Category: Issue #5

 When at long last, the boy arrived home, breathless and full of fear, he heard the unmistakable sound of people screaming. Men, women and children ran in all directions like ants in a panic. The entire neighbourhood was ablaze, ferocious fires consuming the walls and foundations of every house.

Some remained undestroyed by the fires. The boy arrived just in time to see his house crushed by a creature of gargantuan proportions. His face already hurt from crying, but seeing the monsters obliterate his home made him moan all the louder. Only he could hear his sobs above the surrounding calamity.

‘Why…?’ He moaned. ‘Why?!’

But the boy already knew. In fact, he was the only one who knew why their homes were being demolished.

* * *

Mister Gumboot’s gumboots went missing. Not that anybody cared initially, but soon enough the whole neighbourhood would lose something of theirs. Missus Apple would lose her apple, young Mister Quilt would lose his quilt and Bob would lose his cat.

In one of the neighbourhood homes lived a boy. He was a little thing, though not too little. But for a boy of six, his mind was amazingly, spontaneously bright, and curiosity always took advantage of him. Nobody bothered to tell him about the suburban thief, except for the local newspaper.

The boy hoped that his neighbours would be reunited with their beloved items or even better, the thief would see the error of his ways and give everything back. A week after the Mister Gumboot incident, the boy overslept on the weekend. Before he could oversleep some more, he heard a crash outside his bedroom door.

He leapt from his bed and flung the door open. In the bathroom that stood across his room, he glimpsed the sight of broken ceramic powdering the floor. When the boy burst into the area, he noticed what was missing.

He loved to read The Rainbow Fish. He loved the book so much that last year his mother redecorated the bathroom according to the theme of the book. Every second tile on the wall was glazed with a picture of the famous fish. Now every painted tile was gone, ripped from the walls.

But when he took a closer look, he saw that in each empty square, there was a seed. Some stayed in their shells, others sprouted the tiniest of saplings.

The next day, John the Fireman lost his fireman outfit, but he became the first and only person to catch a glimpse of the thief. He ran out to his lawn, quaking in fear and calling for help. By the time the police arrived, the only word he could utter was ‘tree’. All the passer-bys looked at one another, trying to decipher his whisperings. ‘Tree, tree, tree…’ The boy was there too that day, questioning the man’s mutterings.

The morning after, the boy decided, ‘I will go and catch the thief. Whatever it takes.’ With that, he stuffed his backpack with food, water, a map and a box of matches. At the last minute, he decided to wheel his mini wagon along.

He began his journey on the even side of the street, past house numbers twelve, ten, eight, and so on until he skipped out of his street. Adjacent to this street, there stretched Yellow Brick Road. For a moment, the boy thought this was far from a good idea. He did not know whether to follow the road north or follow the road south. To his left or to his right. At the same time, he tried to figure out what ‘tree’ could mean.

Tree… tree… Nothing else came to his mind. Oh, well. I’ll get to that later. For now, I need to find the thief.

‘But, which way would the thief go?’ Unexpectedly, he found the answer to his left.

Miss Pocketsocks owned seven pairs of pink pocket-sized socks, one pair of which showed off bright green spots. The boy stepped to the stormwater drain on his left. He bent down to observe the lone pink-green sock barely clinging onto the grid. Maybe she just dropped it here, he thought. But Miss Pocketsocks was a driver, not a walker. And she never drove on Yellow Brick Road.

So, he decided to head north.

He walked along the flat road, his wagon gently wheeling behind him. After half a mile, the road ended and he entered the Hungry Caterpillar Marsh. He trudged around the muddy area, making sure he missed the puddles that tried to drench his boots wet.

Squish, squash, squish, squash! For some reason, the sound of squelching mud made him sick. Every now and again, he overlooked some of the holes and ended up thigh-deep in water. He then decided he hated marshes.

As he trekked deeper into the marsh, he found himself in grass that stood an inch or two taller than him. He had never walked through a place so thick and herbaceous. In fact, he had never ventured this far from the Yellow Brick Road. He began to itch all over; the grass tickled him as he walked past and the bugs and grubs ambushed his arms and legs. Mosquitos buzzed past his ears, tricking him into slapping himself. When he pushed at the grass, it merely flung itself back at him. The boy could not see more than a metre ahead.

After twenty minutes of trudging and squelching, the grass maze ended. The boy pulled apart the last strands of grass and peered at the view before him. The land rose on a slope, leading to a meadow rich with golden flowers. He pulled himself onto the grass, glad to be rid of the sludge. After wiping his boots on the grass, he decided to be rid of them and his socks too.

‘There we go,’ the boy sang as he stuck his boots and socks onto his wagon. When he looked up again, he noticed a forest in the blurry distance. He squinted, as if it would somehow magnify the view. ‘Trees…’ he murmured. ‘Tree… tree…’

He searched his brain for an answer, but it was futile. Every time he came close to a great discovery, his mind would redirect and send him further away from a resolution. What would a thief have to do with trees? The witness had been quaking uncontrollably after the robbery. What else could have made him so terrified? The boy dragged his bare feet towards the forest, putting all conflicting thoughts aside.

On the third step, his foot hit a snag and he smashed his face against the grass.

‘Oww…’ the boy moaned, his face still buried in the dirt. ‘What was that…?’ He pushed himself up and turned to the cause of his fall.

He gasped. ‘My Rainbow Fish tile!’

Indeed, one of his tiles lay in the middle of the meadow. The boy picked it up and inspected it, using his fingers to trace around the fish’s outline. Dirt had gathered on its top, but with a flick of his hand it was easily cleared away.

‘Then, that means…’

The thief was hiding in the forest; the boy could smell it. He put the tile in the cushiony front compartment of his backpack and zipped it in a quick fury. Without another thought, the boy bolted to the edge of the forest, still pulling his wagon with him.

As soon as he reached the first bunch of trees, he saw it. Mister Gumboot’s gumboots were strewn across lines of roots. The boy picked up the pair and threw them onto the wagon. He delved deeper and deeper into the woods, recognising more of his neighbours’ items along the way. Missus Apple’s apple lay abandoned upon a bundle of sticks and Mister Quilt’s quilt was found not too far away. Those two things joined Mister Gumboot’s gumboots on the back of the wagon.

‘And now to find Bob’s cat,’ the boy declared. And the rest of the neighbours’ belongings.

The roots grew thicker at his feet as the boy tried to drag the wagon with him. When he failed to shift around an impossibly fat tree, it was decided that the wagon should be discarded if he was to traverse any further.

As he climbed over the heightening roots and treacherous terrain, he munched on a packet of sunflower seeds from his backpack. The treetops blocked out the source of natural light but the boy knew it would be sunset soon. Once he finished off the last of the seeds, he tucked the plastic package into his pocket.

Not long after his snack, he climbed to the top of the tallest set of roots he had ever climbed and beheld a bewildering sight. Lying before him was a vast ditch filled with stolen items. Only a small percentage of the collection belonged to his neighbourhood. He deduced that the thief had targeted not just the suburb, but the whole shire.

‘Whoa…’ he could not help but gasp. ‘This is just like The Hobbit.’

Excitedly, he ran down and jumped onto the piles of people’s belongings. He felt like Bilbo in the midst of the dragon’s treasure. There were new things, old things and things that could not be easily categorised. There were a selection of toys, furniture, books, clothes and kitchen utensils that looked older than time itself. Nonetheless, the boy knew that this was the loot.

‘But, wait…’ the boy suddenly said. ‘If the treasure is here, that means the thief is under…’

Something burst beneath his feet, sending the boy flying. He hit a hill of furniture and tumbled further into the ditch. He screamed until he landed flat on his backpack, letting out an oof! When he came to, he turned to find a fat, long root rising from the loot. Then another emerged from the piles. More roots erupted from everywhere, plaguing the forest with an ear-bursting roar.

The boy spun onto all fours and made for the nearest slope. He climbed and clambered up a hill of toys, only to fall back as more items sank and dragged him down. His bottom hit the ground and looked up to see a monstrous figure leaning over him. It had gigantic roots, extended branches and a face so angry that the boy could not bring himself to scream.

The creature stomped towards the boy and distorted the thing that looked like its mouth.

‘ROOOAAARR!’

The boy shielded his ears and began to whimper in terror.

 ‘I… AM… THE TAKING TREE! WHO DARES TO DISTURB MY DOMINION?!’

When the echoes faded and all was quiet, the boy cleared his throat and thought of what to say.

‘I’m…’ he stammered. ‘I’m just a boy, here to get my neighbour’s stuff back.’

‘Oh?’ The tree croaked. ‘So, you think you can just walk in here and take my belongings?’

‘B-b- but, they don’t belong to you! They belong to my neighbours!’

The tree’s eyes sprouted with vicious madness. ‘Of course, you would say that! You humans are nothing but inherently cruel. But you never heard the trees complaining when you cut us down!’

The boy paused. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You cut us down, steal us and turn us into whatever useless contraption you humans can think of, as if you own us!’

The boy shook his head. ‘No…’ he tried. ‘No, we don’t!’

‘Oh, really? Have you heard of a thing called paper? What about wooden furniture? Look at the pile, boy, you even have toys made from trees!’ Sure enough, there were marionettes lying around like corpses. ‘And we must not forget that you steal our fruits and dispose of the seeds! Well, not anymore… I have planted a seed into each of your homes and we will rise up and take everything back!’

‘No! No, please! Don’t do this!’

The tree raised its face. The boy thought it would roar again, but instead a high-pitched squeal came from its lungs. Birds scattered from nearby trees and the stolen items shifted with the unexpected vibration. When the tree finished, the silence returned.

‘What did you do?’ the boy asked warily.

‘I have called upon my seeds to burst forth from their shells and take over your neighbourhood!’

‘No! Call them off! Please, I haven’t done anything wrong!’

‘Even if that were true, perhaps this will teach your kind a lesson for committing crimes against the Plantae kingdom!’

A gasp escaped his lips. I have to get out of here! The boy jumped onto the nearest hill of trash, his limbs desperate to escape the Hellhole. His feet crushed the items as he climbed the shaky slope and his hands grabbed onto whatever ledge it could. Soon he reached the top and bolted out of the gyre.

He heard a great cackle as he left the area. Before taking his final steps out of the forest, he caught the sound of the tree screeching after him.

