know. You wouldn’t use the same tissue twice. Jesus.”

And sometimes, you get history through a new character. You know the scene, a So how was it for you? conversation. Or, How did you make it, how did you get by? conversation.

“So, then yeah, 6 months. We have only seen a few faces in the that…”
Tom froze up, he just realised his lie had been exposed.
“Hang on,” said the new person, “I thought it was just you and your friends for the last few months?”
“We ran into some dudes from the army once. I mean, they looked like they were from the army.”
“What happened? The army guys saved us. Brought us here.”
“It, it was fucked. There were two, in a jeep. One tried to touch Ruby. She slapped him. He hit her back….”
“…”
“And then Mike snapped. Fucking snapped. He smashed the army guy in the face with the butt of his gun. I was frozen, but then one of the girls’ screams shook me awake. But before I could try and help – I’m not sure what I would have done – Mike had finished it. As quickly as anything I have ever seen. After hitting the one who hit Rube, he turned shot the first guy twice, and then turned and did the same with the one he had hit. No pause or nothing, no contemplating. Bang, bang.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. So quick. Both dead. I have never seen him like that.”
“Take a man our of his comfort zone, and see him fall apart.”
“Perhaps. But we haven’t collapsed. We have grown stronger. We have a few skills you know? I can camp, I can cook and shit, but I couldn’t skin a pig. After a few weeks, reality set in for us, and we just fitted in nicely to our new roles.”
“What there they?”
“We thought we were the last people on earth.”

Sometimes you learn about hopes and dreams.

“I’ll never see Paris.”
“Forgot Paris Tom, Rome. Rome is amazing.”
“I’ll never fuck Sophie Howard.” They all looked at Tom. That was unlike him to say such a thing. Mary laughed, but Ruby just rolled her eyes.
“Ruby? What about you?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t need to move out of home and moved into a sharehouse in Collingwood and live like a pig getting drunk every night and smoking too much. I guess I will never get to be reckless.”
“That’s sad.”
“I know.”

Their Voices Rattled My Window Sill - Part 3 by Sebastien de Robillard

Mike and Ruby returned home under the cover of darkness. They ate steak with roasted vegetables that night. It was Tom’s turn to cook. He was normally pretty good with kitchen stuff. That, and he could shoot pretty damn good too.

“So nothing at all today.” Ruby’s comment hung in the air – it was an awkward tone. She sounded disappointed, but then also pleased at the same time.

You know, like when you say phew, I’m glad I didn’t have to do that, because you didn’t really want to be put into a position you’ve never experienced, but deep down, you are disappointed because you were looking forward to this new something, something you have never experienced.

Just like that.

“You sound disappointed,” Mary said, “And Tom, why don’t you try making gravy, just once? You know you would be good at it?”

“I guess I am a bit. I haven’t seen anyone in a long time. Sorry, anyone else. Plus, I want to know what is going on in the world.”

“I don’t like gravy,” said Tom. Mike nodded his head in approval.

“To be honest, I am too,” Mike said, after the head nod of approval, “I’d like to see what is happening in the world. I want to know what others are doing?”

“I guess I also want some closure.” Mike shrugged his shoulders and returned to his food.

“We all do, but what kind of closure will it be? Prison? Shot by some pissed off solider wanting revenge?” Ruby reiterated points they had all discussed before.

Mary added some brown sauce to her food. “Maybe we should check our stocks and replenish. Especially on the can foods and ammo and stuff.”

Everyone nodded their agreement.

After dinner, Mike went upstairs, to their “Home Look-Out”. He was hoping to see some lights, but knew that they would have no such luck tonight. He lit a small cigar he had in his pockets, and smoked by the open window. He heard a sound behind him, it was Mary. She walked up to Mike, sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder.

Another Ridiculous Tram Script by Seb

He wore a jumper, it was dirty, and non-descript beanie – the kind somebody leaves behind, and he just grabbed it and put it on because it kept his head warm. Not because it looked good, or matched his outfit, or showed all of us who his favourite footy team was. No, simply because it kept him warm.

He was holding a fold up pram. His wife, sitting next to him, held the rest of the pram. She didn’t look as old as him, but she had seen years too. She was pretty in a 50 something motherly way, and she held a Big W bag.

People like this make me so sad. They make me consider my life. My ridiculous hopes and dreams. My ridiculous excesses. They had built a home, and they had raised a family. They were spending the day in the city with their daughter and her 4 year old kid.

My ridiculous values and ridiculous hair. My ridiculous wants and ridiculous needs.

They were watching the passing streets with great earnest, obviously looking for their stop. I took off my headphones, but did not stop the music.

“Where are you guys getting off?” I say.

“Williams Road.” He says. They are both looking at me now.

“Well, that’s my stop, so you guys can follow me.” I make a joke about the jumper I’m wearing. He says he kept an eye out for the Shell service station.

