Gaslight

“You’re just being sensitive.”

“Ok.”

The ritual complete, the conversation over, she turned away and went back upstairs. Alone in the bedroom, she examined the marks on her palms: the tiny red crescent moons danced across the backdrop of criss-crossing lines. They would disappear soon, and her head, heart, and life lines would remain, etched perfectly and permanently. Making an impression was very hard.

He followed her into the bedroom. It was late – it could not be otherwise. Their little talks were reserved for afters: after work, after dinner, after clean-up.

He moved things around. Not around the house (not anymore, she didn’t think) but around her. He moved the sense of things, the core of what was and what wasn’t. He moved what couldn’t be. It was magic, she realised, as she watched him get ready for bed. He held the truth in one hand and the opposite in the other. He passed them back and forth, switching them swiftly, slickly, before throwing them down before her; every day he dealt her an invisible two-card Monte. Her bets were always on the Queen of Hearts, on truth. But he inverted truth, passed it back and forth, and flipped over the grinning Joker.

“Are you happy now,” he said, snapping her attention away from his magic.

She shook her head and went into the bathroom and closed the door. She looked at her hands again. Just one crescent moon remained. There was no lock on either of the two doors in here: one led to the hall and one led back to him, but she couldn’t quite remember which led where. Reality flipped, back and forth, from one hand to the other, until the last little moon had faded. Hands empty, she chose the truth, and opened the door.


Ashley Woodward

The Minister's Dilemma

There they were, Frances and Jonathan, sitting over breakfast coffee having got the three kids off to school. It had been one of those mornings when some homework had been forgotten to be finished, and the school uniform had not been put out in the weekend to be washed and an argument had arisen over something very trite.

Frances said, “If I was a drinker I would pour myself a drink of something to cope with the day. I'd better just get on with it.  Did anyone comment on your sermon yesterday, love?”

"No,” said Jonathan, “sometimes I feel like Father McKenzie in the Beatles' song where I spend time during the week getting a sermon together for what purpose?”

“Have you any idea what you might make the subject this week?”

Jonathan replied, "I've preached on the Beatitudes, healing ministries of Jesus, Abraham prepared to sacrifice Isaac,  Joseph, Jeremiah, and some of the minor prophets. Perhaps I should do something entirely different like horse riding."

“What! How can you relate that to Christian ethics?"

Jonathan replied, “I’ll think of something. Anything to wake them up.”

Frances could see he was feeling a bit despondent so left him to it. She had tidying up to do and getting out in the garden.

Nothing more was said and Sunday arrived. The kids had already biked up to church and Frances got in the car and said, "What are you going to preach about. Is it still horse riding?”

"Yes, that is what I said it would be.”

“In that case I’m not coming in. I'll wander up to the shops and have a browse and be back in an hour."

With that, Jonathan got out of the car, collected his books and strode over to the church.

As he was going up the steps a flash of inspiration hit him. There had been alot of talk on the TV and radio that week on careless sex and the diseases that it could bring.

"I'll talk on the Christian aspect of Sex and Love."

An hour later Frances was back in the car as people came out after the service and some came over to her.

"You weren't there today.  Well, you missed the most inspired service."

"Really? He only tried it once and fell off."


Margaret Hawkey

At the Frenchman's Café

The walls are fuchsia. Outside – the sound of surf, the fragrance of frangipani. The pictures on the wall are of distant Paris. The Frenchman’s Café.

The other customer at this early hour is an American. What else would we talk of but the number of sheep in New Zealand? I should be grateful that she at least knows the clichés.

But our conversation strays from there to the dairy industry.

Should I speak of the epistemology of the colonised, anchored in the sense of the collective; of the understanding of indigeneity and the pursuit of agency, resistance and subjective politics through anti-colonialism? Should I raise my voice about theoretical conceptualisations and practices that oppress macro-political self-determination; about disenfranchisement from the socio-economic transformations of indigenist positions; about exclusion; about starving in utopia; about the legacies of genocide? Should I thump the table and quote His Holiness – ‘it is essential to show special care for indigenous communities and their cultural traditions … For them, land is not a commodity but rather a gift from God and from their ancestors who rest there, a sacred space with which they need to interact if they are to maintain their identity and values … they themselves care for it best.’ Should I yell that just as Mary’s pierced heart mourned the death of Jesus, so now she grieves for the sufferings of the crucified poor and for the creatures of this world laid waste by human power? Should I call her a racist bitch?

She should not have expressed her opinion that opposition by the native Hawaiians to the establishment of a local dairy industry because of its environmental impact was foolish.

But instead I reply, ‘This “Swiss Alps Crepe” is particularly delicious. Nobody quite like the French when it comes to crepes.’


Barnaby McBryde

Ding

Looking in the mirror she fiddled with the sequinned top one last time, tugging it down over her hips. Smudge the eye make up just a little bit – smokey. Better…. reapply the gloss…. OK. Here we go.

“It’s all small talk,” she was told. “A breeze!”

She walked into the room, keenly aware she wasn’t as pretty or as young as any of the other women.  Utterly ridiculous, she thought. What the hell am I doing here.

