Frosty morning

From the east of the Ihumatao stream he catches sight of the Moon. He is aghast. Its colour is beyond white or candle-flame and beeswax-glow, it is a fierce and fiery molten gold, and enormous – filling the eye, filling half the sky it seems: Sister Moon radiant in splendour. She descends towards the horizon. He stands transfixed in awe.

If he runs fast enough to the little gravel beach he will see her sink into the sea between the heads of the harbour mouth – a baptismal ritual in symmetry, a Botticelli painting in reverse.

Across the river, down the trail, the frosty heads of the sedge plants clattering in the air of his passage in the gloom. Across rocky pasture, through a forest of tall fennel – a path imperceptible in the dark.

Faster.

It suddenly is the day his mother died.

To: lwmariposa@hotmail.com: Phone call from Hazel. Mum has had a heart attack and has perhaps half an hour, perhaps till tomorrow, to live. Got a flight down in two hours. See you.

Flying a thousand kilometres – convinced: she will wait.

Past the gnarled pines, through the grove of cabbage trees, the swamp where once he saw the elusive matuku standing amongst the reeds. Flying, ragged lungs gulping down the icy air.

If only he can run fast enough.

Past the sleeping bulk of cows, dark against the misty ground, their noses tucked neatly beneath their tails like puppies in a warm basket.

And then, increasingly now, the fear – the text that arrived during the stopover half way. She had died before he even left the airport.

The gravel of the beach crunches beneath his feet. The horizon – dark and empty, the great Moon gone as if she had never been. Silence. Emptiness. The cold water smooth in the dark.

Barnaby McBryde

Not in New York

Living in the tropics, one does not often experience frosty afternoons.

Sweltering in the humidity as you race around turning off air conditioners and fans before tearing down the stairs to the taxi waiting to escort you ever so slowly through the treacle of traffic to work, you do often miss them however.

Growing up in upstate NY yields its share of fabulous frosty afternoons. Always at a different time of year. Sometimes it would be right around Halloween. We would wake up that morning, excitedly planning the evening’s terror, look out the window and see wee blades of green sprinkled castor sugar white.

“Don’t forget your scarf!” Mom would call as we grabbed our coats to stand at the end of the driveway and wait for the big yellow school bus.

Being kids we ignored her of course, running outside to feel the crispness against our skin and cloud windows with our breath.

A heart or two was drawn there.

Yes, frosty October afternoons were always the best.

December frosties were disappointing if they didn’t turn into a full-fledged blanketing of white, into which we would dive and create angels or our own frosty snowmen.

Looking out the window of my Blue Bird taxi inching its way through the morning mess now, I smile. I miss frosty afternoons. Here, frosty only happens artificially, in the air conditioning.

Not in someone’s heart. I remember that as well - when I learned frosty doesn’t occur only in weather.

That, I don’t miss.

So while the tropics are humid and the only frosty afternoon is an unnatural one, I prefer the warmth here.

Though it is not inconceivable I will one day once again draw a heart or two on a window pane frosted with my breath. 

Jasmin Webb

May

A late run in April brought the total up to a very respectable six stories. Thanks to one and all for these wonderful contributions, all so different, many with a hint of melancholy or sadness. We must be sliding into winter.

May's theme is "Frosty morning". If you need it, the Artistic Director says you can have up to 500 words.  Email your contributions by 31 May to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com.

Happy writing!

William

The kitchen cupboard door closes unevenly upon a hinge that is slowly losing its grip on its frame and a jangle of glasses rings out, muffled against the cheap particle board door.  The small space is occupied by one too many vessels; the generic set of four large yellow-spotted water glasses, two tall blue ones, one with golf club insignia purchased for fifty cents from the eco depot and the one with a super hero.  Spiderman looks right at him, webs shooting out from his fingertips as he swings among grey skyscrapers.  The impressive red of Spidey’s suit has now faded to a patchy pink and the integrity of his webbing looks compromised as it has become worn by little fingers gripping it from both sides and the one which now holds it. 

The glass, filled with milk, would sit alongside the marmite toast that would go cold and left partly eaten on the Dora plate.  Many times it fell over and the only reminders of this now are a chip on the rim and a little white stain on the threadbare brown carpet.  Instead of being filled from the bottle in the fridge now, the glass feels almost corrupted as the whisky splashes into the glass up to the level of Spiderman’s right heel and topped up with a splash of water.  On a bad night Spiderman’s knee gets a dunk; water often optional.

In the time it takes to boil a jug or to fill a glass with the dark amber fluid and let it slide down was all it took for him to vanish. Playing outside in his favourite superhero-of-the-moment costume, it was as if the delicate vines that entwined the tall trees had radiated out from his own fingertips and carried him away.