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s a good…orientation point.” He agreed. I used the word “orientation” for the first time since year 10 camp, when it was last relevant.

He went on, nodding his head, “A good landmark.”

The tram stopped, they followed me off. I bid them farewell.

“Good night and good luck.” I turned away and put my ridiculous headphones back on. A ridiculous song continued playing on my ridiculous ipod as I started trudging back to my ridiculous apartment.

Why did I wish them good luck?

Their Voices Rattled My Window Sill - Part 2 by Sebastien de Robilalrd

Part 2

“So, they’re here to find their comrades?”
“Comrades? This isn’t Cuba, Mary.”
“You know what I mean. It’s been a while though?”
“Only about a month. What should we do? Tea anyone?”

Everyone followed Tom into the kitchen. He turned the kettle on and grabbed some milk from the fridge. Mike still complained about the UHT milk, he said it lacked flavour. Tom didn’t mind. It lasts forever right?

“Do you think we should resume the post?” Tom asked when everyone was seated around the kitchen table, hands warmed by the freshly brewed tea.

“Maybe,” said Mike, “Perhaps we should find a new place somewhere near the edge of town, perhaps near the freeway?”

“Yeah, good idea. When?”
Mary piped in, “Lets give it a full day before we all move out. How about somebody man the Tower tomorrow for the day? They can head out while it’s still dark?”

The Tower was a bistro a few kilometres away that contained an excellent, windowed tower. You could see the city pretty clearly from there.

Ruby volunteered. “Two of us should go. Mike?”
“Sure little sister. Leave at 4?”
“Sounds like a plan.”


Ruby and Mike woke up early and headed for the tower. They didn’t drive, or take their bikes. The less noise the better. They could hide better on foot. This did mean a much longer walk to the Tower. It was almost sun up by the time they reached the back entrance. They unlocked the door at the back, ducked in, and then locked the door again. It was important it looked like no one had entered the building. They climbed the stairs to the Tower. It had been several months since they had been there.

“Dusty.”
“Yeah.” They unpacked their gear; One walkie talkie, two binoculars (lenses capped) and a digital SLR with a rather large zoom. They also pulled out pistols from their holsters, and placed them next to the camera and walkie talkie.
“Coffee?”
“Yeah. Be back soon.” Mike climbed back downstairs. Ruby turned the walkie talkie on. At exactly 5 minutes past 7, she pressed down the button. Tom had the other walkie talkie on his bed side table. It hissed briefly. He got up and knocked on Mary’s door.

“Hey, they’re there.”
“Cool.”

Back in the tower, Mike and Ruby were sipping their coffees. Mike was facing south east, Ruby north west. Mike watched a lot of movies, in fact they all did. They knew that they needed to do make sure no sun reflected off any bright objects or mirrors while they were in the tower. The binoculars would only used sparingly. Mike felt he was a bit paranoid, but he was trying to be careful.

“One month? Approximately. That seems like an odd amount of time.”
“I know. You think they would have been eager to get their buddy.”

So, what happened? Why are the gang so secretive? Oh, should I ask, why are they being so careful?

Mike was never the protective older brother. That was not his thing. He would pretend to intrude now and gain, but Ruby had a good head on her shoulders, and he didn’t have to worry about her.

Their Voices Rattled My Window Sill - Part 1 by Sebastien de Robillard

Tom rushed into the lounge. He stood against the door and was breathing heavily. He was almost sweating.

Mike didn’t bother to look up from his book. He was tired of scary shadows and menacing broken lampposts. At this point in his life, even Moby Dick, yes, MOBY DICK was more interesting than the hyperbole that would about doubtlessly burst from Tom’s lips.

“Mi…Mike,” uttered Ruby, “I think he is serious this time. Look at him…” Mike wanted to ignore her, but Ruby’s tone brought back cold memories.

He looked up. Tom was white. Pale.

“Where is Mary?” Mike looked around, as did Ruby. Tom ran down the corridor and checked each bedroom. Mike: the kitchen, the Library. Ruby: Bathroom and upstairs.

“Fuck,” said Mike. “What happened Tom? What did you see?”

“See? I didn’t see anything. I heard. I heard voices. Loud, and clear.”

“Are you sure?” Ruby turned to face the men (She was a woman by the way. Sorry for adding that, it just feels sexiest of something to say “men”, but are “boys”, “guys” or “dicks” any better?)

“What do you mean “voices”?” she asked.

“Like normal voices. Speaking, arguing actually. Like real stuff. Not a recording like last time.”

One of them needed to say what they were all thinking?

“Soldiers…?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, he shook his head too. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Fuck… where the fuck is Mary!? Mike, where was she going?”

“I don’t know,’ he stammered. “Maybe to get a DVD? A book?”

