May 1999

Carley Rey

Carley Rey joined the New Writers E-mail List several months ago. She immediately began submitting her work and providing valuable critique of the works of others. Best of all, she has not slowed down. She continues to be very active on the list with her submissions, critiques, participation in the writing exercises, and contributions to the writing discussions. She has encouraged many of us and is always available to provide assistance in any way that she can, sharing her opinions and wisdom. She has a natural writing talent, tactfulness and wit, which is to be envied and make her a valuable member of the New Writers List. We dedicate this page to you Carley as a way to say "Thank you" for all that you do for each of us as individuals, and as part of the group.

An Interview with Carley Rey
Carley's Tip to Writers
A Showcase of Carley's Works
Some of Carley's Favorite Links

AN INTERVIEW WITH CARLEY REY

How Do You Find Time To Write?

I lead a busy life but I make the time. Writing is my relaxation and can be equaled to meditation. I attend classes where I have to write to pass. But then if I see an exercise posted to the list that takes my imagination I try it. It is amazing how many times the New Writers exercises have fit with my class requirements helping me to come up with some great ideas. Keeping a journal helps. I write down my ideas and possibly have a lifetime of ideas already.

I remember having thoughts of being a writer when I was at school and have played with it ever since. It was when I went back to school at aged 35 that I realised I needed more skills for essay writing and decided to do something about it.

Since then I have attended a number of writing workshops as well as going back to school to do Professional Writing and Editing. I have been doing this for the past four years and have loved all of it. I have met a lot of interesting people from all age groups but we all have a similar goal - to be able to write effectively.

When I finished my first course and started to read some light fiction. I thought ‘I could do this.’

Not really in the first place, but I have had a number of tutors and mentors that I have found to be encouraging and even enthusiastic about my writing. Now I cannot let them down can I? So that is a very good excuse to keep at it.

Marion Zimmer Bradley. Jennifer Bacia, Sydney Sheldon, John Marsden and Adib Khan are among the many I have enjoyed over the years. Marion Zimmer Bradley writes both historical Mythology and Sci-fi. My favorite book would have to be ‘The Mists of Avalon’, an Arthurian Legend. The first time I read this book I read it during the day and dreamed it at night. I had people I knew as the characters. It was an experience as well as great read.

Jenifer Bacia is an Australian writer in suspense and was able to touch on the senses along with the imagination. Sydney Sheldon usually has a good flowing suspense along with a twist at the end. John Marsden, also an Aussie writes for teenagers, but hey, why should they have all the fun? And, Adib Khan an Indian come Aussie and one of my mentors. I am sure he just loves to play with words. He is successful at it as well.

When I first began to study Professional Writing and Editing I wrote some stories for a local newspaper. I was also approached to write a story, which I thought was an honour.

I would like to have a novel published - or maybe I should take a more positive approach. I am going to have a novel published. That sounds better. I made it a goal this year I would do something positive. Becoming Featured Writer of the Month is a positive start and I don’t intend to stop here.

I started wanting to write romance but I’ve yet to write it. I have found I write what comes to me whether it is nice or chilling. I seem to come up with the later of late and have been told I am a sick woman. But then it is real life and life can be cruel. It does not mean I like writing it but if it touches an emotion I have succeeded in conveying a message. I think that is what writing is about - touching emotions and leaving an impression.

As long as it is something I know about or I have a particular interest in, I have not found one thing is more difficult than another. Some things seem to flow easily while I have slaved over others and still had difficulty getting it to flow. I never throw anything out. I do hate it when I have to write an essay though.

At first my family just went along with it and on a whole they still do, but now they are showing some pride in what I have written. My friends have been very encouraging and are great to bounce ideas around with. It is good to have a few to read my work and get feedback it is a sounding board to see if I have passed the message across adequately.

I have five children who are now aged from primary school to working adult. They each have quite separate personalities and they have given me plenty of material for writing.

I have had an interest in genealogy for most of my life. My grandmothers used to tell me stories of their grandparents or family and I found it all fascinating. I remember my year 5 teacher asking us where our ancestors came from. I think it was the first time I came to realise the Aborigines were the only original natives in our country. I was so excited to think my ancestors came from other lands, more so when dad informed us we not only had English and Irish but also Swedish, now that was pretty exotic to me. I have since found he had a Danish ancestor as well. It is amazing how much information can be found on ancestors and the more I find out, the more alive they seem to be. Now with the Internet it is even more exciting. I have found so many distant relatives all with the same interests as myself. It is also a wonderful way to learn history when I can fit a family members in with certain events. It can do wonders for my writing as well.

