DeScribe

Our three winners from March have given us the nod to reproduce their entries right here. So, without further ado:

'Little Pig' by Deb Wain

There was a fourth little pig
a ‘black sheep’ the others don’t like to talk about
didn’t buy a bundle of twigs
or even straw
certainly wasn’t into conventional bricks and mortar.

Instead he wove around himself
walls of words
in the fashion of a bookish igloo.
Transparent passages formed windows,
dark thoughts became heavy drapes to cover them
and keep out peering Curiosity.

And far from being blown away by the ravenous Wolf,
the little pig lived
- safely cocooned in stories -
keeping the world at bay.
All potential intruders began reading
and before they knew it they were searching
to find out how it ends.

Looping calligraphy papered the walls
of his imagination-warm living room
and the fourth little pig reclined
hidden
behind bewitching literature,
writing poems in the air
to keep the Wolf out.

'Caricature of a Cicada's Song' by Amber Beilharz

'Enlightenment' by Susie Chong

My sister Soph is rather bossy. Perhaps that’s why I’m here. We’re closer now, since the accident. Since then, she’s gone all religious and looks at the good side of people. She likes to believe in miracles. I’m an atheist.

She’s tall, with a lithe body and muscular arms. She used to beat me up when we were kids, which was embarrassing, as I’m the tough, younger brother. She’s got this determination that would persuade even the most reticent person to change their mind. So we’re here to see some type of guru, saint – an Indian, Dvarapala, Guardian of the Gate.

‘He has millions of followers world wide,’ Soph says. Her face is flushed.

We remove our shoes then climb the stairs to level one. The foyer is set up with stalls selling silk clothing, exotic incense, semi precious jewellery; Guru souvenirs. We walk towards the entrance of the conference hall. I peer inside.

Look all these people – must be over a thousand packed into this place. I’m not chanting or wearing those white type robes like them. Soph says ‘The Indian’ blesses people. His healing hands are supposed to take away our negative thoughts... Peace, yeah right. What about my job you arseholes? Can’t live on thin air, and then the ex girlfriend leaves me for a rich bastard. I never have trouble attracting females, it’s just keeping them. Must be my eyes. Women love them. I have my mother’s eyes.

A faint swirl of incense wafts from the altar. I sneeze. Soph says its patchouli, whatever that is. I look at the crowd and search for the Hindu guru. He sits at the front of the hall, below the stage in simple white robes, and wears a tightly wound matching turban around his head. He is a small, ordinary looking man. People kneel before him. As he touches a woman’s forehead, my heart leaps. I’m embarrassed. I’ve become emotional, just like a girl. What’s going on? Suddenly, my mother’s image appears before me. She smiles, and gently strokes my face. Then she vanishes. My eyes become moist as I try to stifle a sob.

I can’t believe she’s dead. So sudden. At first, I didn’t understand what happened. Later, I cried for a couple of days. The truck just ploughed straight into the old deluxe ford and burst into flames. Mum was on her way to the market. The policeman said it was hard to identify her body. Dad had taken us to the footy that day. He was in shock when he found out, and didn’t last long after that. Literally withered and died before my eyes. Couldn’t cope being by himself. We’ve been orphans for a long time. Hell, I’m turning gay. No way! Where is all this feeling crap coming from? I’d better get a grip on myself. I slap my face. Whack!

‘Are you OK?’ Soph looks surprised.

‘Yeah.’

۞۞۞۞

I follow Soph. We queue for numbers, and after waiting half an hour we get our tokens. She points to some vacant seats. I take off my jacket and shuffle my feet on the textured floorboards. Hope I don’t run into anybody I know. The guys at the pub will think I’ve gone psycho.

A woman with a purple, fringed shawl squeezes past us. A piece of fabric softly caresses my face. ‘Excuse me,’ she whispers, as she shakes her wavy auburn hair. She has deep-green eyes and her skin is unlined. Her light fruity perfume sweetens the air. The strap of her faded tapestry bag hooks onto the back of a chair. She tugs it gently. It falls away. She smiles. My eyes follow her. I notice a drop of sweat trickle down my neck. I inhale her lingering fragrance. The hall is filled with a weird energy. I stare at the herringbone pattern on the brick-clad wall.

۞۞۞۞

Suddenly, I smell salt. I close my eyes and hear children laughing. The blue-tinged water edged with white foam, washes over my toes. My feet sink into the cool, wet sand. The waves gush and roar. I look up, and my mother waves from the beach. She peers from her wide-rimmed sunglasses, her floral bag hangs from the catch under the enormous sun umbrella. Abruptly, I awake from my trance to the sound of sitar music. I jump up, stunned.

‘Where is she?’ I turn quickly to catch a glimpse of the woman, but she has disappeared.

‘Sit down,’ Soph scolds. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘That woman I just saw … it was Mum,’ I stammer.

‘What? You’re an idiot.’

‘You told me to believe in miracles.’

‘Don’t be a dickhead.’

‘Perhaps she’s been re-incarnated?’

‘What drugs are you on?’

I chew my lip and rub the back of my neck with a trembling hand. What’s happening? She died six years ago. How could she be here? And now Soph and I have switched personalities. I’m the believer, and she’s the cynic. Must be something we ate. Perhaps those lentil balls. Were they laced with hash? Am I losing it, or have I seen the light?

‘It was her. I saw her face. I remember her perfume and that tapestry bag she carried.’

‘There were lots of them. You’re crazy.’

‘I…’ I close my mouth. ‘It’s her,’ I say with conviction. Frantically, I push my way through to the end row of seats, in search of the mysterious woman with the purple shawl.