“We need to go…”

“Yes, yes…"

“Arrete!” It was Tom. “We have to wait until it gets dark. And then one of us can go. One only.”

Mike was quite startled by his friend’s tone. Tom was being assertive? Taking leadership? Mike was about to tear Tom to pieces, and even Ruby looked like she was ready to join in, but then immediate issue of a possibly missing Mary returned to the forefront of the worries. Tom’s sudden backbone could be made fun of later. Yes, that is what they would do.

“Mary! Damn!”

“Why don’t we use the walkie talkie?”

“If she heard what I heard, then hopefully it’s turned off?”

Tom was ready to go. He packed a torch and had his walkie talkie turned off.

“I’ll head to the shops, the back way. Hopefully she’ll be heading back…”

Mary opened the door, walked in and locked it behind her. She looked at the startled faces.

“I head voices. But not a recording like last time.”

The collective sigh of relief (Tom, Mike, Ruby) startled Mary. She managed to stammer out, “What’s going o…?” before she had three people hugging her, rather forcefully too.

Mike pushed Tom away.

“Family first,” he said.

How iphones Destroyed the World - Part 10 by Sebastien

She got on the train at Windsor,

Her dress was rather sexy. Just

Above the knees, it buttoned from

Her waist to her white neck.

The second highest button wasn’t closed,

And her white skin flashed

Into view. It was like her breasts were

Too busty for that dress.

Nice.

It was hard for me not to search,

To look for cleavage. She was with

One other girl and two guys.

One of the guys was searching too,

his eyes dropping constantly.

Her eyes, her chest. Her eyes her chest chest.

Can you blame him? She was cute breast,

I mean she was a cute girl.

Eyes eyes smile nod that was funny he said.

I smiled to myself.

Eyes chest smile chest glare breast glare eyes

Glare

Can you blame him?

Oh, she probably owned an iphone,

I can’t remember.

How iphones Destroyed the World - Part 9 by Sebastien

Tim and Petey were friends,

But it wasn’t always so.

I remember when they would

Awkwardly greet each other on the tram:

Polite hello and then headphones back on

And/or the book/magazine re-opened.

Tim always a magazine, Petey an airport novel.

Tim upgraded to an iphone one day,

Discarding the magazine.

It was all games and “apps” now.

One afternoon, Petey had a

heart attack.

On the tram, and who better

To assist him, to save him,

Then his friend Tim.

Tim dialed the ambulance,

But his battery died…

The other passengers offered their iphones,

(okay to do to another member of the cul….)

but these all died too, what with

all the texting and surfing and gaming…

Flat batteries, Hilarious!

Technology imitating life,

Petey’s battery had run out too,

And at the most inopportune time!

Part 22: Old Actors run predicatble hoops

The highlight of the film, was seeing a rather cute girl with two kids tagging along, at the cinema. She was approximately my height, and had these lovely square glasses. Her skinned was a little sunned, adding a lovely glow to her mixed-raced colour. Her black hair was tied back. She was the highlight of the film.

Rec had insisted I accompany her to see Old Dogs (see my review http://stokershorrorblog.blogspot.com) with her mother and mother’s new beau. I tried not to accept, I fought hard to not go, but she used her immense intelligence and bargaining skills to get me to go.

‘I’ll pay and I’ll get you dinner.’

‘Okay.’

Back to the girl. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to do things to her. I pretended to read the posters of the up coming films so I could accidentally bump into her, or one of her kids. Whichever.

‘Sorry’, I fumbled. ‘These new films look ever so exciting, I just wasn’t paying attention.’

She politely smiled, ‘That’s alright,' and looked away.

‘So, I assume you will be sitting through the horribly vacuous Old Dogs, much like me?’ I threw in my most mischievous smile.

She nodded, ‘Yeah. It’s really the only thing appropriate for the kids.’ We both laughed at this. I looked at the kids – both were ugly.

‘These kids yours? I don’t see much of a resemblance?’

She looked down at them, to make sure the resemblance I was referring to was not in fact there. 'That one is my neighbour's, and that one is his best friend. I am being a very nice neighbour so his mum can have some alone time.’

I nodded. I understand. I do understand. Sometimes I read comics on the balcony so Rec can clean without getting in my way.

She looked around, ‘Where are your kids?'

‘My girlfriend is,’ I looked around, and realised that Rec may have been watching this the whole time, ‘is just walking up from the candy bar now, with her parents.’

‘Girlfriend’ Statement, not question. Damn.

Rec arrived, handed me my choc-top and away we went.

‘Were you just hitting on that girl?’ she asked.

‘No, just a friendly chat. We had mutual dislike for the upcoming film.’

‘Right Steve Rogers. Sure.’ Her pace quickened.

We watched the trailers and ads in silence.

