Is it any good pleading? Thompson says.
For your life? Not really.
But you can’t just toss me aside like a dog carcass, not after all I’ve done for you.
You were more than serviceable, Hunter admits. But you’ve served your purpose. You can’t argue with me.
Will it be painless?
Well, get it over with then.
One minute, Hunter says.
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop.
Finish your drink, Hunter says. Out with the old and in with the new, he smiles, keyboarding fiercely.
He taps the delete button.
And with that, Thompson is gone.
I was talking to my rarely glimpsed neighbour who was out the front raking the leaves.
We chewed the fat for a while
and then I asked him about Gus, his elderly Jack Russel.
He doesn’t annoy you. does he? he asked.
Not at all, I said. I’m a dog person.
Well, he annoys the hell out of me, he said. The other day he was barking at the dining room wall and wouldn’t stop. There was nothing there.
Apparently, they see ghosts, I said. Even in the dark.
He stopped raking.
Or he has dementia? He offered.
Wow! I said. That would open a can of worms. Think how many documented ghost sightings could be put down to dementia.
People don’t bark at walls, he said.
Not even in they’re barking mad ? I asked.
We both laughed uneasily.
Inside, the dog began barking again.
God must love larrikins.
He calls them home early
to be with Him.
Warnie, of course. the King of Spin
and some years earlier,
The Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin.
No one saw that coming.
Least of all, him.
A creature from the black lagoon!
Too soon. Too soon. Taken.
And Paul Walker, my favourite,
who taught me to live
fast and furious.
God took him too.
But the dictators and tyrants
are allowed to linger,
If only He loved them a little more.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by Kobe eReader
Perhaps it stung someone.
Perhaps that’s why it’s hurt.
I’ve watched it for half an hour
struggle across the pavers and dirt
stumbling into things like a drunk
fall over, get up again.
It’s painful watching this
but what can I do to assist?
I just happened to look down
and saw this old soldier hobbling along
and followed him. I hope I did no wrong.
Who would do that?
Creep up in the middle of the night
& drop a dead pigeon
in yr rubbish bin?
If it was good enough
To put in my bin
Why wasn’t it good enough
To put in theirs?
O the stink,
The weight of it!
I shovelled it out of the bin
And tossed it,
Neck all crumpled,
Into the far right hand corner of the garden
Where it could decay
Among the cluster of leaves.
The only good thing is
It’s given me something rancorous
To write about.
Unstable Cliffs, the sign reads. Stay Clear.
And I think of the unstable Cliffs I have known:
The deputy that has a meltdown whenever I call in sick:
my cousin’s boyfriend who punches holes in the wall
when he is denied,
and the glue-sniffing Cliff I taught in Year 11 who fell asleep
on the tracks coming home from a party and was run over by a train.
They should have come with warnings too.
He had a rough time as a kid, a tough time as a teenager, and did hard time as an adult in maximum-security, an ideal upbringing for a Coffin Confessor, a calling Bill Edgar, the author, pioneered.
You need balls to be a coffin confessor, a job, if you’ll excuse the pun, he fell into. A coffin confessor gatecrashes funerals, and reads out what his client, the deceased, discloses to him on their deathbed. He is entrusted to let the mourners know the bitter truth that has been largely hidden from them all this time. There is always at least one of the mourners who receives a right royal drubbing, a public flogging by the lash of truth.
He3re is his spiel: “Excuse me, but I’m going to need you to sit down, shut up or fuck off. The man in the box has a few things to say,”
You gotta read this book. Every chapter is rivetting.
Something is bothering
round and round
a solipsistic fluff
driving us round the bend.
She worries the others.
A few days later
when we let her out she resumes
then huddles beneath
the bird bath
and will not move.
We shift her.
She crawls under a bush
hard to reach.
The cat who often bothers the chooks
leaves her alone.
That night it rains and rains.
In the morning
she is bedraggled
I lift her into the earth.
There isn’t much of her.
The chooks settle after that.
So do we.
Please Wait to be Called,
the sign said
So I did.
I took a ticket and waited
behind the others
till it was my turn
at the head of the queue
outside the draughty pearly gates
holding my flimsy little ticket
& when, growing impatient,
I stepped forward,
St. Peter held up his hand:
“There seems to be some problem,”
“You’ll have to wait a little longer,”
I stamped my feet a little
when a white light flashed overhead
& a door opened behind
& I was whooshed back
to the operating theatre where the surgeons
had revived me.
One step from paradise.
pic courtesy of Pinterest,com
courtesy of Unsplash,com by ecemwashere