Along with this I also enjoy meditation, and the study of esoteric practices. This year I am studying Myths and Symbols and find it exciting. It is a wonderful subject for any writer to study as it broadens the imagination and understanding of story.

I work with people with intellectual disabilities which can be both challenging and rewarding. These people show an honesty and innocence that most of us has lost through life experiences. It is these people and children that can show us the world as it should be lived.

CARLEYS TIPS TO NEW WRITERS

Don’t just think about doing it. Go with your ideas. Never give up and never throw anything out. Take notice of everything around you because you never know what will trigger the imagination.

Although boring, a good grasp on grammar is the best asset any writer can have. It is important that what you say conveys what you mean and how you want it said.

Also be able to take constructive criticism. It is good to have more than one opinion sometimes because if everyone picks up on one area you know you may have it wrong. But if some like one thing and others do not then it is up to you. I know I have played with a sentence for some time only to have someone say the wording is back to front or something similar, I’ve turned it around and found it works. I also have lots of references, dictionary, thesaurus, English usage, English Grammar English References, all sitting next to my computer.

Facts are another area that I think is important even in fiction. Never treat your reader as someone that knows nothing, you can bring yourself undone.

A SHOWCASE OF CARLEY'S WORKS

Heaven's Gates
Blessed Water
The Magic of Illusion
To Care For

Two little girls stood on the edge of the highway. Small hearts were beating as they watched the gates of Heaven open for the souls departing the living world. Was she there? Was it too late to say goodbye to the lady they had been born to love? As they gazed at the opening in the dark ominous clouds, an ethereal light shone through. They looked tearfully at each other, they had come this far and now it may be too late.

‘It may not be for her.’ Jessie whispered hopefully. A tear escaped and coursed slowly down Emmie’s cheek as she blinked over large blue eyes. Jessie swallowed convulsively to hide her own distress. They had to be strong. They had to keep going. Emmie lifted her hand and grasped Jessie’s. Without a word they continued on their way.

It was only the previous evening they had heard their parents murmuring in hushed tones. Grandma Joyce was in the hospital, it shouldn’t be long now. The memory quickened Jessie’s pace as she pulled Emmie behind her. They needed to see her. Why did everyone hide it from them? Was death such a terrible thing?

A sudden flash of lightning warned them the Heavenly gate was about to close. A thunder roll proclaimed the size of the structure as the clouds sealed the entrance.

So that’s what’s thunder, Emmie thought in awe, God closing the gates to Heaven. I’ll never be scared of storms again.

A gentle warm breeze gradually changed to a cold wind. It whipped around the small bodies, tossing their hair and chilling them. They moved a little quicker. Large drops of rain began to fall. Slowly at first. The occasional dollop. Then more often, and before long it was a downpour. The wind became wilder, pelting the rain harder against the fragile torsos, quickly drenching them through the fine cotton material of their summer dresses.

They continued on, determined to reach their destination. It was a long way from home but they were almost there. Winning against the odds. They were so young, so small and the world was so big and wild. Lightning flashed and streaked across the sky, followed by the thunder rumbling while the wind howled and rain soaked everything. It made the ground feel spongy as they trudged along the roadside.

It was two very wet little angels who entered the hospital. They stood in the lobby, holding hands, and dripping on the floor. Two pairs of large blue eyes looked around, overwhelmed with the size and complexity of their surroundings.

‘Where do we find Grandma Joyce?’ Emmie whispered, pushing her dripping hair from her face with a free hand. Jessie didn’t know and looked down at the coloured lines running in different directions on the floor.

‘Well, good afternoon young ladies. Are you looking for someone?’

‘We’re looking for Grandma Joyce.’ Emmie answered seriously.

‘Do you know where she is?’ asked the obliging nurse.

Jessie remembered her father’s words from the previous evening. ‘At least the Palliative Care Ward is comfortable for her and she has the needed care on hand. I know she wanted to be at home but we could not look after her ourselves’ ‘She’s in paltive care.’ Jessie informed her.

They followed the nurse. She followed the white line.

‘These young ladies are looking for Grandma Joyce.’ The guide informed the matron on the Palliative Care floor. The matron knew who they were looking for.

She lay on the bed. Her frail body smaller. Her white hair was fine and wispy, her skin paper-thin. Her eyes were closed and breathing shallow. A tube sat under her nose, supplying her with the oxygen her lungs were incapable of drawing in. Two nurses came in with towels and dried the girls.