“OK everyone, take your seats. Remember ladies, it’s your choice. If you don’t like them it’s OK. No commitments here…just an evening of meeting people.”

She sat down at the table and a bell rang.  A handsome man about her age sat down in front of her.  Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all!

“Hi.”

“Hi. ”

“I’ve just done something terrible.”

“Excuse me??”

“I'm sorry, I’ve just got to tell someone – I’m going insane with guilt. I didn’t mean to, it all happened so fast…he was attacking my wife for god’s sakes, what was I supposed to do? I mean, that’s why we carry guns right, for things like this? But I’ve been so guilty ever since and you look like a nice person, I just have to tell someone.  I’m sorry…”

DING!

“Time’s up gentlemen….please move on….”

“Hey Babe. Wanna get together after this? You are super hot. I’ve just been divorced and boy am I ready for action….looks like you could use some too. Just divorced yourself? Whaddya say. Wanna hook up?"

“I, uh….I don’t….uh….pardon?”

DING!

“Hi. Man I hate this. I mean, I’ve been doing this for about five years now and have never had any luck. You? It’s crazy right? Or is it just me. I mean, what’s so wrong with me that no one wants to go out with me? Can you tell me that? What’s WRONG with me???”

“I, ah…nothing! I don’t think…”

DING.

“Hi.. “

Pause.

Blue eyes. Crinkly at the corners.

Gentle smile.

“Hi.”

“Nice weather, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Very.”

Jasmin Webb

1951 small talk

"Cup of tea George."  George is reading the paper.

"Not at the moment.”

"Have you seen the cat this morning?"

"Yes. He is around somewhere."

"It's such a nice day. We should both get out and tidy the garden. Stake the dahlias maybe. What are you going to do?"

"Not sure yet, one of the boy's shoes needs attention."

"I heard from Molly yesterday."

"What did she have to say?"

"Nothing really. She wanted to know what we've been up to."

"Fine. What's in the paper?"

”Nothing much. Pat Walsh and Jock Barnes don't seem to agree on much, these days. If they are not careful, they will play right into Sid Holland's hands."

"Jock wants every union to down tools in support of the Waterfront Workers Union. Pat doesn't seem keen."

"Oh there you are Puss. Pass the knife George." Ciss starts cutting up the cat's meat. "Does that mean you will go on strike at some stage?"

"I don't know, I doubt it. A lot of water to go under the bridge before railwaymen get involved. What with Korea. I see the Aussies have suffered casualties.”

"Well we will have junket for pudding tonight, use up yesterday’s milk.  I may as well do that now. Where are the boys? I could do with some more kindling."

"Here is another bit in the paper. They are working on a vaccine for polio. That's got to be good news."

"I am looking forward to an electric range when we shift. I'll miss the coal range though.  How many concrete blocks have you made? Mores the point, how many have you still got to make?"

"I got more cement yesterday. Another batch today." Puts paper down. "I will have a count up next time I am over at the section." And went outside and started the concrete mixer.

Grant Ward

Lifeguard

You step out of the news and into my garden.  You, Syrian, framed by the hellebores and full-budded rhododendron. I’ve seen your exhausted face a thousand times before, and now here you are, flesh and blood, wearing a faded Bondi hoodie with Lifeguard across the chest and jeans for a larger man than you.

Hi Pete, you found us ok?

Salt of the earth, Pete the churchgoer. He walks around the trailer, head turned towards the view.

Great spot.
We like it.

You are still, saying nothing and giving away less.
 
This is Ahmed. Ahmed, Jill.
Hi Ahmed, nice to meet you.

I hold out my hand, too quickly, then have second thoughts. Are you allowed to touch a woman? God, stupid me, embarrassing. I know nothing about you. You step forward and take my hand.

Hello.
The sofa’s inside, Pete.  Probably take three of us to lift it.
We’ll manage, love.
Cup of tea?

Pete looks towards you and you shrug. Is that reluctance? Please allow me to make you welcome.

Sounds good.
Tea or coffee? I’m making both.
Tea for me.
I prefer coffee.

You surprise me with your perfectly formed sentence, the elegant ‘prefer’.  I bet you like it strong. I add another scoop of grinds to the plunger.

How long have you been in New Zealand?
Four months. Two months in Auckland then here.
Bad luck, just as the cold snap arrived. It’s not always like this.

You smile at my apology.  I’m so ignorant of your country, except for the horror. How did you bear it?

We talk about the weather a lot, don’t we, Pete?
We have plenty of it.
Do you talk about the weather at home, Ahmed?

You gaze out the window, to the Silver Peaks and the Main Divide.  I feel you slip away across the Australian Outback then sail like an albatross above the vast Indian Ocean and up the Persian Gulf to your shattered homeland. You are so quiet I forget to breathe.

No. We talk about family.

Rosemary McBryde

August

This month the starter is Small talk.  Send your contributions to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 31 August.  For purists, 300 words max otherwise up to 500 is fine.

Welcome to new contributor Ashley Woodward and thanks to all those who have visited the blog. Keep reading back through the year. You'll find lots of gems to enjoy over the last seven months.