How iPhones Destroyed the World – Part 1 by Sebastien de Robillard

It was a bright day, a wonderful day.
Jim went to the store, and pointed.
He took the form, and signed it.
They handed the box over.

He smiled with glee and sat down.
He had to touch it now.
And as he touched, a skater saw.
And he wizzzzzed past, snatching it.

So he ran, after the skater.
He chased, he pushed, he chased, he pusshhed.
The thief coasted further away, fastwe.
And then Jim gave up, he turned back.

He was going back.
Back to where it all started.
He was going to point.
He was going to sign.

He was going to get another one.

On that bright and wonderful day.
Jim finally got a new iphone. Another one.
Oh what a glorious day.

This time he waited until he was home.
To touch the iphone.
He had to be smarter now.
He was smarter now.

This as how iPhones destroyed the world.

Dial 0011, then the nation code…

Not one, but two phone booths. Two phone booths that would allow you to make international calls, at the price of a local call.

Both on the corner of Balaclava and Stewart. So, you ask? This is a rather strange bit of news don’t you think?

An old man I know mentioned this to me in passing a few months ago -he worked in the area during the early Eighties. He said the broken phone booths were a Godsend. I took no notice of him until one evening, when I saw the light. The light was accompanied by beer and vokda, and was warm and fuzzy. I was drunk, and there I was, on the corner of Balaclava Road and Steward street, in front of an old petrol station. There were two square pieces of concrete just in front of me. Why would there be two 70 cm by 70 cm concrete rectangles in front of a petrol station?

But then the old man’s story came back to me. And I started to snoop around.

The following morning, I began knocking on doors. I was looking for some older residents, people that would have been around in the early Eighties and may have remembered such an oddity. I got a lot of strange looks. People were annoyed that I was selling something on a Sunday morning. When I mentioned I was a writer, I received even stranger looks.

One dear old lady ushered her daughter to the door. Mira was ‘about 27’. She had a gorgeous Eastern European face that she tried to hide behind her long, light brown fringe. Mira listened while I surmised what little I had to go on.

‘That does sound familiar,’ she nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I think my mum mentioned it to me, years ago though. Do you want to come in, for a coffee?’ I followed her in and had the most delicious coffee of my life.

The three of us sat down, and Mira jogged her mum’s memory. Her mother arrived in Australia as a refugee in 1982, from the former Czechoslovakia. Her father shared the same passage, and it was not long before one thing led to another… The young, pregnant couple somehow settled in Balaclava, and began building a home in a rather run down old house. Mira’s mother recalled the first time she heard of the phone, and decided see if the rumours were true.

‘Mamma woke up really early one morning. She had a beanie on and wrapped a blanket around her…’ Mira was translating to me. ‘She said it was cold, but nothing like Czechoslovakia. She put the money in, and dialled her mamma.’ Mira’s mother’s voice softened at this point, and tears rolled down her eyes.

Mira looked at me. ‘It was the first time in years that she had heard her mother’s voice. I never knew that story.’ Mira embraced her mother.

I left soon after this, but obtained Mira’s details should I have any further questions related to her mother’s story. I also gave her my details should she need to call me if her mother remembered anything about the phone booths.

‘Anything at all,’ I said, ‘Call me.’ I touched her hand gently and left.

I googled. Oh how I googled. The address, “phone booths”, “free calls”. Nothing. I was about to give up when Mira called me. She called me! Her mother had given her the names of old neighbours that may remember more about the phone booths. Mira agreed to come with me. She was excited by all of this. I felt like Amelie searching for the owner of the little child’s box. But, you know, not a girl.

Stenio Adelaide immigrated to our fair country in 1978. He moved around for years – living in hostels, relatives homes and shared accommodation. It was while living with one Indian man, a Chinese boy and a “crazy guy form Malta,” that he first used the phone.

‘I would call home. Like everyone else see? Whiskey mon noir?’ I nodded politely, remember the Mauritian tradition. He offered some to Mira who also accepted. ‘Do you and your girlfriend want to make call as well?’ He laughed at his own joke, and stroked his moustache. Neither of us corrected him, but I looked at Mira. The kind of look that suggest dinner and wine and then back to my house. I wasn’t feeling hungry though, I have never really liked wine.

‘I remember,’ he said, after another sip of whiskey, ‘That when I told my mum I was marrying. That where I heard my cousin’s marriages and their kids. For two years I used that phone. It was almost free. I used to call my best friend, Gaetan, le gogot, whenever I was drunk. It was always late in the night here, and a good time back home. He was the one who told me about my mum dying. Run over in Curepipe by some drunken idiot. I stopped drinking for years after that.’

‘What happened after this? Did Telstra ever catch on?’

Stenio laughed at this. ‘It was Telecom back then mon noir. And sure, they knew, but they couldn’t fix. You would see a repair van, you know, time to time, and the phones wouldn’t work for a week or two, but then the you would see people lining, lots and lots, and you knew that the across the calls home were free again. We thought it was magic to be honest. It was too good to be true. And every time the bastards try to fix, it work again after.’