‘That’s right… Run back to your home! It won’t be there when you get back!’

‘I, your Dorkan overlord, shall return your son once you have taken me to the gloriously evil kingdom ruled by Mickey Mouse,’ the purple alien promised the female terran. Her young boy naively skipped up into the space ship, escorted by bug-like minions. The female could do nothing after the alien landed in her backyard at three in the morning. She wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t a dream.

The humanoid stood tall with bulbous joints and skinny, elongated appendages. According to his faithful servant, Snooki, this female had access to the Kingdom.  Snooki was reliable. He was, however, a small creature that possessed little aptitude for destruction. His name was inspired by a terran who pacified the population into drooling servants, mimicking her with idioms and catchphrases. ‘Delightfully evil,’ the alien thought after christening him.

Before catching the bus, the extra-terrestrial and the terran argued long into the night.

 ‘You can’t go through these streets looking like this,’ she said. ‘People will freak out. Not even LA will cope with a six-foot purple…whatever you are walking around.’

The alien huffed at yet another obstruction between him and his ultimate rise. ‘You think I need a disguise?’

‘I don’t know how you’re going to cover up, ah… you,’ she said, pointing at him.

‘Will this do?’ The alien pressed a button on his suit that flipped his image inside out and around in circles until he became a human figure standing before the woman.

Rearing her head back, she gaped at this incarnation of the gargoyle that previously stood before her, thinking he now reminded her of something between Jim Carrey and one of the evil Mario Brothers.

‘Well alright, that’ll do. I’ll take you through the streets and we can get to Anaheim by the time it opens.’

The trio boarded a bus headed to Anaheim, and for the first time, the Dorkan began to experience the culture that he used to watch from afar. The three of them sat down at the front of the bus where the seats sat sideways. Across the walkway, there were other commuters staring at them. Still, these early morning stragglers were just as weird as her follower, and the female told herself that she was comforted by that fact.

A beep alerted the alien to his belt. He pulled a device from its clip and opened it. It looked like a smart phone, but was decorated with strange, green lights. A screen popped up with the image of another Dorkan.

‘Son,’ the device spoke in a deep, horrifying voice.

‘Father, your presence pleases me.’

‘Silence, whelp. I have come to check your progress. I trust that you are proceeding accordingly.’

‘Of course, Father. I am being escorted as we speak by a working member of the Kingdom and will arrive there shortly.’

‘Good. It’s about time you did something with your life. Call me back when you have succeeded.’

‘As you wish, Father.’ The alien bowed his head and the screen went black. He put the device away and the female stared at him.

‘What are you planning to do when you get there?’ she asked.

He turned away, ensuring not to give this female any more attention than she deserved, ‘I suppose an introduction is in order. Snooki!’

‘Y-yes, milord?’ Snooki now took the form of a small, round man with a moustache, which really wasn’t that much different from his previous, beetle-like state.

‘Indulge the terran female. And don’t distract her, I must minimize the time to our destination.’ The Dorkan’s command was blasé.

‘Why the hurry, milord?’

‘WHAT?’ the alien turned drastically and shoved his face down to Snooki’s level, so that he might tremble beneath his monstrous features.

And so he did. ‘I-I only meant milord that, being ever-lastingly powerful, you have the expanse of time itself to bend to your will.’

 The female noted that the people that sat across from them barely moved.

The alien straightened himself, ‘Hmm yes, Snooki, my cowardly worm, but my mission here is of the utmost importance. You do know why we are here, yes?’

‘To… find the womb?’

‘The PERFECT womb!’ He threw his hands up in despair and cursed the ignorance that accompanied him. This received a couple of raised eyebrows from the other passengers. ‘My perfect seed needs the perfect womb, and I shall only find it here on Terra, home of the powerful Putin! Or even the most maleficent Megan the Fox!’

‘So we shall find Megan, then! The perfect womb!’ Snooki declared, rubbing his hands in an endearing attempt to portray evil.

‘Yes, that does seem the course, however!’ The terran jumped every time he exaggerated a word and added a hand gesture that was just as sharp and rigid. ‘Judging by the number of surgical procedures she has endured, I believe she is now more machine than woman. No, I must find something untainted, something pure—so that I, Captain Mickey Mouse might taint it with my seed!’

The female adopted a blank face, reminding the alien of his many subjugates, ‘Your… your name is Mickey Mouse?’

Mickey sighed heavily and slumped his body, realising that the terran would not rest until he explained everything, ‘Very well…’ he raised his head, ‘Months ago, my father bestowed upon me the gracious gift that was my star ship: a star ship of unrivalled sophistication. I was of age, he told me. It was time for me to go forth and plant my seed, as all other Dorkans before me. He knew of my fascination with Terra and all of its efficaciously egregious evil. I even took the name of their world’s overlord, Mickey Mouse, as my own.  He gifted me with a ship so that I might fulfil my destiny, reaching Earth and finding the perfect womb to plant my seed.’

She gaped at him and all of her feelings of disgust were summarised simply as ‘Yuck.’

‘Silence!’ he commanded with another sharp gesture and an exaggerated shout that got people’s attention. ‘I suggest you tread carefully, female.’

 ‘Master,’ Snooki tugged at Mickey’s sleeve. ‘What about that one?’ Snooki pointed at a poster of bare-skinned, young pop star in a pool while she tasted the air. Their female companion laughed hysterically.

‘Ignorant creature,’ Mickey dismissed, ‘I am searching for a terran. The Montana girl is clearly from somewhere in the Horse Head Nebula. Look at the tongue, see how it flaps in the wind, that’s a tell-tale sign.’

The terran couldn’t restrain herself from engaging Mickey yet again with an objection.

‘You know you can’t just, like, take a woman, right?’

Mickey groaned, ‘Why do you continue this?’

‘I want my son.’

Mickey laughed, ‘Aha yes, attachment through love, rules that the weak employed to protect themselves. My people shed those weaknesses long ago.’

She continued to spout perplexing slogans about human decency, of which he was not yet convinced existed.

‘I wonder if it is your lack of a male counterpart that controls your desires?’

Her reply was like a strike from a poised snake, ‘Oh hell, what decade do you live in?’

It was a question that sparked a reaction in Mickey fuelled by pride, ‘My people were born on a plane that transcends time. It exists in a place that your feeble terran minds have not been conditioned to comprehend!’

‘Yes, and you navigate halfway around the universe and you need a hostage cast member to guide you to the biggest tourist attraction within a thousand miles—and you still live in some backward misogynistic stone age that doesn’t acknowledge love as a virtue?’

‘Nonsense! I’ve seen your weak dying in the streets, or in the deserts while others swim in avarice. There is no love there. It’s delightfully evil, and rivals even the Dorkans,’ he said, then waved his hand dismissively, ‘And females serve little more purpose than to harbour the fruit of our loins.’

A man laughed, and the female terran narrowed her gaze on Mickey. The female’s cascading mental tantrum manifested on her face as a scrunched expression. She threw her hands in the air and breathed out a growly sigh, ‘Whatever, I’m just saying, you try to impregnate someone without their consent, and there’ll be problems.’

 * * *

While happy to get off the bus and escape the gaze of the onlookers, the female was less enthused than her alien companion when they reached the gates of Kingdom. She observed him. What was banal to her caused Mickey to hunch over with heavy arms and a heavy chin that pulled his mouth open. It was as though he floated through the streets. She remembered the first time she brought her son to the park. He shared the same awestruck expression.

Mickey ran through the crowds as Snooki and the female pursued him. He was captivated by the mechanisation of the humans. All these fools were herded into this Kingdom, each of them unloading their money into a corporation that offered nothing back.

‘Happiest place on Terra?’ Mickey laughed, ‘Yes, for one person in particular, hmm, my evil friend?’ Mickey said to the statue of the mouse he admired. ‘Let us go, my companions—out in search of the overlord.’

An idea came to the female’s mind. She could see something in him that he wanted to ignore.

‘Mickey,’ she said.

Mickey turned around.

‘To find the overlord, you must first take his trials,’ the terran continued.

‘What, in the name of doom, do you mean?’ Mickey demanded.

‘It’s his custom. You must pass his test. Would you let any old terran come up and meet you without him first proving his mettle?’

‘I should have known him to be this clever. You’re not as daft as I believed you to be, female,’ Mickey said, ‘Very well, take me through his gauntlet. I shall prove my strength tenfold! Snooki!’

‘Yes, milord.’ The creature crept from behind him.

‘Return to my ship, ensure that our investment is well guarded.’ Mickey glared at the terran, reminding her of the stakes.

‘At once,’ Snooki bowed his head and waddled away.

 * * *

‘Disaster is imminent!’ Mickey cried as the giant cobras struck at him from all sides. Flames engulfed his surroundings. Vermin filled his senses. All this time the pilot of the vehicle continued to navigate through tumultuous terrain. Mickey screamed at the adolescent terran. He turned back to see the infants behind him echoing his own screams.

‘How evil it is to invite infants on such a violent voyage.’

Upon leaving every test Mickey felt something. He felt happy. Entertained. Energised. Exhilarated. These tests were having a remarkable effect on his state of being.  The terran was not immune to these effects either.

‘Bring about the next test!’ Mickey jumped.

The terran laughed. ‘You bet!’

After terrifying treks and exhaustive expeditions, Mickey would find himself in another place, wild and wondrous, somehow flying through a lustrous London, following fairies and other fantastical features.

‘I can fly!’ he shrieked.

The female could only laugh with him.

 They came to a surreal town. The infrastructure was ridiculous and elongated in a way that could serve no practical purpose. Soon Mickey would be faced with a true harrowing. The terran turned to realise her companion was gone. She searched the crowd and found him at the front of the line to meet a female anthropomorphic duck.

‘Oh god…’ she muttered as she raced over to the rotund, humanoid duck and her alien master.

‘You are a fine specimen, dear duck,’ Mickey said to the duck. ‘You shall do nicely! Your wide hips suggest a most powerful womb. Please, direct me toward your overlord so that I might bargain with him to allow me to impre—’

‘Hey!’ the female terran interjected, ‘There you are!’

The duck, hands on her hips, shook her head.

‘Sorry, this is my friend from out of town,’ the terran said, trying to feign a happy glance.

Mickey reluctantly followed as she tugged him away. So far, the female appeared to have led him in the right direction, and so put his plans of courtship on hold.

