A Tree house for Shelby (Scene Extract)

 

Three days of constant stinging rain, howling, battering winds, bending trees and flying palm leaves; followed by four days of scorching heat and repetitive despair. The drinking water was gone, the well had collapsed and started to expel a putrid odour. Dylan didn't have the energy to dig another hole or fish in the choppy sea. It all seemed hopeless as he watched the fire slowly die. He tuned Shelby’s constant moaning out.

He was sick of the astringent tang of purple crabs and the redolent scent of the fire smothering their ragged clothes. The fresh clean air heightening his senses into a microsmatic level of smelling ability. Petrichor, the earths sent before the rain, filled the air. “Not again when is it going to stop”. He could swear the wind, as it whistled in from the sea and across the beach, carried with it the smell of putrescine from the decomposing bodies he had buried.

Deflated, Dylan stood up slow and jerked as if the life had been kicked out of him, he had enough energy to push down on his knees with his hands and slouched towards the sea in a simulated drunken stupor. He flopped into the water weightless, laid on his back and marvelled at the bright stars, relaxed now, almost as if he was at peace with himself as he floated further out. Shelby screamed out after him. He continued and focused on the beautiful bright starry sky.

Only the briny air filled his nostrils now helping him to clear his head. Shelby's screaming faded out and he found himself at a deeper tranquillity of mind sinking benefit the salty water. Thoughts of his mum and how she used to be constantly criticising, moaning and judging. His father would say that even though your mother seems a little crazy and nasty at times when she was being nice it was the best thing in the world and without her, he would have been nothing. He never understood the last part of his father’s recurring statement. Maybe it all meant that a woman could be a sail or an anchor.

A bubble of air with the word Shelby trapped inside released from Dylan’s open mouth. Snatching at the water, he moved his arms to swim to the surface. His instinct for survival had kicked in. The will to live suddenly became stronger, as something he thought about woke him up. Weak, he struggled to muster the strength. Reaching the surface, he sucked in salt water and through his eyes the world faded to black.

 His body washed up on shore again he was barely alive. Desperately, she pounded on his chest and blew air into his lungs until he spat out sea water and sucked in air – a gargled mixture of both. Face creased with anger, she delivered a round of punches to his chest and one to the jaw shouting, “you selfish bastard you leave me here on my own to die a slow, miserable, death eaten by turtles.” Scowling, Shelby fell back into the wet sand and held her hand over her mouth to muffle her nervous laugh at the turtle comment.

 

Extract from Spoils of the Moon - Mark Shearman

1970 Adelaide Australia

South Australia natural history museum was home to the world's largest collection of Australian aboriginal cultural material, with thousands of artefacts on display. Founded in 1856, it occupied an impressive complex of buildings on North Terrace in the cultural precinct of the Adelaide parklands and across from Government house.

Monday morning, relatively quiet business as usual on the inside. Outside, a few blocks away, the angry shouts of protesters could be heard from groups of Aborigines expostulating over recognised Aboriginal land rights.

Voices echoed through the marble halls as people shuffled in through the main doors. A group of tourists hustled behind a blue-suited tour guide. She wore a pale blue hat over her tied back red hair, and a silk scarf worn as a cravat. Looking more like an air stewardess, she hurried to usher people on with her fast talk and brisk walking. She stopped in mid spiel and glanced up. Through a stained-glass window, the sun blasted beams of multi-coloured sunlight. The air suddenly thinned, now absent of her banter, it was stone-cold quiet.

In and out of the sunbeams, a bird swooped and squawked, clearly stressed. The tour guide focused, winced, and changed her plummy English, "What the fuck," she shouted, "it's a magpie," followed by various high-decibel screams. The redhead dived to the floor with the skill and reservation of a rugby player, her heavy breasts cushioned the impact. People scattered with hysterical shouts. Two more aggravated magpies swooped down, menacing the terrified patrons as they cowered down and sprawled on the shiny floor. And then...

Smoke canisters spun, hissed, and choked the marbled hall as the red haze cleared–

Three fierce, flat-nosed Aboriginal men with lusty violence in their clouded eyes, stood rigid. Dot painted brown overalls, wild hair, red head scarves, and dark-brown faces, stencilled with white crescent moons. They towered over a twitching security guard slumped on the floor. His head wound seeped crimson blood, still holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich.

A strapping, lumber of a man rubbed his grey patchy beard, slowly eyeing the room exuding the air of a tribal leader. He wheeled a bulbous nulla nulla weapon, a decorated, thick wooden baton with a bulbous end. It spoke a unique dialogue as he spun it around in some ritualistic movements.

More people scattered and dove for the floor– sheer panic – hell – what are they capable of next?

 

A poem about ageing - Mark Shearman

 

A Recent Encounter

 

“You need to look where you’re going mate.”  

“You what?”  

“Deaf as well,” said the football hooligan.   

“Who you calling deaf?”  

“What?” 

“Funny bastard,” said the vicar. 

“Are vicars supposed to act like arseholes – apologise,” said the football hooligan.  

“Do you know how much of a fucking cliché you look right now. Go home, drink your Stella and beat your wife,” said the vicar.   

A traffic warden comes within ear shot followed by a policeman who hears raised voices. 

“Is there problem here?” 

“Fuck’s it got to do you with you Plod?” said the vicar.  

“I beg your pardon are you mad?” said the policeman.  

“Mad! I’m fuming mate, this arse clown bumped into me and made me spill my whiskey.” 

“Whiskey, they have whiskey,” said the policeman. 

“Don’t get excited it’s a single malt. I’d try the bourbon,” said the vicar.  

“I’m from Scotland I’ll stick with the malt,” said the policeman. 

“Hellooo, I’m still waiting for my apology,” said the football hooligan. 

Elvis swans into the, now most interesting, circle with Marilyn Monroe on his arm.  

“What we missed?”  

“Apparently, there’s some deaf, wife beating clown from Scotland moaning about the bourbon,” said the traffic warden.  

“I’d like to remind everyone,” said Cinderella, “this is meant to be a charity do.”