We left Stenio Adelaide and walked towards Carlisle Street. I wanted to suggest dinner and wine, and then to suggest skipping it for me place.

Mira lit a cigarette. She looked pensive. ‘I guess if you knew nothing else, and had nothing else, it would have seemed like magic.’

I agreed. ‘A magic way to find out your mum is dead.’ Bad joke. Bad timing. Really bad timing.

Mira stopped and glared at me. ‘You can’t understand what it must have been like for them. My mum never, I mean never talks about her life before she came to Australia. The memories are too painful I think. Ever. I didn’t know I had a grandmother until we visited the Czech Republic in 1997. A whole family over there. I knew nothing. I saw pictures of my mother as a child, he dead brother…’ Mira started walking again.

‘Mira, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I won’t lie though, I don’t get it. Everything and everyone near and dear to me is here and in Japan. I don’t get it…’

‘It’s difficult to appreciate, even for me,’ she said, brushing s wayward strand behind her ear. ‘I remember wondering why my mum would be so sad on her birthday. Every year, we would try so hard to cheer her up; me, Milan, Dad. Every year, the same thing. She would sit quietly in her room. And it wasn’t until that trip that I realise why. We never understand why she was so sad.’

‘They were twins weren’t they?’ Mira began to tear up.

‘We have it pretty good here. No need to run away on a boat. No need to leave almost everything for the idea of a better life.’ I put my arms around her and she hugged me back. The cigarette had been flicked away.

I think I’ll go get that bottle of wine.

The Diet by Luke James

It was the continuation of the diet she had been on for four months now. Every time he looked across the office she was there- snacking on something new, green and tasteless.

“I've put on a kilo! I’ve put ON a kilo! After four months of this”, she yelled.

“Jeez, don’t worry too much. I would kill to gain a kilo”, Loic said.

“Yeah, right. I really appreciate your comments”, she retorted and sat back down.

Something was different about Nat today. Things had been changing lately. Something was taking place in her life. It was something that hadn’t really happened before, and it was a long time coming. She was doing that thing- getting her life in order- or something. Her approach had been all wrong, and her self-perception misguided, and now- NOW- things were starting to look up.

Nat was having a lot more fun in a lot more ways. And a lot of fun in one particular way with a certain someone. A certain someone called Michael, an Irish boy she had met some time ago. And this certain someone seemed to be QUITE enjoying Nat’s new methods in the ways of fun.

But I digress.

Something was different about Nat today. Things had indeed been looking up, and to pepper this statement with a healthy IT manager-sized dose of logic, things still definitely were looking up when compared to the dark old days of only months before. But today something was not right with her.

Nat glanced at her phone for the fourth time since printing out a picture of Billie Holliday only 15 minutes earlier.

Still no response.

“How can I be back here again? After everything that’s happened, I’m reduced to looking at my phone every time the light reflects off it, thinking he’s texted. Pathetic”.

Nat was bothered. She had done something bad. She didn’t mean to do it, but the end result was that she had seen Michael turn away and slam the door to his car as he backed out of the driveway, and this bothered her very much.

"He just wants me to be honest. Pooh pooh. I've spent my whole life not being honest about my feelings, least of all to the people I care about, and NOW I have to know every emotion I feel about something the second it happens. Well it's not that easy! Maybe he should try some fucking understanding". Nat was very committed to her sotto voce muttering, having been classically trained as an alto.

She pulled out a celery stick, and as the bitterness stained her tongue, she tried to be honest to herself as a sort of exercise. To do so, she minimised the Wikipedia page opened to the entry on Hieronymus Bosch and opened Notepad.

“Hmmmmm. OK”. And she began to type.

1- I hurt Michael
2- I didn't mean to hurt him, but that probably doesn't matter
3- I want him to call me back
4- I want him to call me back so I can explain
5- I want him to call me back so I can tell him I love him
6- I want to tell him I'm a silly bitch who sometimes does awful things and that that's not likely to change
7- I want him to know why I said what I said
8- I want him to smile at me again
9- I want him between my legs again
10- I will never be perfect and I want to love me for who I am- stupid Nat with a chubby arse

“That last one doesn’t really seem to fit”, she thought out loud, puzzled.

“Meh”.

My Name is Blue Van Meer: Diary Entry 2009 85 by Aylma Pessl

You may recall that my only previous romantic liaisons had been with the burly, meat-headed, turn-coat Milton. Our brief, yet passionate (at least on my side, he was more like the un-interested prom date (see poor, simple and happy Zach) kiss was my longest foray into the oral cavity. I remember it well, my tongue slipping and sliding around like a dying snake, muscles contorting violently as it’s life faded away. Left and then up; and I could taste his filling. In hindsight, it was the hallmark of the amateur, of the first timer.