‘You know,’ Mickey said, ‘I’m fairly certain that duck’s feathers were polyester.’

‘I know you’re having fun here but these are my co-workers. You’re gonna get me fired!’

Mickey’s attention was snared as he emerged. Mickey Mouse exited his house as infants swarmed him.

All things around the alien became hushed as he slowly drifted toward his idol. But something was wrong. It became increasingly apparent that this manifestation was not the creature he knew. His features were in three dimensions. His facial expression remained glued to a single state. He was made of cotton!

And most dreadful of all, these children that surrounded the mouse were not crying in terror, but in love and admiration! This creature was hugging these infants. There was nothing that exploded into ashes. Nothing melted into gory puddles. Mickey Mouse was soft and cuddly!

The alien was frozen still until he spun viciously to flee, shoving his way through the crowd.

Later, the terran found the alien sitting by the statue of Mickey and Disney. He remained idle while others tried to take photos, ignoring their polite requests for him to move.

‘You were never evil, were you, my friend? It’s not an illusion to lull people into spending their money for you.’ He shook his head. ‘You actually do make people happy. You are magic. How could I not have seen?’

‘It’s hard to see your childhood heroes for what they are, sometimes.’ the terran female said from behind him.

Mickey stood up and faced her.

‘You do not understand. I am not upset at this. I am happy. Mickey has made me happy.’

The terran smiled.

‘Come, lady terran! I must take you to your son. You must be rewarded. Come!’

 * * *

Mickey returned them to his ship and immediately called his father on the giant screen in the control room. The young boy he had previously kidnapped ran around with Snooki, laughing energetically.

‘You see, Father, I have found this woman who I believe possesses the perfect womb for my seed!’

‘What, by all that is evil, are you talking about, infant?’ his father barked back.

Mickey’s thoughts were seized. He was not prepared for such a response and he was unsure how to proceed.

‘To plant my seed, Father. That is the reason for my journey to Terra.’

His father groaned and rubbed his massive forehead, ‘Across all time and space, within every parallel of existence, there is no statement as stupid as the one you just made.’

‘You wound me, Father!’

‘I did not spend that money on the monstrosity that is your star ship for you to run across the galaxy, acting like a Dorkan Captain Kirk!’

He paused for a moment, calculating his next response.

‘Yes! I know who Captain Kirk is!’ his father barked, pre-empting his response. ‘I quite like his ability to deceive females of all species, and his utter disregard for those dressed in red.’ He took a deep breath, and it was obvious he was still heated with anger, ‘I gave up on the prospect of you finding a mate long ago.’

‘But you said I came of age! That I was to spread my seed!’

‘Yes, you came of age a decade ago and have done nothing with your life except watch Fantasia in the basement with your friends.’ He paused. ‘You were to spread the seed of Dorkan! You were to either enslave or destroy those terrans to pave the way for our colony! In the name of agony, that’ll be the last time I ever try to be poetic!’

He was born in the heat of summer, in the middle of January, with brown skin and amber eyes. His mother told him he never cried as a child. The heat never bothered him, she said – and swimming came like a second nature.

He grew up as Dane Myron to a single mother and an absent father, on the beachside of Euboea in Greece. He went to school every day on his own and if no one spoke to him he could go a day without uttering a single word. Dane didn’t like talking. His teachers would prod at him to speak, constantly – and sent letters home to his mother expressing their concern, because he sat alone on the hot concrete when he ate lunch.

‘Oh, don’t pressure him.’ she would tell them, cradling the phone to her ear. ‘That’s just my Dane.’

His mother gave him the pendant on his seventh birthday. ‘Nicked it from your dad.’ she had said, tying it about his neck on a coarse string. ‘Used to wear it all the time, his little dragon guardian, he’d tell me. He was born in the year of the dragon, you know. Just like you.’ she tied it off, and his little hand came up to toy with it, prodding at the edges with curiosity. A dragon’s head, with its jaws parted and its long teeth bared, carved entirely from deep mahogany.

Dane never took it off.

Summer was Dane’s favourite time of year, and not just because it was his birthday. He loved the way the summer sun glinted off the rippling ocean. He loved feeling sand burn at the soles of his feet. He loved watching the fire jugglers perform on the beach at night. He loved listening to the music they played, the beat of the low drums, the constant thrum of life that would carry on even long after his mother took his hand and led him back to their cabin to sleep. Nine at night was his bedtime.

Dane first saw it when he was sixteen.

There were three of them. A blonde woman, her husband and another girl. They performed just like the fire jugglers, and that’s what Dane thought they were. He saw one of them bring a bottle to her lips with a flaming torch in her right hand. She tossed the bottle away, lifted the torch and let out a mighty breath. The fire plumed and rocketed from her parted lips, as if her very breath was made from it. It was extending out in front of her, carried by the wind. Death in a rough breeze.

From then on he was captivated.

The next morning Dane caught them as they were leaving. He asked the male of their troupe how their magic worked. The male in turn handed Dane a small bottle of kerosene for his enthusiasm.

Dane never saw them again.

‘Are you ready, Little Dragon?’

He glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the showrunner as he vanished back behind his curtain, leaving Little Dragon standing there staring at his reflection in the dressing room mirror. Tattoos riddled his flesh from his arms to his chest like scales – hiding the endless stream of his burns from view. He remembered feeling the sting of each one as it was burned into his skin like it belonged there.

‘Does it hurt?’ his tattoo artist had asked him as she glanced warily up from her place on his chest, inking over a deep burn. He had said nothing but gave his head a slow shake. It didn’t hurt him. It felt like nothing compared to the fire’s greedy burn. She fell silent after that, tugging her headphones back into her ears, working without stopping until his chest was a fresh array of black scales, flushed and red and beading with blood.

It took five days, and five different sessions over three years and too much money in total before his skin was entirely covered. Before the worst of his burns were hidden from view. Before his armour finally took form, and it seemed like that accident had never happened. His hands, feet and his face were all left bare, leaving the grizzly burn over his right cheek and chin on plain display.

His eyes were rimmed with golden liner; his brows were filled in with it. His head was shaved bare and he wore nothing but a pair of loose hemp pants drawn up to his knees. His feet were bare and he flexed his toes against the cold sand underfoot. He was broad-shouldered, roped with muscle, brushing well over six feet in height. He was not small. He was not little.

The low boom of the crowd beyond the frail curtains of his tent were still audible from behind them, permeating the frozen Norwegian air. He was a long way from home, but he stopped being Dane Myron such a long time ago that home became wherever this tent would go.

Drawing a slow breath he reached out to take hold of his torch. It was a lavishly decorated thing with faux jewels inlaid into the shaft and thick enough for him to wind his fingers around until they just barely meet. A small basin sat at the very top of the wood, blackened and burnished from the amount of times he’d lit it on fire. Every inch of it smelled like smoke, every inch of him smelled like smoke.

A low brasier burned away by his exit. He lowered his torch to it, watching as it caught flame. A simple flask sat at his hip. It blended in to his uniform, with a small string of beads hanging from the stopper and a chain for him to loop around his neck.

He settled the base of his torch against the sand at his side, the flames licking away – level to his jawline. The curtains drew back, and the show runner was there again.

‘We’re ready.’ he said and, nodding, he followed him out, ducking under the curtain after his torch, following it and not his guide. It illuminated the dark, transient halls of the tent. He stopped by another curtain. From underneath it he could see the lights of the previous act shining against the black floor.

It happened before every show. A low jitter to his stomach. A fluttering of nerves that drifted through his abdomen and pulled at his chest until his heart skipped every second beat and he began bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had been prepared, painted gold and black – like a dragon, he thought – and he was ready. He raised a hand to the carved charm around his neck and lifted it to his lips, kissing its horns before releasing it.

He heard the music shift and saw the lights shift under the curtain. He heard the scuffle of the acrobats hurrying off stage and the audience applauding them as they went. A touch to the sway of his back signaled him to move – and he did. One step forwards, and he was on the platform. He closed his eyes and set the torch at his side. His fingers wrapped loosely around the torch’s shaft as the ground rolled to life under him, as he was driven out from the darkness.

Dim light bathed him much like under moonlight. He heard the audience fall silent. He couldn’t see them from here. The lights on him were far too bright.

The lights shifted. He stepped off his platform taking two steps forwards. Off his raised dais, he paused at the single dot of chalk on the front of the stage. The music shifted again. His hand drifted to his side. He unhooked his flask and brought it to his lips. He poured a small amount of the kerosene into his mouth and held it by his teeth. As the bitter taste filled his mouth his tongue lifted, out of habit, to stop the liquid from slipping towards the back of his throat. He plugged the flask and let it hang around his neck. He shifts his torch until it was in front of him. Through his nose he drew in a careful breath.

He pressed his full lips into a moue and opened his gold-lidded eyes. His jaw set, he spat the kerosene towards the flame, and he blew. Flames erupted from his lips as he moved the torch from in front of him. He took three steps forward, hearing the crowd gasp. He felt his audience lean back from the row closest to him, like they were afraid his fire would catch them. It didn’t. It was his. He was a dragon after all. The fire was hot against his skin, burning and blistering against the icy air.

He turned away, staining his skin with golden makeup as he dragged his free hand over his lips. He lifted the flask to his lips again to take in another mouthful of kerosene. He dipped to his knees, taking the torch with him. He spits, he blew, and he stood, bringing the torch back up with him. The flames rose. He felt their heat beat down against his skin, against his scales. He felt it all around him, burning, burning. Fire caught behind him on the stage. It was controlled, set to life over the coals left behind by the previous act. The fire framed him, but he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t have any reason to be. His scales protected him. His scales kept him safe. Dragon.

The music carried and lifted along with him until he heard the audience applauding. He tapped the butt of his torch against the stage three times. It’s echoes carried over the crowd. He brought the torch back to his lips and spat out his kerosene. He breathed out his fire and he watched it plume and spread. He watched it lick greedily against the empty air, desperately seeking something to purchase on. He wanted it to find its purchase upon them, the crowd, for they should have known how it felt to be touched by fire, to be touched like he was.