Andrew Hawkey

The Glass Therapist

Crash. Penny's bike was a crumpled heap. She ended up over the bonnet of the car, dazed with a severe bump on her head, a badly grazed leg and a bad gash. In a hurry, not concentrating and just on dark she did not see the car coming at the intersection. Emergency services swung into action and after a trip to hospital, she was patched up and some hours later was back in her flat.

Time passed, the wounds healed, the headaches started to disappear. She was slowly getting back into routine but lethargy had crept in, tiredness, a lack of concentration, also unpunctuality. Penny was a busy person. She studied at University, played hockey and belonged to Repertory. She also worked part time at Countdown.

Friends suggested, to go to the chiropractor, osteopath or to try hypnosis. Penny was down to earth and discounted alternative therapies. Some friends knew of great results with colour Raki or crystal therapists.

Some months later Penny still had not recovered. Her boyfriend's mother suggested a glass therapist. After considerable persuasion an appointment was arranged. A very amiable woman ushered her into a modern lounge where two glasses sat on a plain polished table, one plain, and one decorative. The woman explained the attributes of both. “Which glass?” she asked.  "This one or the other glass?", pointing to the decorative one. The session started with her finger on the plain glass, asking personal unrelated questions. The glass had some strange unexpected movements Then the session ended quietly. Nothing was said. No advice, explanations or any reasons given.

Walking home with Rodger that evening Penny stated it was all a lot of rot and discounted the whole strange experience. Later on, imperceptibly at first, the headaches disappeared then the tiredness and then all other symptoms quietly vanished.

Grant Ward

Never again

It was the kind of night when you perspired simply by breathing.

William’s 21^st party at his home was in full swing. Coloured lights hung across the veranda, their colours reflecting on the wall of the house. The Rock and Roll music blasted out urging everyone to dance.

Rose was 17, young and naively unaccustomed to alcoholic parties. She didn’t know why William had asked her. She’d only met him at tennis. She sat observing the actions of those there, sipping her lemonade, with a real slice of lemon, feeling very sophisticated.

William appeared. “Come on. Let’s dance," he’d said.

'One o’clock, two o’clock three o’clock rock' rang out. People were rocking, polka dot skirts with tight cinch belts circled around Rose, flaring and swishing brightly.

William was holding her close. Perhaps he liked her? Perspiration ringed his armpits. It was so hot. The boys were taking their shirts off and the girls their shoes.

Rose felt clammy and needed to cool off. 
"Just one more," William pleaded. He must like her! The music changed but instead of a slow one it was the Twist.

“Let’s twist and shout," everyone hollered.

Rose just had to sit. Exhaustedly she picked up her glass with the big slice of lemon and thirstily gulped it down. Strange taste!

William was beside her as the MC stood up to propose a toast.

"When William and I…………”

The room went round like a kaleidoscope of colour….

She woke up in a bedroom with the curtains drawn, head thumping.

“What time is it?” she asked William’s mother who had entered.

“It’s morning.  I rang your mother………"

 "What!!!!  What happened?”

“You picked up the wrong glass. It should have been the other one without the gin. William was worried."

The other glass.

Stupid mistake!

 Fay Ward

Through the looking glass

My name is Bartolome de las Casas. In 1484 I was born. More I do not know. I do not know if this place is hell or hallucination or the future.

The stub of candle gutters low – the stone walls closing in. I tap the barometric weatherglass – I know the pressure. But Goethe devised it in 1822 – not long after Lord Nelson raised the glass to his blind eye and announced he did not see the order to retreat. Some people never do.

There are two glasses – one contains ayahuasca: Mama Ayahuasca, brewed from the vine of death, gift of the jungle, who shows us horrors before she shows us: oneness; the sense of life; the feathered mosaic of weeping flowers; the singing, bird-headed women; energy-essence; numinous face of God raging through my electric, crystalline body.

When Cristobal Colon sailed to those forested islands dripping with life and rain, he wrote in his awful log –  ‘made eight miles an hour during eight glasses and three before the watch began …’ Some poor sailor turned the damned glass over every hour for the ten weeks it took.

It was another Italian invented spectacles – in 1286. Google Glass came later I think. The stub of candle gutters low.

Mama Ayahuasca cannot show me horrors. Have you seen a person burnt alive, have you seen three thousand people raped and mutilated and beheaded in a day? When we cut the hands off the children and tied the hands around their necks – you would be surprised how much blood there is, how long the children live … but not by how they scream.

There is always the other glass – the one commander Colon on his damned caravel put his hand out to. That is horrors.

I hear arpeggios – is it Einstein on the Beach?

Barnaby McBryde