‘You can’t let her see you both dripping wet.’

Wrapped in large white towels the sisters quietly went to the lady’s bedside and looked on her weakened body.

‘Grandma Joyce, we’re glad you’re still here.’ Jessie said softly. Faded grey eyes opened to look at her visitors.

‘My babies, I’ve been waiting for you.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Oh good Grandma. We saw the gates of Heaven were opened and thought you might’a already gone there.’

She smiled weakly. ‘Did you think I would go without saying goodbye? Besides I wanted to tell you I will be watching out for you and I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘That’s all right Grandma you told us all about Heaven. You’ll be happy there. 'Emmie said quietly. ‘And you won’t be sick anymore.’

‘Grandma, when you see the children in Heaven, tell them the stories you told us? Some of them haven’t got their mums and dads.’ Jessie’s face held a sad smile.

The storm had eased momentarily when the family arrived. They fussed over the girls, pleased to find them safe. But attention turned to Grandma Joyce. They kissed the old lady and said their goodbyes. The sun shimmered through the window. The gate to Heaven had opened and the divine light shone. God had come to show Grandma Joyce the way.

As their parents cried, Jessie and Emmie wondered at the fuss and watched as the summer storm closed the gate to Heaven.

(c) Carley Rey 1999

Tinder dry landscape lay before her. Grass, once green, was now dry and straw-like. Gum leaves crisped on tree branches. Bush undergrowth crunched underfoot as wildlife moved through. Kangaroos appeared on the edge of the bush looking for greener pastures and nearby dam water had almost completely evaporated. Mary-Ellen surveyed this scene from her large shaded veranda.

The heat was oppressive. Making breathing difficult. Pulling at her long, heavy skirts, Mary-Ellen cursed the dress, collar, petticoats and stays as they continued to contain the heat close to her body. Cotton was cooler, but there were still so many layers. If only she was a child she could strip down to her petticoat, undo all her corsets and dowse herself with water. Being a lady deemed this inappropriate to her station, thus she had to endure the discomfort of her position and swelter. Wiping her hand over her forehead and head, she felt the sheen of perspiration. Pulling at her collar, she breathed exhaustedly.

‘Cold drink, Ma’am?’ Bridget stood next to Mary-Ellen, bearing a tray holding a jug of water and glasses. Mary-Ellen smiled at the servant girl and nodded. Bridget wandered along the veranda to the small table and sat the tray down. Pouring the drink she mentioned about the water just being drawn from the well, it was as cold as they could serve it. Slices of lemon and leaves of mint floating in the liquid made it even more inviting.

Sitting in one of the chairs, Mary-Ellen lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. The water felt good as it wet her dry mouth and throat, parched from the dust formed through weeks of continuous heat and lack of rain. It was times like this she missed the English countryside, now so far away. Her past had become an almost forgotten dream.

She glanced over the land in front of her to the hills in the distance. It seemed she was looking at the whole world as she looked over the vast area beyond the orchards and bush. Everything was so dry and she knew Tom was worried about the crops. Would there be enough to sell as well as store for themselves for the year?

Again she lifted the glass to her lips. The heat was so great Mary-Ellen began to feel the whole scene was about to ignite. A shiver ran through her at the thought. She sipped more of her water.

This was her third year in this new and wild country. Tom and she had arrived with their son as a toddler and a daughter, born on board ship. Mary-Ellen had no idea what lay ahead for them in the new land. Tom was able to take up a selection of land. Then there was the laborious task of clearing and planting, building fences and bringing in stock. They had been lucky in having some money to start them on the way to a more comfortable future and hire some help.

Bridget was a young Irish girl and barely eighteen years old. She was sent, to the new country, by her family in the hope of a better life. She was one of many of these girls; Mary-Ellen felt for them, to come so far at such a young age--alone and with uncertainty. She had taken a particular liking to Bridget and offered her a place immediately. Young Tom liked her and Hannah had grown with Bridget always being there for her when Mary-Ellen was busy.

Then there was Mrs Hart. Also Irish, she had lost her husband to pneumonia on the trip out to the colonies. Mrs Hart was a housekeeper and a midwife and had helped with Mary-Ellen’s delivery of Hannah. The widow was delighted when Tom asked if she wanted a position as cook. The three women, although different in many ways, were united in the struggle to tame this wild country, and were able to become amiable friends and colleagues in the running of the household.

‘Bridget, are you and Mrs Hart going to join me for a drink?’ ‘Aye Ma’am, but I believe it to be cooler inside the house. I think you should move in there.’