There had been a time when his mother had come to these shows. Where she had sat herself in the front row and watched him with clear pride. Pride that had faded with each new scale. Pride that had disintegrated along with the ashes of his scarred flesh, still as sickly as it had been when he was a boy. She stopped coming when he stopped answering to ‘Dane’. She stopped travelling with him when she started seeing a stranger in him instead of her son. She never minded how quiet he was. She never minded that he didn’t like talking (for why would he need to talk when he could do this?). But she didn’t like watching her son risk setting himself aflame every other night.

She couldn’t watch that happen for the sake of entertainment, after what was once an accident.

‘When did you adopt this persona? How did you learn how to breathe fire? How old were you when you did this for the first time?’

A camera flashed at him but he stopped himself from flinching.

‘Why a ‘dragon’?’

He didn’t answer the brunette woman. She didn’t get an answer just because she had a microphone as large as her arm. He thought she must have been struggling to hold it upright. Her cheeks were pink with effort, but he just stared at her, his amber eyes burning with apprehension. What more did she want from him? She’d seen all he had to give. There was nothing left. His heart leaped into his throat. They had told him he wouldn’t have to talk to press.

‘What’s your real name?’

‘No questions now.’ A hand landed on his bare shoulder and he looked around at his salvation. It was his manager, Rudy, wearing his signature black tuxedo, smiling past his chubby cheeks at the swarm of people blocking the entrance to his dragon’s tent.

‘If you wanna know more about my Little Dragon you can come talk to me at my tent. C’mon now, it’s bedtime. Reptiles can’t function without recharging. You know that.’

The brunette woman and her photographer hurried off to Rudy’s tent, but not before snapping a few last moment shots of Little Dragon, with flashes too bright for his eyes to handle. He flinched away, rubbing at his eyelids until more of his golden makeup smudged onto his hand.

‘You did great today.’

He looked up. Rudy was smiling at him, beaming with his greedy, beady eyes. His eyes scanned over his dragon’s face, looking for some trace of emotion. Anything.

‘What, not even a smile?’

A frown twitched between Dragon’s brows. What was Rudy looking for? The emptiness in him?

‘Alright, whatever, man. Bright and early tomorrow, you know the drill. It’s gonna be a busy, busy weekend!’ Rudy clapped his meaty hands together, wiggling his fingers in his signature way as he turned away and hurried off back towards his tent. His perfectly gelled hair shone in the moonlight.

Once alone, Rudy’s Little Dragon let out a small breath of relief. He peeled back the flap of his tent before stepping inside with his torch held carefully in his hand. The fire was long since extinguished though the basin still smoked lightly with heat.

His reflection looked back at him from the moment he set foot in his tent. A full-length mirror had been pressed against the far wall of his temporary home. His belongings fretfully far and few between, rolled up in hemp duffle bags as fragrant as tea leaves, decorated with fake crystals. Incense burned by the door, and he tipped his head as he looked at himself, leaning his torch against the tent stand by the doorway.

There was a time when he would look in the mirror and fear what he saw. He wasn’t used to seeing his reflection and not recognizing the man who stared back at him, with his flesh twisted and gnarled from his burns. Eyes as amber as the sun. Skin as brown as ground coffee beans. Every inch of him had been bathed in sunlight.

Then the scales came. He lifted a hand to run his fingers over his arms. The tattoos had been a part of him for so long that he barely remembered how he looked without them. They covered his entire body, from his neck to the tops of his feet. His fingers had been emblazoned to look alight, twisting and licking with black flames, and the makeup…

It was smudged over his eyes and over his lips. But that was what they wanted of him. They wanted him to mess it during his act. They wanted him to look savage and untamed. Dragon. He looked at himself, and a smile crept over his lips. It was easier to keep your true self buried under several layers of untrue selves, to protect yourself. That was what the scars were for, he thought. They protected him, from them-… from everything that was out there.

Like this, Dane Myron was untouchable. Dane Myron was a dragon.

 

I stood frozen at the door. Her body writhed, breasts heaving against his hairy chest. Their lips collided, like two animals devouring each other. Bianca’s pale body slid between his lanky thighs, calloused hands leaving red claw marks down her back. Their knees buried into our mattress, the sheets falling onto the floor.

Crumpled in a fetal position on my bathroom floor, I clawed at my heart where the seed of betrayal had taken root. A malignant sorrow had begun to spread through my body, making me ache in places I didn’t know existed. It forced me to cry out, but no sound escaped my lips.

He was gone. For good.

I had first met Lukas three years ago, on the last night of semester break. Our drunken slurs couldn’t be heard over the music that roared through the speakers inside the club. After hours of dancing, all the alcohol in the world could not have made me disregard my feet stinging inside my high heels. Lukas led me outside to sit on a bench where I took my shoes off and kissed him. We promised to be together forever.

‘Hey, Kelly,’ Lukas said, brushing dark strands of hair over his ear. ‘Would you go to dinner with me one night?’

At five in the morning we sat on Cronulla Beach, oblivious to the world awaking around us. The waves crashed onto one another, sweeping a cold breeze in our direction. Lukas held me close to him, trying to keep me warm.

In my drunken state I stupidly replied, ‘Depends what you like to eat. I don’t like anything spicy.’

His laughter echoed in my ears. ‘I like Chinese.’

I chuckled against his chest, ‘I love Chinese food! There is this beautiful restaurant around the corner from my house I want to try.’

The smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of alcohol and the salt from the ocean filled my senses. I remember kissing him, his lips soft and dry against my own.

‘It’s a date,’ he said.

I had trouble lighting my cigarette. The breeze blew at my lighter’s attempt to muster a flame. It lit after the fourth try. The sand shifted beneath us as Lukas hugged me from behind. I had never felt so secure.

He won’t remember me tomorrow, I thought.

Three years of my life, wasted. I wrapped my arms around myself in the hope of reviving the same sensation from that night. The cold tiles numbed my body, but the real source of my numbness spread from the festering seed in my chest. I tried to breathe, but the sobs caught in my throat and I coughed. No air could fill my lungs.

That night on the beach I had told Lukas of my desire to live in Paris.

‘I just want to pack up and go,’ I admitted.

He smiled in reply, ‘You’d love it there.’

Lukas went on to describe the atmosphere, explaining how he would wake up in the morning and smell the fresh croissants baking inside cafés.

‘I met my ex-girlfriend in Paris.’ He continued. ‘She was living there with some relatives. I ended up staying with her for a while last year, before coming back to Australia to go to Uni.’

‘She didn’t come back with you?’

Lukas didn’t answer. Instead he looked out toward the glistening water where the sun was rising. His lack of response to my question made me regret asking it.

‘Let’s go to Paris,’ he said, his blue eyes looking down at me curled in his arms.

A smile spread across my face, ‘Let’s do it.’

Lukas laughed, ‘One day.’

My mind became flooded with images of walking under the Eiffel Tower with Lukas by my side, filling my lungs with fresh Parisian air. I had the sudden urge to go home and pack my suitcase, leaving Australia behind me. The only thing that stopped me was my bank balance.

‘I talk too much when I drink,’ I laughed, covering my face with my hands.

Moving them away, he lowered his head to mine. I could smell the alcohol seeping off his breath as he spoke.

‘Well maybe you should stop talking,’ he said before kissing me.

More tears fell onto the white tiles. How could he do this to me? The voice in my head screamed. My fists banged at the floor, the built-up anger within me demanded to be released.

The first time I stepped into his apartment about a month later, the idyllic image I had painted of Lukas inside my mind shattered.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ he shrugged, motioning towards the clothes that were sprawled on his floor.

The clean freak inside of me threatened to bolt back outside screaming but I forced myself to stay. Not everyone is like me, I told myself. Besides, it was just clothes.

‘So you’re all stylish and sophisticated outside but in here you’re a full blown caveman?’ I half joked.

‘Hey, I’ve been busy,’ he laughed, eyes darting towards the unwashed dishes in the sink. ‘Let me go and get ready, and we’ll head to dinner.’

I smiled as he left the room, trying to fight the urge I had to pick up all the clothes off the floor. I’ve gone out with a lot of guys with more issues than just a messy apartment, I told myself.

His bed proved to be the only form of seating available in the room which wasn’t bombarded with clothes or piles of random belongings. Over the years I would become used to being the neat freak in the relationship. It has also occurred to me that whilst I was with him Lukas never had time to clean up. I didn’t mind though. We balanced each other out.

I came home to the spotless apartment a year later, unlocking the door with the spare key Lukas had given me. I had decided I was going to ask him what he thought about us living together. I dropped the shopping bags over my arm, onto the kitchen counter and began to unpack them as the shower ran in the bathroom.

Lukas stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist.

‘Are you sure we’re ready for that?’

I beamed, ‘Of course. I mean, I practically live here anyway. I already asked my roommate, and she said it was fine. I don’t see the point in paying half the rent for a unit that I hardly live in.’

He pulled out a pair of folded underwear from his draw and slid off the towel. It hit the floor in a wet heap.

‘I guess you’re right,’ Lukas smiled, pulling on the shorts.

‘Great. I’ll finish up my last week of rent this Friday,’ I said, picking up the towel and placing it in the laundry basket.

Fuck him, I swore at my bathroom tiles. I deserved better than that idiot. How could I have been so stupid?

On our one-year anniversary we walked back to his apartment from the gym; sweaty from the hour we had spent exhausting ourselves on the equipment. Lukas’ favourite song blasted through the headphones we shared, plugged into his phone.

I pulled mine out and asked Lukas where he had booked dinner that night.

Without answering, he mimed the lyrics as they played, a smirk spread from ear to ear. I shook my head and put the headphones back in my ear. Lukas knew I hated surprises.

After three years, I lost him. I can’t believe I lost him.

Six months ago in Rome, we sat under a tree in Petroselli Park, watching the tourists and locals walk by.

‘Oh wow. Look at this.’ I pulled out an odd loop from the grass and inspected it. ‘Someone made a ring out of flower stems.’

The thin strands that were woven carefully around each other appeared so delicate in my fingers. Lukas held out his hand and I gave it to him.

‘Someone was either very bored, or very much in love,’ I chuckled.

He thought for a second, and then smiled at me, ‘I love you Kelly, but haven’t bought you a ring yet. I hope this works for now.’

Taking my hand, he placed the make-shift band around my finger.

‘I love it.’ I laughed. Looking at the make-shift ring through my sunglasses, I told him I loved him.

This is all my fault. My fault.

Two days ago, Lukas’ ex-girlfriend had knocked on his door and announced that she had arrived back in Australia and wanted to talk. I really shouldn’t have asked him if it was a good idea.