And it was wonderful.

I wanted my first kiss with Rudy to be better. Less sliping and slidin, more controlled, slipping and sliding.

Rudy was in my South American “politics” class (Insurgency and Iconic Photography: L’amerique du sud [Sorry Dad, I never bothered to ask why the class title was in French]). We were not exactly chatting lately, but we acknowledged each other. The knowing look, “I know you and you know me and I wish you would speak to me because I don’t think I have the courage to make the first move” (see Chapter 13 in Building Long Lasting Relationships by Tez MacNamara, 2004). But it was time for some action. It was time to think, to be inspired. It was time for my Vince Lomabardi moment.

I decided to go for the “I’m in a hurry, intelligent women wearing spectacles who left her pen at home” technique. Flawless.

I saw my prey coming down the corridor. He was dressed a little differently than his normal vogue. Today he wore an un-tucked(!!) black, short sleaved shirt and neat pants combination. I was hovering behind a door when I saw him duck into class. I locked in and moved after him.

Floating a short distance beyond him, I almost had to shove a rather pink looking Clare Ridgedale out of the way as I sat next to him. We greeted each other. I felt a little breathless but managed to suppress it to engage in this tantalizing back and forth.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Mesmorizing, I know.

I began searching for my “missing” pen (see Mating Rituals of the Extinct Pareabolis Dictus – A bird for All occasions by Dr. Stephan Finine, 1923. Pay particular attention to the Chapter 2, 6 and the last section of Chapter 9). I unzipped this and slapped that, and made the most racket I could muster. He paid attention; I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, just when things started to get rather “lairy” (see I Predict a Riot, Kaiser Chiefs), he offered his pen to me.

“Thanks.”

Another witty, intelligent offering from Blue Van Meer.

We sat in silence for the remainder of the class. Our hour ended, and off we both headed, towards the only exit. He hesitated for a moment, and turned to face me. Before he could utter a sound, I thanked him for his pen.

‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. I wanted to tell him that it was just about the worse Biro I had ever had the pleasure of using, and that I would probably have to swing past the Department of Extinct Languages in order to translate the scratches in my note-book. I wanted to say that there was no place for a green Biro in college. I wanted to tell him that he was a little too thin. I wanted to tell him he was cute. So cute.

But I handed it over and mentioned that next time, he could borrow my pen.

‘Sorry…?’

My cheeks flushed red at this point - they are red right now, scrawling furiously this tale of the time Rudy asked me out – I tried to think of something amazingly funny and witty to cover the rather odd offering.

‘Ah, I was referring to a letter that Bryon wrote to Mary Shelley before she wasted the entire world’s time writing that horrid book of her’s, Frankenstein. He was responding to her difficulty in putting an idea down on paper and he suggested she look to the classics and take something from them.’

‘Blue, I am a little confused by what the point you are evidently trying to make...’ – Okay, he didn’t actually say this, but if he had I would probably have jumped him there and then.

‘Well, Bryon suggested she borrow from the classics and that she could “borrow” a “quill” from him.’

Rudy listened patiently to my elaborate fabrication. And politely.

‘I see… Blue, would you like to get a coffee or something?’

I cancelled my appointment at the Department of Extinct Languages.

A fall from that height will only break your ankles… by Sebastien de Robillard

A fall from that height will only break your ankles…

Josh was on the brink of something bad. Something horrible. The night had not worked out as well as he wished, and he was looking for comfort. And not necessarily in the wrong places. In fact, the night had turned out rather well, but that didn’t seem to matter.

He had put together the evening a few months earlier, organising the bands to play. The budget for advertising was larger than usual, and he and a friend had splashed posters near and around The Fernace a few weeks prior to the event. Josh was hoping a few hundred might turn up, but would settle an even hundred.

The night had proceeded along splendidly. The rain had cleared, and the hundred or so turned up, and everyone was in good spirits. The bands played loud and were energetic, but Josh just stood still. Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone but Josh of course. Standing near the bar, he checked his watch again. He seemed to be checking it constantly he thought. Why? I have no where to go. He looked again. 9:23 PM it read. He moved away from the bar and walked round the back, to the restricted area. Up the stairs he marched towards the roof. He unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.

The night was chilly, and Josh appreciated this. He enjoyed the slight sting on his bare arms. It looked like it was going to rain. He lit a cigarette and cupped his beer tighter. Josh did not understand why he felt like he felt. Why the melancholy was consuming his body and time so much lately?

His pocket vibrated. A text from his girlfriend. Sarah was on her way, and should be there in approximately 5 minutes, it read. She wrote out ‘approximately’. Josh shook his head.

