Do sinners get dinners?

It had been touted as The Great Tamaki Tour and after two weeks on the road, the Bishop and his entourage had sailed on the Arahura for the South Island leg.  There were sinners in Sydenham, murderers in Murchison, outlaws in Oamaru and the inbred of Invercargill that needed the salvation he could bring to them.
 
It had been a good ride down the east coast and his black leathered posse with the ape handlebars pulled into the motel of the famous whale watching town late on the Saturday afternoon. The town heaved with the influx of long anniversary weekend visitors and most seemed oblivious to the presence of Brian and his entourage as if these bikes and their cargo were just regular visitors stopping for a pee and a popsicle.

They were staying a little longer though as an invitation had been extended to the Destiny King; his advisors suggesting that getting amid the people might help his profile.  The scene for the Bishop’s service had been secured and while it was a far cry from the opulent surroundings he might have ordinarily enjoyed in his Auckland base, it wasn’t a dive by any means.    The conference room of the local rugby club would seat one hundred and fifty although it was unknown how many would turn up.

The sun danced upon the water and the whale watching boats were confident of another busy day taking the tourists out.  Bishop Brian’s chatoyant three-quarter length coat danced beneath the static slicked-back hair as he handed down his proclamation on the hastily made platform beneath the wall displaying the plaques of the life members and club presidents of years past.  There were doors to the left through which the mighty Pacific could be viewed, the sun on the solid lettering on the window casting a backwards M E M B E R S  O N L Y silhouette across those on the end of the third and fourth rows.  At the conclusion they filed out and some chose to greet the Bishop and a variety of responses were forthcoming:

“Interesting sermon Pastor Brian.”

“Don’t get a coffee from Bevan down at the White Gull then, he’s, well, you know, he plays for the other team.”

“My cousin was in a gay marriage and even though they split a few years later, he always told me the crack in the wall was from when his partner drove his ute into it.  Maybe it really was just all that sinning and stuff.”

“Great job today Bishop”, said one of the inner circle.  “I think you really gave them something to think about” he added as they retired to their various motel rooms for the night.

“I’m just looking forward to getting out of this seafood backwater,” the Bishop responded, “we’ll be gone early enough and we can leave these small-fry sinners for someone else.”

“You’re right,” another added, “there ain’t much happening around here.”

Andrew Hawkey

Philadelphia

There were something over twenty thousand people in the vast hall. The crowd chanted his name. The crowd wordlessly roared. The crowd would not stop roaring, though there were some people who just stood and wept, their faces contorted in a damp rapture. The senator, hunched and rumpled, walked to the podium and raised his fist in the air. Twenty-three times he said ‘thank you’ and raised his arms and tried to start to speak but the crowd would not let him speak – they howled their love.

I was at the back but not at the very back. Everybody leaned forward, focused on the senator, except for the one man behind me. He leaned against the wall. He had no notable characteristics – ‘bland’ one would almost say. He showed no enthusiasm but no antagonism either, he seemed detached, uninvolved, insouciant, a sardonic smile on his face – like a Somerset Maugham character in a white suit, smoking a cigarette and sipping a highball.

‘…Together, my friends, we have begun a political revolution to transform this country, and that revolution – our revolution – continues. Election days come and go but the struggle of the people to create a government which represents all of us, a government based on the principles of economic, social, racial and environmental justice – that struggle continues …’

The man leaning on the back wall turned to me.

‘You know his annual income?’

‘Less than most?’

‘$205,000 between him and his wife.’

There was a pause.

‘You’re saying he’s not part of “the club”?’

He smiled.

‘You’re saying he’s not going to win?’

‘I’m saying we are not going to win. Remember the lyrics of the song that Ryuichi Sakamoto released in 1987?’

I paused – ‘”Born in a corporate dungeon where people are cheated of life”?’

He smiled – ‘Me too.’


Barnaby McBryde

Members Only

No one wants to be here, you know, not ever. No roll call, no welcome, nothing but overlapping glances of acknowledgment. Some of us nod to one another, many look down, a few look up. Some of us are already crying.

“Just a reminder that it’s first names only, and that you are all encouraged – but not required – to share.” More nods. She smiles and, even in their knowing, her eyes are brilliant. She is our fulcrum between trauma and its attendant stress and growth. She revolved from one to the other, and it shows in her hopeful smile. “Who would like to open?”

To open is divine; to share is a step down from that. We all share, and we try to open, but there are invisible people here, you know. We conjure them with words, with silence. They stand about behind us somewhere, and the negative space they occupy darkens this huge room with its circle of steel folding chairs and its bright lines cutting the floor.

“I was 13 –”

“I didn’t think –”

“Why? Why did – ?”

We whisper, we scream, we keep crying and sometimes, and with permission first and every time, we touch each other. Our revelations draw each other close, and something larger than ourselves rises up and hovers over us, right beneath the fluorescent lights studding the green ceiling. Our testimony weaves together, coalesces, and then openness seems to shine down on us. For a few minutes, anyway.

“Thank you,” she says, embracing each of us gently, invisibly. “Thank you all for coming here tonight.”

Membership is never free – and this group is no exception. Our fulcrum stands before us, golden and gorgeous beneath the fluorescents, and we stand up too, all of us as one, in an unbroken circle.


Ashley Woodward

Possession

The sign on the gate reads MEMBER’S ONLY. The boy and his aunties puzzle at the glossy black lettering.  Which member’s only what, they ask with feigned amusement, each aware that nothing is missing save a rudimentary command of language. They laugh recalling PEACHE’S, last summer’s prize find. They reminisce about their late night sortie to right small wrongs. The boy, the aunties and Mr Feyyaz, with a list, fine brushes and a rainbow of tiny paint pots. They recall the boy balanced on the man’s shoulders to execute his artistry: a vermillion-loaded brush for KEBAB’S, a black brush and stencil for DONNYS CAR SALES. 

The boy places his foot in an aunty’s cupped hands, and with a grunt and a lift, scales the gate and drops to the ground on the other side.  You’re heavier than last year, she says. A tossed bag drops beside him. Enough for a pie, but don’t be greedy. He runs the length of the bowling green, around the back of the clubrooms, pushing through creamy toetoe to reach the lemon tree.  It’s stealing, he had said to the aunties that first summer, when feeling robbed was fresh and raw.  The aunties let him speak, then asked what he meant by stealing. Is it stealing to use what otherwise rots where it falls? Can you steal something that no one possesses?  Wasps crawl over the fallen fruit. He fills the bag, warily avoiding the pests.  A pest. That’s what his mother used to call him. Stop being a pest. The memory of the cadence of her voice is slipping away.

He pisses on the roots of the tree for luck then, throwing the bag over his shoulder, hurries back to the gate, shimmying up and over the frame.  The aunties help him down, one on each side.  They walk home for Lemon Meringue Pie night. Mr Feyyaz will arrive, bringing dolma and cards. He has promised to teach the boy to play Türk Pokeri. And they will write MEMBER’S ONLY at the top of a new list.


Rosemary McBryde

November

Incredible that we have done this now for 10 months.  Stick with it until the end of the year, writers. I am so enjoying receiving, reading and sharing your work.

The Artistic Director offered this for November:  Members Only.

All contributions to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 30 November.  Happy wordsmithing.