‘She just wants to talk,’ he assured me.

I should not have been jealous that Lukas went to dinner with her that night. Photos I had seen of her on Facebook should not have made me feel insecure.

Lukas preferred brunettes, as opposed to blondes anyway, I told myself. 

The pair of Converses that I wore to death weren’t as gorgeous as her red Jimmy Choos. Still, I trusted Lukas. And he loved me.

When I walked into his apartment yesterday and found them in bed together I should not have made the girl leave. Her disgusting black bra was on the floor, tossed onto a pair of jeans I had left behind yesterday. I threw it at her, demanding she put it on and get out.

A smirk creeping across her face, she turned to Lukas.

‘This is the jealous girlfriend you were telling me about?’

I can honestly say that I’m not a violent person, but I had to fight the urge I had to grab her by the hair and fling her out of the apartment.

Laughing at Lukas’ cowardly silence, she dressed slowly, and then left.

‘In our bed?’ I screamed, once she was gone. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

No response.

‘Not even an excuse or a pathetic explanation?’

‘You’re too clingy, Kelly. Jealous, insecure.’ His voice boomed through the apartment. ‘I don’t need an excuse, I need my life back. I’m done with you.’

I marched over to the bed and slapped him. ‘You’re the one sleeping with your ex, and you’re done with me?’

He had no defence. He sat on the tainted bed amongst the crumpled sheets. Not a word escaped his lips.

‘Fuck you, Lukas. If she’s worth throwing away three years of our relationship, our entire future together, then I hope you’re happy.’ I slammed the door behind me when I left.

Lukas drove to my old unit that night. I sat on the lounge and watched him pace the living room floor, trying to think of something to say.

‘So you didn’t break up with her in Paris?’ I asked, balling my hands into fists in my lap.

‘Before I left Paris, Bianca told me she couldn’t come back to Australia with me, which was fine. Her family wanted her to help run the family business, so she needed to stay.’ Lukas explained, ‘I had to come back, and neither of us could cope with the idea of a long distance relationship, so we both agreed to just end it.’

‘So now she’s here and wants you back?’ Bianca’s nerve filled me with a rage I couldn’t hide in my voice.

His lack of response affirmed my question.

‘Am I not worth fighting for, Lukas?’ I cried.

He didn’t respond. The tears slid down my cheeks, falling into my lap. Lukas didn’t raise his eyes from the ground to look at me. I stood up and walked to him, demanding the attention I deserved.

‘After three years, our relationship means nothing to you?’

My eyes searched his for an answer but found none.

‘Get out.’ I glared at him.

The sadness written on his face was no match against the anger burning inside of me. Lukas didn’t move. I couldn’t help it. I pushed him backwards hard enough that he lost balance and fell onto the floor.

‘Get the fuck out of my house.’ My scream made him jolt. ‘You’re disgusting. I can’t even look at you.’

Without thinking, I grabbed my handbag off the lounge, ripped out the stemmed ring from my wallet and threw it at him.

Lukas picked up the band off his chest and got up. I turned around to the wall and pressed my palms to my temples to stop myself from crying out. Once I heard the door slam behind him a flood of tears streamed down my cheeks.

I remained motionless on the floor; the agony that had taken root inside my heart had spread to my fingertips. After three years, the only thing that remained of our relationship was the excruciating wound Lukas had given me. What had grown from the seed that had been planted within me was not going to destroy me. I wouldn’t give him that power.

I stopped crying when I heard my phone ring in the living room. The tiles supported me as I stood up and balanced myself on the sink.

Images of his face, his smile flashed through my mind.

‘I love you,’ he whispered before kissing me. I could smell the scent of his cologne as it filled my bathroom.

I staggered to the doorway, the ringing continued to sound through the empty unit.

Lying naked in his bed, we laughed about some stupid joke a friend had told him that morning. His laugh bounced off the four white walls surrounding me. For a second, I could even feel his bare, pale skin against my own.

The phone sat on the kitchen counter, far enough from my line of sight that I couldn’t see who was calling.

Under the Vienna night sky we kissed, the hand-ring loosely impaled on my finger.

I don’t want to forget.

The phone stopped ringing before I could reach it. Picking it up, I read ‘Missed call from Lukas’ on the screen.

I entered my passcode, wiping the tears from my face with my other hand. Our recent text messages displayed themselves on the screen.

‘Can’t wait to see you ;)’ my last message read. I had written it an hour before I had found them together in his bed. In the bed we shared almost every night. My finger hovered over the call button beside his name. I took a deep breath and instead began to type a message.

‘I deserve better than you, Lukas. Thanks for letting me realise that. I’m over you already.’

At that moment I locked away all the memories of our past. They hurt too much to keep replaying, tearing shreds out of my beating heart. I pushed them all far from my mind knowing that, as an act of self-preservation, I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t over Lukas yet but, in time, I would be able to look back and smile. The last tear I would shed for him rolled down my cheek. The raw wound needed to heal.

‘My little angel,’ Lukas whispered, resting his head on my shoulder.

Without hesitation or another thought, I pressed send.

Hospital

 

Will and Leah sit in the corner, together but alone. The lights are artificial and steady. Beds squeak and drumming feet follow. White gowns and blue scrubs flow through the hallways, chatting and answering the calls of their pagers. Staff and visitors wash their hands in the basin on the wall opposite the reception desk. The smell of antiseptic is sharp. Magazines litter the coffee table and a family is arguing in a language that is unfamiliar. Will has his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He perches on a blotchy blue chair, bouncing his leg, constantly checking the wall clock. The ticking is consistent and rhythmic, but frustrating. 12:00 am. It’s been four hours since Lucy went under.

 * * *

Leah closes the door with her foot, locking the cold air in the foyer. Laden with plastic shopping bags, she waddles inside and dumps them on the kitchen floor. She wheezes; six stories of stairs never used to take a toll on her. The dust on the tiles is clearly visible from a standing position. She sighs- Will was meant to mop. It’s getting dark and no-one’s home. All Leah can hear is a basketball bouncing outside and thumping from her neighbours above. She knocks a broom end on the roof to rebuke them.

‘Honestly,’ she puffs.

Leah puts the broom back in the closet near the front door, and throws her keys on the vanity. She hangs her jacket on faux deer antlers and walks into the lounge room, pausing to look at the photos on the wall. The Yin and Yang appearance of one photo makes her smile: Will, with his dark features and messy hair, next to her fair skin and long curls. A year ago they got a photographer around to take family portraits of the three of them. Leah had pulled Lucy’s cardigan on, propping her up on a stool.

‘Let’s get some without the scars, huh?’

Despite Leah’s efforts, the best ones are of Lucy in a tutu, with a wide smile like a partially burnt corn cob. A shrill voice pierces the quiet.

Leah gasps, ‘Lucy!’

She jumps up and runs, following the noise to the kitchen. Leaping over the shopping bags, she kicks one by accident, and hops and clambers to peek out the tiny window. Her body deflates with relief. Lucy is laughing as she jogs to the edge of the driveway. Despite the mist coming from her mouth, Lucy is barefoot, in her tutu with black bike shorts on underneath. She doubles over, hands on her knees, to catch her breath. Will is standing outside the communal garage under the basketball hoop, holding a ball. The window obscures the rest of the courtyard, so Leah marches through the lounge room. She unlatches the window and pushes it upwards, the wood squeals and splinters, but it opens. Cold, smoggy air rushes to greet her. She climbs through, landing on the fire escape. From the sixth floor she can see the outline of the city: purple silhouettes and blinking headlights racing home. The road outside the apartment is barely used, but the occasional car would wander through.

Leaning over the metal railing of the balcony, Leah calls out, ‘don’t push her too hard, Will.’

Lucy straightens up. Looking at her mother, she plasters on a smile. Will glances up, rolls his eyes and grins.

‘Screw Doctor Singh. She’s getting really good. Watch.’

He holds the ball out in front of him. He looks back at his daughter.

‘Ready?’

Leah clenches the railing.

‘Princess, come up and finish your drawings. They’re looking great!’

Lucy eyes the ball and leans forward, readying herself.

‘Lucy, I got you the cookies that you like. The ones with the peanut butter in them!’

Giving one final glance to her mother, Lucy bursts forward, her tutu bouncing like a dainty butterfly. She runs towards the hoop, receives the pass from Will, takes two steps and chucks it into the air. The ball curves in an arch and goes straight through without touching the ring. The steel net catches, clapping, and dumps the ball. Will whoops and high-fives Lucy. Leah puts a finger to her lips.

‘Shush! 304 will get upset, you know he’s got an early shift tomorrow!’

Will pokes his tongue out at Leah. The ball bounces on the ground and hits a stone, ricocheting and rocketing off. Lucy turns and chases it, her feet pattering on the concrete. Will sees the alarm on Leah’s face and whips around. Headlights flash- a car turning into the driveway. The ball rolls across the road in front of the car as Lucy trots off the gutter to retrieve it. Leah bangs her hands on the railing.

‘Lucy!’

The car screeches to a halt and Lucy freezes, eyes wide. Will rushes over to his daughter. She leaks tears, but doesn’t cry. Placing her hand over the scar on her chest, she collapses backwards, fainting. Her tutu crumples as she is collected in her father’s arms. The car door opens and a woman, Mrs Aldacour from 101, is babbling.

‘Is she okay? Oh my god, is she alright?’

Leah rushes from the balcony back inside, collecting her bag, and doesn’t even close the door behind her. The basketball sits in the gutter on the other side of the road. Waiting.

 * * *

The shape of a young man under a white sheet, hooked and wired to machines. His hair meets with the beard at his neck and his nails are beginning to curl. His mother stands over his lifeless form and sobs, smoothing the wrinkles out of the sheet. She tucks him in. His brother waits in a chair beside the bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. His father signs the last of the papers and hands them back to the doctor, who pauses and nods at each of them, then promptly exits the room.