He had fluffed through the afternoon, yelling and cussing as was his regular habit. He had been excited about the show he said. He couldn’t wait for tonight he said. He can remember lying. Liar after liar after liar.

He stood on the edge of the roof. It was only one story high. It wouldn’t kill him. It would be painful, and more annoying than anything else, but it would not kill him.

His phone vibrated again. A call this time.

“Hey Josh.”
“Hey Sarah.”
“What’s wrong babe?”
“Nothing Sarah.”
“Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
“Well come down for a smoke.”
“Be there in a sec.”

And then he jumped.

Falls Festival by Atticus.

Stand in the crowd. Wait in anticipation for the band you've all come to see. Friends shift restlessly. Breath fogs in front of your faces. The sound checks are lost amongst the chatter, disappear between the giggles. Expectations build; the crowd lifts and swells as one.

Stop.

Pause for a moment.

Imagine the heartbeats that surround you. The rhythym that throbs and pulses and underlies your very existence here, in this moment. All other senses fade as the sound sharpens. It fills your ears and prods the edges of your skull. Thousands of hearts, all beating, all around. Including your own. You take a breath.

The band begins.

My Name is Blue Van Meer - Diary Entry 2009 83.2 by Aylma Pessl

My face is tingling with tingl-ation and brightness. My cheeks burn red, and my bellow swooshies up and down and my… well, I fell great everywhere. Is this what acid feels like dear Sebastien? A great, wonderful tingl-ation and brightness?

I wanted to scream and scream some more.

Wait, and stop dear Blue. I don’t know how to properly express myself in this situation. A truly, magnificent…thing to be honest. For an example please…oh my god. I cannot find a suitable reference to express my current state of joy.

Oh my I am flushed.

Stoker's Horror Blog by Steven Rogers - Part 18: Where ARE the Wild Things?

Rec and I went to see the new Spike Jonze film, the much anticipated Where the Wild Things Are. Overall, I must say I enjoyed the film, but for a full review, check out my blog.

The cinema was rather empty, except for a few single men. They all looked like they were clutching their safety blankets, or pictures of their mum. They all stayed and watch the entire closing credits, as I did, and as we walked out – Rec, me and a few single, lonely men – at least one commented on the brilliance of the film to no one in particular. I looked back at him, and nodded, hoping to perhaps start a conversation (I figured it could be good for my review to see what unemployed men thought) but he could only repeat the comment and turn away from me. His eyes looked red.

I looked at Rec and rolled my eyes. She didn’t notice, as usual, and we sauntered outside where we ran into Matt. Good, old fucking Matt. He was recently broken up again. Again. And he needed some counselling.

We sat down together – some place that served Lavazza Coffee (gross, sick, puke) and he started going on about his ex and their relationship and God knows what else. I tuned out. My coffee came and I drank that bastard down.

‘She was never there for me, not like you Rec. You too Steve. Always off…’ I turned away. Rec looked at him – bleeding heart – and put her hands on his. He reciprocated. I butted in; he was always hitting on Rec.

‘In my opinion Matt, she wasn’t worth much anyway. You only dated her for a month or so...’

‘…it was four actually.’

‘Yeah, okay, whatever. Anyway, she didn’t mean anything so, you need to just get the fuck over it.’

‘Matt, just ignore him,’ Rec said. She glared at me. I got up,

‘I need to make a quick call, I will be back in a jiffy.’ As I walked away, Matt asked the following question to my lovely Rec,

‘Is he still persisting with that horrible film review blog?’

I went to Borders and lamented the poorly organised comic book section, and so much Manga. Poor, so poor. I procrastinated there for as long as I could, and then found them again at the café, both looking rather light-hearted, as if they had been laughing. Laughing a lot.

‘…and you should have read his review about There Will Be Blood,’ Rec burst out laughing. They seemed to be rather jolly.

‘That film was brilliant,’ Matt said.

‘I know, but Steve… you know Steve. Oh hello there Steve.’ She looked at me, and then returned to Matt, ‘He tore it apart. Well, he tried to tear it apart. He could only do so as much as he could understand the film. The review was terrible.’ Matt burst out laughing and touched Rec (probably for the umpteenth time).

‘Listen,’ I said sitting down, ‘It was a well made film, sure, but it was boring as hell. Why was it so slow, and what was with the performance of Day-Lewis? So ridiculous…’

Matt counted, ‘How can you say that Steve? It was amazing. One of the best films I have ever seen. So masterful, and brilliant. Daniel Day-Lewis was amazing in that role, and how he missed out on the Oscar…’

‘..Oh Oscars, why is everything measured by Oscars.’