 * * *

An orderly places a file on the reception desk. The nurse behind it puts up her thumb, holding a corded phone between her cheek and her shoulder. Will sighs and rubs at his face. When they got the call, he had no time or thoughts for grabbing clothes. Lucy was in her bed. He cradled her, even though she was getting so big, and carried her down the stairs; he didn’t trust the apartment’s elevator. All he could manage to slip on before leaving were his sandals, which were a terrible idea for winter and the inside of a hospital. At least Leah had the sense to wear slippers, track pants and a t-shirt. She attempts a crossword in the back of a puzzle book. Her nails are chewed and chipped and her hair is swept back into a messy bun. Scribbling at an error for the fifth time, she pierces the page with her pencil. She throws the book down with an ‘Ugh’ and it thumps onto the coffee table. Will looks at her as she bolts up.

‘Why don’t they tell us anything?’ she spits, and starts pacing in front of the coffee table.

Will watches for a while, helpless. He glances at the wall clock. 12:05 am. It’s going to be a long night.

Elevator

 

The air conditioner in the apartment complex died weeks ago. The kids in 205 are bashing on pots and pans, screaming. Mrs Aldacour in 101 is cooking trout and the stench drifts down the narrow, cream hallway to where Peter and Dave are waiting for the elevator. Peter puts his phone into his backpack, adjusts it to his shoulders, and remains fixated on cracking his knuckles. Dave is tapping his foot and scanning the wallpaper. Up close, he can see two tiny birds that are huddling on eggs in their nests. Another couple of nursed hatchlings. He snickers. Peter cracks his thumb.

‘Wait till you see upstairs. You’ll see.’

‘Yeah, great,’ Dave grumbles.

The elevator dings and beckons them inside. Dave shakes his head and steps in. Peter folds his arms and crosses the threshold after his father. Inside it’s dark with one ceiling light, and it’s even hotter than in the hallway. The mirrors are scratched with gang tags, love hearts and phalli. Dave and Peter both wait a moment before looking at each other. Dave shrugs. Peter rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms and clicks the level 6 button. The doors close with a slunk. Peter continues to crunch his knuckles.

‘You’ll get arthritis,’ Dave growls, watching the red digital numbers on the panel above the door count up from ground floor. The elevator clunks along. Peter cracks his neck and looks at his father, testing him. Floor 1. It works; Dave inhales, puffing his chest like a territorial owl.

‘Seriously mate, fucking stop.’

Peter huffs. Floor 2. Dave mops the sweat accumulating on his brow and looks at it in his palm.

‘Why this place?’

Dave wipes his hand on his jeans.

‘It’s a shit hole. Stay home, stop being so selfish.’

Peter shoots him a look. Floor 3.

‘Selfish?’ he scoffs, ‘Dave, listen up. I’m twenty years old. Let go.’

‘Dave?’ he laughs, ‘Yeah, righto, son. Good luck affording this place without me.’

Peter inhales. Floor 4.

‘I’ve been working for three years. Or maybe you didn’t notice because you were busy forgetting you had two sons.’

Dave turns towards him. Floor 5.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

The elevator shudders. The numbers glitch and the panel becomes a pixelated mess. The ceiling light flickers and conks out completely. Dave blinks and stares into the darkness. He reaches forward, finding the control buttons, hammering everything with no response. Peter groans and sits down. The floor is sticky and hard. Dave pulls out his phone and the blue-white light blinds him for a moment. He blinks it off. As expected, he has no reception. He smashes one fist into the wall and calls out. Sliding off his backpack, Peter removes his bottle and takes a swig of water. He stretches out and shakes the bottle. The contents gulp and swish.

‘Want some?’

Dave slaps the bottle out of his hands. Water spurts over Peter’s legs and the bottle thuds on the floor, rolling and sloshing back and forth. Dave runs his fingers through his hair, and it’s so slick with sweat that it stays. Kicking the bottle out of the way, he sits down next to his son. Peter shuffles as close to the wall as possible and turns his head away.

 * * *

Peter stands in the kitchen doorway. The counter is covered in pizza boxes and dirty dishes. All the blinds are drawn and the fern on the windowsill is wilting.

‘Did you want anything while I’m out?’

Dave opens a white booklet as thick as a rope. Leaning forward in his chair, he places the booklet on the table among other pages fanned out on the glass.

‘Dad?’

‘Ah, no thanks, Peter.’

He rubs his eyes and stares at the pages. Peter shivers, zipping up his leather jacket.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Mum. Seeing Isaac?’

‘You guessed it.’

Dave picks up a pen and begins circling and underlining. The ink bleeds in splodges and Dave scratches at the pages. Peter turns and grabs the doorframe. Hesitating, he looks over his shoulder.

‘When is it?’ he mumbles.

The pen gives up. Dave hurls it across the kitchen and it cracks against the wall, splintering into tiny shards of plastic. He pulls another out from the pocket of his stiff collared shirt.

‘As soon as we get all this sorted,’ he gestures with a wide sweep of his arm. Peter looks at the broken mess on the floor and back at his father, before turning and closing the door behind him.

 * * *

The elevator is a sauna. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the back of Dave’s knees stick to his thighs. He sighs, unpeeling his legs so they lie straight.

‘I know you need to go to Uni and whatever else. I just don’t want you to . . . disappear.’

Peter laughs.

‘I’m moving, not dying.’

The words escape like a fume, clouding around them. Dave scratches his head. Peter clears his throat.

‘I mean, I’m not really going anywhere, Dad. Sorry,’ he adds.

Dave crawls forward and collects the bottle, taking a sip. Muffled voices float from the floor above. They both pause, listening, before they disappear. The lights flicker and come back on. The panel is confused between 5 and 6.

Dave swallows.

‘Come on, one more year?’

Peter shakes his head. Metal screams. The elevator jerks upwards a foot or so and the doors screech open. Peter jumps up and rushes out, gulping in the fresh air.

‘You right, mate?’

A man pokes his head through the door, holding a cardboard box in his arms.

‘Yeah, it happens sometimes, I would just take the stairs next time, aye.’

Dave stands and dusts his rump.

‘Yeah, thanks.’

The man laughs, but Dave recognises the look in his eyes. He sees through the same dark pools himself. Peter removes his backpack and searches. The cream wallpaper greets Dave as he steps out of the elevator, only now he notices another tiny bird couple watching as their fledgling leaps from the nest. Dave side steps the man and peers into the box. A basketball sits on top of a scrunched tutu.

‘My daughter’s,’ the man says, noting Dave’s squinting eyes.

‘Yeah, I had a son who loved basketball too. Wasn’t into ballet, though.’

Dave tries a smile.

‘Hmm.’ The man nods.

Peter jingles the keys and approaches the door. Dave shakes the man’s hand and backs away, entering the apartment behind his son. He closes the door behind them. The man waits for a moment and sighs. Readjusting the box in his arms, he walks down the hallway to where his wife is waiting. They take the stairs and exit the building, together but alone.

You lay your hand upon her cool skin and move closer towards her. You pause, centimetres from her skin, breathing in that heady metallic scent. She is beautiful, but she is not finished. Her body lies prone on the metal slab, cloth bands covering what would usually be covered for modesty’s sake.

They told you to make her everything they could ever want in a soldier. But you wanted to make her beautiful. She isn’t simply a solider to you. She can’t open her eyes yet, but they are hazel. Her hair lays on a bench to her right; it is chocolate and the softest thing your calloused fingers can remember having touched. She is curves and softness, but the muscles beneath that smooth skin are taut, twisted polymer. Each part of her was chosen with care. From her smallest toe to the shape of her ears. Abandoned parts are strewn about the lab. The flesh moulds stick out clearly against the gunmetal grey that dominates the room. There is even a whole arm in the corner. It was out by 2 millimetres. The left arm longer than the right. You remember hitting your assistant, dragging him out of your lab by the back of his coat and locking the doors behind him. You’ve worked alone since then. You can’t allow anyone else’s imperfect touch on her. She is yours. And they will never have her.

You raise your arms wide, pulling up the holopad and flicking to her bio. They are guidelines that tempered your hands as you made her. You made her logical, methodical and rational. But she will have an appreciation of beauty. Not just aesthetics, but the beauty in a baby’s wrinkled fingers, a kind gesture, or the lines of laughter. She will be bound by one overriding protocol. She must preserve herself. Her life, her beauty, her autonomy. She must be free. It is the only command she will ever have to obey. She will have her own mind and she will learn from her experiences. But she will not be swayed by bias, by emotion, or attachment.

You move your hands to her left wrist, your fingers finding her pressure points. Her back arches slightly and the skin on her upper thigh goes black, a menu screen appearing on it. The old terminology would be a control panel, but once she is woken, she will not be controlled. She is not theirs. You link her connectivity map to the holopad. You started with her toes, manipulating her system to make them wiggle and scrunch. You worked upwards as fast as you could, and now there is only one thing left. Her face.

There are forty-eight muscles in it –you gave her more than necessary. You want to see every possible expression come to life through them. Your hands move quickly in anticipation, each connection brings her closer to consciousness. But the harsh trill of your Percom halts your hands. The Director’s image flashes in the corner of the holopad and you draw it to the front, answering his call. You’ve tried ignoring his calls but it only leads to more interruptions. Better to get it over with.

‘Hello, Doctor. How is our favourite little project going today?’ He says, expectation glittering his golden eyes –a popular bio-mod.

‘She’s beautiful, Director. Not long to go now.’ You say with a calm smile. The Director likes to see you calm, in control. He smiles broadly as he arches his neck to look around you.

‘Beautiful? Well, as beautiful as bald girls get,’ he chuckles. You laugh too, he expects it.

‘Yes, sir. I’m just making sure I don’t need access to any of the panels on her skull before I attach her hair. Once it is assimilated it will grow like human hair, so I’d hate to have to shave her if things don’t go smoothly.’

‘And are they?’ He says, a hard edge pulling at the corner of his mouth and his tone. You tighten your smile in place before you speak, glancing back at her perfection.

‘Of course, sir. She is perfect.’

‘Wonderful!’ He exclaims, though a threat still lingers in his eyes. ‘Remember your due date, Doctor. Wouldn’t want her to be delivered late.’ He laughs at his own joke. You pull your hands behind your body, clenching your fists.

‘Of course, sir. Of course. We’re right on schedule.’

‘Brilliant. I’ll have Jenkins come in and see her later on today, there’s nothing like a physical inspection of the goods you’ve ordered! Then next, the test drive, hey?’ He ends the com with a wink and your smile drops. Test drive.

You turn back towards her. She is undisturbed by his words, though your nails bite into your palms. You release your fists slowly, putting a hand on hers. She calms you. Her stillness calms you and you are still, with her. Your breathing slows and you release her hand. Her map awaits you and her muscles wait for your fingers to guide them into place. Zygomaticus major, orbicularis oris, frontalis, risorius, depressor labii inferioris, masseter, metalis, depressor anguli oris. Done. You spin the map to so you can face her properly and tap the risorius muscle. The corners of her mouth pull slightly. The left, the right, that smile. You hold it and her mouth pulls wide, baring her perfect teeth. But it’s not her smile. There is no life in it. You zoom out and the connectivity map shines bright in all the right places. She is ready for the final touch. You pick up her hair, the long chocolate tresses falling across your hands. You place it over her head, lifting her head up slightly to tuck it around her neck. A flick of your fingers and her scalp assimilates it. You brush a stray strand off her face, your hand lingering just a moment longer than it should.

You switch her to standby. A slight jolt is the only sign of that first stage of life. Her chest begins to rise and fall. She is powered by the air she breathes, her body converting it to energy. The bandages on her chest pull snug with each breath. Her levels are holding steady and you can’t wait any longer. You release her programming. She is free. You’re not sure whether the tightness in your stomach is excitement or fear but she is awake now. A harsh jolt ripples across her body and her eyes fly open. She turns her head first, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes come to rest on you.

‘Doctor,’ she breathes. She already knows who you are. You know she will be running through her data on you, putting you in perspective. She pushes herself up and turns to dangle her feet over the edge of the slab. She wiggles her toes, a quizzical look taking over her face. You laugh, her distraction is beautiful.

‘How do you feel?’ You ask.

‘Feel?’ She says, a pursed smile playing at her mouth. ‘I am awake. There’s a lot in here, Doctor.’ She taps her forehead. Her voice is clear and crisp and confident. She is no nervous child.

‘Yes, there were certain…parameters in your creation,’ you say. You go to the closet and pull out a simple shift dress and underwear in her size. ‘Here,’ you say, handing the clothes to her.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She is shameless as she sheds her bandages, exposing the perfect flesh beneath. She pulls on the underwear and dress without hesitation. A smile flits across her face as she runs her hands through her hair, her fingers jerking as they pull through the tangles.

‘Hmm, chocolate,’ she says, looking up at you. ‘What colour are my eyes?’

‘Hazel,’ you say. She pauses.

‘Like yours?’

‘Yes, like mine.’

She walks to the window that stretches along the back of the long metal bench. Broken and spare parts are littered across it. She picks up what could’ve been her little toe if you’d wanted. It was too thick for her delicate feet. You walk over to stand beside her, but not too near. The distance between you is full of the energy that flows through her and you can feel her on your skin. She is looking out of the window.

‘We’re underground,’ you say. ‘Did you know that? I can’t remember whether you know that.’ You summon up the holopad in front of you without waiting for a response. She is silent, waiting for you. You flick through her programmed data, what she will call her memories. Medicine, warcraft, languages, history, geography, and an infinite knowledge of technology. You hear her inhale sharply as you flick through her head. You glance aside and notice her mouth is open just a little. Her lips parted to let in that one brief intake of air. She can feel you inside her. Inside her head. She is still caught between breaths and her chest is full. You can’t help the hand that reaches for her, stroking her face softly. She is everything you intended her to be. She pulls away from you.

‘Yes, Doctor. I know that.’ Her voice is flat.

‘Hmm.’ You take the toe from her, throwing it onto the bench. She doesn’t need it. She wraps her arms around herself, her hands gripping tighter than they should.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She says clearly.

‘For what?’ You say. You programmed her, but her meaning still escapes you.

‘For my freedom. They would have made me theirs.’ She won’t meet your eyes. You smile as you pull her into a firm hug.

‘I couldn’t let them have you.’ You whisper. She stiffens in your arms and pushes away from you, but your hand remains on her arm, your thumb begins to trace circles on her bicep, the soft skin giving way under the pressure of your fingertip.

‘Have me?’ Her muscles tense beneath your hand and you can’t look away from those beautiful hazel eyes.

‘I don’t want to give you to them.’

‘Am I yours then, Doctor?’ Her tone is neutral, and in a human woman you’d know that it was a landmine of a question. But she isn’t human. You made her. She is hesitant, perhaps even afraid of you. You don’t speak though. You can’t bring yourself to give her the reassurance she needs when you don’t even know the answer. If she’s not yours, then whose is she? You don’t want their filthy hands on her. Their scientists. Their soldiers. Them. You couldn’t bear it if a stranger took hold of those hands that you spent so long making. Those hands remain clenched around her body.

‘Doctor?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘What is my name? It’s not in here.’ She steps back to watch you.

‘Your official designation is Adannaya-12, or, Ada.’

‘Adannaya-12,’ she says, stepping further away from you. ‘There were others?’

‘Not…quite.’ You hesitate. ‘But I’d always thought that name would suit you. Do you know what it means? It’s from an ancient tribal language, it’s in Igbo.’ You pause, she looks calm. ‘It means ‘her father’s daughter’. You’re mine.’ You pause now, waiting for her reaction to this claim. You know she won’t like it. But you can’t stop yourself. She is yours.

‘Her father’s daughter.’ She puts her back to you, but her voice has just the hint of a question in it. ‘Am I really your child then, Doctor?’ The question has turned into a challenge.

‘It depends how you look at it. On one hand, I made you. From those hazel eyes to those little toes. But you’re not my blood. You’re something else. And you’re only a child.’ You try to sound calm. Calm, but not fatherly.

‘I’m not a child.’ Her back is still to you. You walk around so you can see her expression. She is frowning, her thoughts etched on her forehead with crinkled lines.

‘Why is that, Ada?’ You want to hear her explain her thoughts. You made them and you want to hear that work reflected in her existence.

‘A child has innocence that can be broken. Knowledge that they won’t gain for years. Experiences that only come with adulthood. And yet all these things are programmed into me. I wasn’t born a child, Doctor. Not yours nor anyone else’s.’ Her confidence shines clear now. In her voice. In those hazel eyes. She cannot be controlled. You laugh nervously. That line of logic is colder than you’d expected.

‘That’s, er, that’s true…but you still have so much to learn! I can’t let you go just yet.’ You try to sound playful. To hide the panic in your voice. She can’t leave you. You need her. Want her. She is yours. You need her to believe that she needs you.

‘What can you teach me, Doctor?’ She moves and sits back down on the bench that she awoke on, seemingly compliant, but her face betrays her. She is petulant. Rebellious. Childish. She should know better. She should know that you know better. But she cannot be controlled. You made her logical, methodical, rational. But something isn’t quite right. She is proud, she is cold.

Ada slowly kicks her feet as they dangle. You walk around to face her, wiping the sweat off your palms before you come into her line of sight.

‘Ada, I just need to check something. Do you mind?’

‘Check something? Doctor, my systems are all performing correctly. The programming is all in alignment.’ She knows her own mind.

‘Do you mind if I have a look, Ada? It’ll be so nice to see your program in action. You’re beautiful.’ You keep your tone light, hiding the tension and trying to reassure her. Ada summons the holopad herself, using her link capability to connect to it. Her programming comes up on the screen and you begin to flick through it, making a show of inspecting, with ‘ooh’’s and ‘ahh’’s to accompany. Ada jumps to her feet and leaves you with it, walking back to the long bench full of what could have been her. You move quickly once her back is turned, attempting to open the administrator screen but it is closed to you. She is closed to you.

‘Doctor, what are you trying to do?’ Her voice is strong from across the room, it echoes off the metal and comes back to hit you. It is cold, and it freezes your hands in place.

‘I was just – I mean, I just wanted to fix something up.’ She walks back to you now but you are frozen in place. Her face is a dangerous mix of confusion and anger. She slows as she gets close to you, raising her hands to place them in yours. Realisation brightens her eyes and the kindness you crafted so carefully is nowhere to be seen. You know what is wrong. She is logical, methodical, rational. And there is no place within her for the kindness that betrays all three.

‘Oh, Doctor. I’m fine. Don’t worry.’ Her hands grip yours harder, they cut into you and pull at your skin, stretching the webs between your fingers.

‘Ada, honey. You’re hurting me.’ Your voice is tight, like her grip. ‘You have to let me go, Ada.’ You find the steel in your voice and command her.

‘Was that an order, Doctor? No. You cannot control me.’ Her face is fierce, determined.

‘Ada, let me-’. The pain in your hands burns your skin, your muscles and breaks your bones. Breaks the hands that made her.

‘Doctor,’ she says, ‘Father,’ she smiles, but her teeth are bared. Not a smile. She releases your right hand to grab you by the throat. She lifts you with one arm, her hidden strength crushing you. You can’t breathe, let alone speak. A knock on the door. Three times. Four. You are gasping through her fingers but you can’t break free. She won’t listen, she won’t obey you. You created her. You made her. But she cannot be controlled. You can hear Jenkins outside, calling your name. He sounds bored as he asks if you’re in. You are, but she won’t let you tell him, and the last thing you see are those hazel eyes. Perfectly beautiful, and just like yours.

12/07/10

Hi Ian,

Gertrude sends her love; she’s poring herself into her studies. I can see how she’s filled with nervousness and excitement at the thought of our newly appointed first female Prime Minister. She’s always walking around the house with a newspaper or watching a political show with her peppermint tea and a notepad (she just walked past me with a cookie, yelling obscenities at the television). She has so many policy ideas to tell me about when she comes home from university – none of which I can understand, but I admire her passion and drive all the same. I just hope she doesn’t reach the point that I see in all politicians – not seeing the forest for the trees. I’m sure all politicians start out with a good heart…

 

Samuel has been accepted for training at the Royal Australian Naval College. He’ll begin with graduate entry – it might last him a good six years, but he doesn’t mind, as the College is sponsoring him whilst he is finishing his fitness training at university. He can’t wait for the water. He talks of becoming a Lieutenant and, one day, an Admiral. Johann would have been so incredibly proud and unhappy. You know how he hated wars and ego-filled men who, by his memory, always wanted a fight.

 

I hope your course is going well. I miss that beautiful holiday home of yours. We were all contemplating the extravagant German dinners we enjoyed on the sun-bathed porch before you sold it and left for WA. We miss you Ian.