‘Thank you Steve, for interrupting. It was a superbly made film, so reminiscent of Kubrick. The score as well, was breathtaking in its ability to add to the story telling…’

‘I hate it when you see that guy,’ I later said to Rec. She was brushing her teeth at the time. ‘Not only is he a loser – he can’t stay in a relationship for more than 6 minutes – he is constantly hitting on you. He touches you, and the way he looks at you… I fucking hate it.’ Rec glared at me, and washed her mouth out. As she walked out of the bathroom, she said, ‘Steve, I hate it when you talk to me when I’m brushing my teeth.’ She went into our room, and slid into bed.

‘Do you not agree though? He has a thing for you?’ She kept ignoring my comments, making herself comfortable. She grabbed her book. I took my shirt off.

‘He’s a nice guy Steve, he has trouble with women,’ she then looked at me mischievously, ‘and can you blame him for liking me?’ Rec was trying to make light of the situation, but I wasn’t hanging around for that.

‘Yes. I can. There are millions of women out there. You’re mine. He can go like someone else.’

‘Are we a little jealous there?’

‘Well, yes, I am jealous. I am… I’m… he is a good looking man, in pain, women love that shit. Their hearts melt and they explode in cum everywhere.’

She looked at me in disgust, ‘Steve, you are a fucking animal sometimes.’

‘My point is, women love that sad dog shit. They love it. They want to take the man into their arms and let cry a little and then fuck him!’ I was starting to sweat.

‘You have no idea what women want. Steve, this argument is as flawed as your review of District 9…’

‘…Why do you have to bring that up?’ I yelled.

I stood there, exasperated. Rec put her book down and decided to do what she had to do.

‘Shut up you idiot and listen to me! You have no idea what you are arguing for, or against. You think you’re ideas, or better yet, prejudices are the truth, are fucking gospel. You assume the world is ordered into the Right, Wrong and Fucking-Steve-Says-So. It doesn’t work that way.’

She ripped the blanket off and lept out of bed.

‘Yes, men with feelings are attractive, but so are burly men and men’s men and areshole men and ugly men and hot men and tall men and short men…’

‘..NOT short men!’

‘ … ALL types of men. Even a man like you –with the assistance of a great deal of alcohol, drugs and severe, extreme loneliness on my behalf - can be considered attractive.’

Ouch.

CountDown by Kate Barnaby

10.

They stand on a balcony, in a Melbourne apartment, waiting with party blowers, poppers and sparklers. Both think about the year gone past, and the events that had taken place between them. So much said and done, so much left to say and do, both too shy to admit it.

9.

Their hands move closer together on the rails of the balcony. The night a few months earlier - it had started off with a major make-out session and ended with a food fight on Elizabeth Street - flashes back into their minds. She smiles at the memory, he scoffs out loud, “Remember when I got sausage roll in your hair?!”

8.

They were as close as brother and sister. And initially, that was their relationship. In the past few months, she had realised that she was falling for him, and wanted nothing more than to start a new year with him. He, who had been there for her. He, who she had scorned unintentionally, before his feelings were known to her. He stands there and accidentally blows his party blower while breathing out, and she laughs at the boyish grin that followed.

7.

He had loved her since the very beginning. Well, almost. He’d never been able to speak so freely to someone in such a short amount of time, but she fell for someone else. He was always there for her though. Their last kiss was at Christmas. She was drunk and upset and he was angry. He helped her into a cab, and they kissed again. He needed time. She would wait for him.

6.

They were no longer angry when she came back from her Christmas holiday. It was so easy to slip back into the comfortable friendship they had before the fight. Now there was this new vigour between them, they sat closer together, held hands or hugged or brushed against each other more often, and were making plans to go to the movies, to hang out and get stoned, and to, subconsciously, just be together. Although too embarrassed to be the first to say it out loud, they are happy.

5.

Others come out onto the balcony with champagne corks ready to fly, stumbling from the pre-countdown consumptions. She is pushed into him. “Shit!” he cries, “you jumped on my foot!” Silly, clumsy girl was always doing things like this by accident. A nice girl, not at all classy, but proud of that fact. She puts out her cigarette and hugs him to apologise. He kissed the top of her head in forgiveness, and rests his chin on the top of her head for a moment.

4.

He moves away from her but doesn’t let go of her hand. They stand subtly, secretly, holding hands on the balcony. Images run through their minds, past events and the wants of the future. They were laughing, play fighting, making love, making out, making nachos while drunk. They can feel what they think is just nervousness, drunkenness, but its more than likely an energy, a spark between them. He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.

3.

It’s getting louder, more enthusiastic on the balcony. They both know now what they want, what is the natural progression of their lives. This is it, them, together, for now. He swallows a lump down his throat, and she quickly licks her lips to moisten them. They turn to look at each other, seconds dwindling down to a new year, a new decade.

2.

They stare at each other for no longer than an instant, but there is so much more there. A new year, a new love, a resolution of amazing existences for both of them. It’s about time, she thinks. He pulls her close, and in the dying seconds of the year, he smiles, and kisses her.

1.