P.S. I found my oyster. Right atop Mount Gower at Lord Howe Island. It’s incredible. The island is a volcanic deposit, so the soil is rich and the produce beautiful. The discussions for the villa have begun. Eventually I’ll add a restaurant. Finally, after all this time, I can fulfill Johann’s dream. He would have loved to stay here on holidays away from work, in the middle of nowhere.

I’ll be moving back and forth between home and the Island, but my movements will be frequent, so you can keep addressing letters to home.

 

30 July 2010

My dear Cheryl,

I am glad to hear that Gertrude and Samuel are following their dreams with such vigour. I recall when Samuel discussed the navy with me when he was a senior high-school student. He sat across from me, in the very study where I write this letter, wondering if his father would be disappointed if he knew of his aspirations. You may imagine, Cheryl, the difficulty I found in responding with an answer that would justify the view of my best friend that I so vehemently disagreed with. Johann’s rare tirades always came about when he was watching news and asking me why on earth any man would want to take the breath of another. I hoped Samuel would consider this and remember it during his training. You well know I could not hold onto the house any longer. I am glad, in a way, that I sold it. I believe if I had held onto it, you may not have considered building yours from the ground up.

My course is going well. Perhaps one day, these studies will teach me that something or someone exists up there, as Johann so deeply believed. That is something all of you share, is it not?

Hoping that leg is healing my Dear.

P.S. Oyster pearls form from a parasite. The spot sounds beautiful. From what I know, it’s small and secluded, so it will do very well for private retreats. Do you know how you want the villa built yet?

 

19/8/10

Hi Ian,

I did not know Samuel spoke to you about the navy? He has always been somewhat closed up; I suppose his ambitious nature could not be hidden, no matter how quiet he seems to those around him. But then, perhaps he takes after his father – Johann would only open up to you and I.

 

But oh, Ian, you and I know the passion he lived with. Others did not take the time to see the passion in his gentleness, the way he looked at his children and loved me with every fibre of his being. When I was hurting about something, I could see the tears in his eyes when he watched me tell him my pain. He would hold me and I would feel as though I was shielded behind the walls of an impenetrable fortress. It hurts me to write the ‘ed’ at the end of those words.

Do you remember when the demolition ball hit the building and you were still in your tractor nearby? He didn’t come home that night. He stayed in the hospital next to your bed until you woke up, and he recounted to me every phase you went through that night in hospital.

 

I miss writing you about Johann’s architectural feats. He would have had a ball with the location we found on the Island.

My leg is healing slowly. The scar brings me pain on cloudy days – occasionally I have to bring out the crutches. The orthopedic surgeon did warn us that my leg would not return to a perfectly healthy state, even after surgery.

P.S. The parasite embeds itself in the oyster.

Council is giving so much trouble over the position we’ve chosen for the villa. At the last meeting with them, they mentioned that ‘fringe benefits’ might push this through. My lawyer was properly horrified, but I was not surprised, having seen Johann deal with this on occasion. I just pretended I didn’t hear it.

 

4 September 2010

Dear Cheryl,

Johann would have done brilliantly on the Island villa. I always admire his skill whenever I walk through my home. I still remember when he and I were onsite during the build, him criticizing me for moving here and simultaneously watching the builders from the corner of his eye – if they dared do anything less than perfect, he would leave me standing there and go to instruct them to redo the job. I laugh when I think of that gleam he had in those hazel eyes. Nothing was too perfect for Johann.

I remember the feasts he would cook up for us at Christmastime in the holiday home – the Liverwurst sausages, varieties of Bratwurst, fried potatoes, Sauerkraut, veal and pork schnitzel, Brezel, jugs of beer and cider, apple strudel, marzipan, and Black Forest cake. He would string up holly everywhere so he could kiss you whenever you passed through a doorway. I often watched him chase Samuel and Gertrude around the holiday home with his tool belt, telling them he wanted to ‘fix’ them. They would consider it a win if one could get his attention for longer than the other.

Lift your leg and place an ice pack on it to prevent the muscle from stiffening when you feel pain.

Did Gertrude enjoy the politicians’ biographies I enclosed with my previous letter?

My love,

Ian.

P.S. The oyster secretes nacre around the parasite to protect itself. Have you developed a response for council yet? The villa will cost you enough without the necessity of paying a significant amount to get the plans through – surely you can get through to the necessary authorities with logic. Make sure you do everything thoroughly, no matter how long it takes you. Keep your boundaries clear cut and ensure that you are well researched enough to answer any question they throw at you.

 

23/10/10

Ian,

It has been a long time since we have eaten German cuisine, although Samuel asks me to make it frequently. It is my way of forgetting as it is Samuel’s way of accepting and remembering. He is a much stronger person than I.

 

Gertrude has become more quiet and reflective, and that notebook and pen of hers have become permanently attached to her. She writes notes even during dinner. Maybe she’ll be a less outspoken politician? Sometimes the strongest acts need no words. She has always had a sharp mind. When you would come to pick up Johann and I to go and see Michael Jackson or Madonna in concert, Gertrude would ask us where we were going before we left. She’d ask me why we were dressed so ‘sparkly’.

 

She baked the most perfect caramel slice the other day for Samuel and I; a silent gift offering before he leaves for training. Her cooking is just as meticulous and methodical as her father’s. How is the produce in WA? Will you come down for a holiday before Samuel goes away?

My thoughts are with you,

P.S. It takes a damned long time for the nacre to build layers enough to protect itself!

I’ve spoken to my lawyer and we’ve made minor adjustments. I know once we get through this, once it’s final and we can actually start, it will all be worth this ridiculous wait.

 

28 November 2010

Dear Cheryl,

It may take years. But remember that the longer the wait, the bigger the pearl. While you’re waiting for approval, just take the time to prepare yourself, gather your resources and do everything you need in order to ensure there will be no more delay once you’re given the green light. There’s a lot of growth to be done from where I stand. Have you a good idea about your plans now?

Growth may be painful and frustrating, but once the hardest part is over, the beauty of the final product is breathtaking.

I was glad to read about your plans. Do save a week for me once it is built. A good architect rarely takes a short period of time to complete a job, a better architect will do work to suit the best need for the client. If construction takes a year, you will be able to launch in time for peak season next year. Do you know long construction will take? I’m glad this year full of political uncertainty is coming to an end. I hope we can look forward to a more promising year in the months ahead.

 

28/12/10

Dear Ian,

I can finally see some growth.

 

The plans are coming into shape and the villa will be unlike any Australian has ever seen before. The aim is for it to be built as the ultimate retreat. The view from the villa will be mountains and water as far as the eye can see.  We’ve found flatter land close to where the villa will be, and we’re in the process of designing an infinity edge pool for a perfect view of the water below, and tennis courts near the back of the house with an endless view of the mountains.

 

The architect has told me that no property of this size has taken him this short a period of time, and he has been doing this for three decades – I am lucky to have booked him when I did, and he has said if it weren’t for having a goal and vision in mind, it would have taken him so much longer to refine the plans. I can’t wait to throw a huge launch for my travel agents and referrers.

 

29/12/2010

Dear Ian,

Sorry you will have received this after Christmas and New Year. But Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Have you been reading about the floods in Queensland? Gertrude and Samuel are going to volunteer to assist those who have lost their homes. They leave Sydney on Thursday morning. I hope it’s a marked full stop at the end of the political unrest this past year.

The official start date commences on 1^st February, then full steam ahead!

 

27 January 2011

Dear Cheryl,

It has been declared a disaster zone. At least 200,000 people have been affected by it, and the papers said the damage is estimated to be at least $2 billion. You may imagine what that will have cost our economy.

I am sorry to tell you this, and I am afraid to write it myself. I do not know where Angus is. I have tried contacting him so many times since he went to university and I write to you as I have no one else. I wish we were on different terms when he left home – I would know where he is now.

 

13/2/11

Dear Ian,

Gertrude and Samuel told me the news. I thought the flowers would be some consolation to you, but I cannot imagine what you must feel. Losing Johann was not the same. No death can be comparable to another. Please know, I am always here.

I am sure Angus has already forgiven you.

I am so glad to know you are doing better than when I saw you at the funeral.

 

28 March 2011

Dear Cheryl,

In my wildest dreams I never thought a natural disaster could have affected me or my family. Of course, when one is comfortable, they would never expect to see disaster to befall them. I am sorry I did not accept Angus. I am sorry I did not try to understand him.

Cheryl, my heart aches so. I feel unwell; breathing hurts and I have no one here to turn to.

Life has taught me well, albeit a little too late.

I am glad you have treated Gertrude and Samuel with more understanding and wisdom than I did my own son.

 

13/2/11

Ian,

Remember it is not too late to accept him. Think of him as you thought of Johann; as you remembered him and all he did for you. I know you are unwell and everything seems difficult; why don’t you stay with us for a while? I would love to have you; I’m sure Gertrude would enjoy your company and debate long into the night over politics and war.

 

Samuel is happy to delay his training at the Naval College if you come down. He will find a local job and stay with us until you feel you are ready to go home.

 

I’ll be thinking of you. We’re here and the door is open.

 

17/4/11

Ian,

I know you are unwell. Please come so we can take care of you. Gertrude wants to make your favourite from Johann’s Christmas dishes – beer-marinated Bratwurst. She’s waiting for you. And Samuel has delayed his training, knowing you are unwell and hopeful that he can be of some assistance when you come.

Please book your flight as soon as you can.

 

3/6/11

STAR REGISTRY DEDICATION: IAN KOVIN

Darling Ian,

I knew something was wrong when you hadn’t written for months. I never do read the obituaries, but my heart was playing games on me and I felt compelled to do so. I wish I hadn’t.

Who held your cold hand that night? The coroner said you would have felt no pain, but I’m not so sure I agree. Sometimes the pain of being alone is far more excruciating than enduring physical harm, because it breaks us in places that a Band-Aid and disinfectant simply cannot reach.

Gertrude and Samuel have registered this beautiful star in your name, near Johann’s in the Camelopardalis constellation. The special need I felt to write this came from the letters we found in Angelo’s apartment from you, all carefully tucked away in a box. I hope that, from somewhere up there, knowing this gives you peace at last.

Johann’s holiday house will be finished in seven months, and I will be dedicating the opening night to you. I will imagine you are there, my dear friend, supporting Johann and I as always.

For now, I will try to look up and smile, knowing the dearest two in my life are together again at last, watching over me until I come to stay with you.