Mary-Ellen nodded her agreement, stood and followed Bridget to the door.

Bridget hesitated and looked around momentarily before entering the house. Mary-Ellen thought she smelt something familiar. She too looked around and not seeing anything, followed Bridget along the hallway to the sitting room.

Mary-Ellen relaxed in a lounge chair and looked out the window. Her heart plunged. Smoke rose lazily in the distance. It had not been her imagination at the door. She had smelt smoke. Rising quickly, she rushed out to the veranda. As she observed the smoke on the horizon she lifted her hand to judge the direction of the wind. It was blowing their way.

The two servants left the house and came to stand behind her.‘I thought I could smell smoke.’ exclaimed Bridget, ‘What do we do now?’

A sudden thought came to Mary-Ellen. Going back inside, she found her bottle of Holy Water blessed only last week by Father O’Brien, at Sunday Mass. Taking it outside, she moved around the perimeter of the house fence, sprinkling Holy Water and reciting the Hail Mary as she went.

She was disappointed when she overheard Bridget ask Mrs Hart quietly, ‘How’d she think that wee bit of water’s going to help?’ All the time Mary-Ellen had spent teaching Bridget of the Holy Church, she still did not understand faith.

‘Bridget! Go and pump some water up and fill all the buckets you can.’ Mary-Ellen snapped. The children were still asleep and she would leave them there as long as possible. ‘Oh dear God in heaven if only Tom and the men were here.’ she whispered, then she would not have to worry as much. ‘Holy Mary mother of God...’ she continued as she went back inside.

The smoke thickened, permeating around them, quietly seeping and curling as it drew closer. Mary-Ellen tried to remain calm and packed some necessities to take with them if they should have to leave. Mrs Hart scuttled from room to room closing windows and laying wet linen in front of the doors. Bridget was still out pumping water, filling all containers that would hold any practical amount.

The fumes became stronger. The women knew as they held handkerchiefs over their faces, the fire would be licking their feet in a short time. The smoke created an eerie, yellow-orange light and paled the sun so much it could be looked at directly. Cold fingers of fear crept over Mary-Ellen, as the sky became darker.

The sound of horse hooves distracted them. Men rode into the yard. ‘Tom!’ Mary-Ellen filled with relief ran to her husband. She hoped he would have all the answers to save them--and all they had in the world.

The other men moved around to the stockyards opening gates allowing the animals to run free. Mary-Ellen looked at her husband with concern. ‘I have to let the animals have a chance. We can round them up after.’ His face was black from soot proving he had already tried to fight the fire elsewhere. ‘Is there plenty of water pumped?’

Mary-Ellen could only nod. They had talked about a fire plan before, but she never believed it would really happen. She should have known better. In this God-forsaken country anything was likely.

‘I want you and everyone else to take the children to the dam. It is clear of trees and possible falling matter. What we will do, when the fire comes, is wet all the blankets and lay down with them over the top of us.’

Mary-Ellen looked at her husband as if he had gone mad. They had to get away from here as far as they could, quickly. Tom saw her stunned expression and realising her fear he whispered, ‘It’s our only chance.’

Setting to work, they carted as much water as they could to what was left of the dam. It was as far from possible falling branches and debris as they could safely go, and with very little grass. The ladies took turns in watching the children and monitoring the distance of the fire, while the men worked to wet down the veranda and roof of the house.

The wind whipped up in bursts and they could hear the roar of the fire fast approaching. Tom and another man had sealed the house and spread more water around and on the walls in the vain hope they could save it. Smoke was filling their lungs and breathing was becoming more difficult as the flames drew near. Mary-Ellen grabbed her daughter as Bridget took their son to the dam and a head count was made as they gathered in the area.

Holding the children close they covered themselves over with the wet woollen blankets. The fire roared and crackled around them, the children cried in fear. Mary-Ellen could feel the water heating on her back and she was sure they would be scolded before being burnt. Her husband’s hand came out to meet hers giving it a tight squeeze.

It seemed like hours before the fire passed. All had been breathing shallowly to try not to inhale too much smoke and steam. Finally Tom pulled the blanket away from them.

‘It has passed.’ he said in a relieved voice, ‘Is everyone alright?’ Mary-Ellen was glad to be out of the steam bath. She was not looking forward to seeing if they still had a home or seeing all her belongings burnt and twisted in a mass of ashes and coals. She looked at the others and their sweaty, black faces. All were looking in the direction of the house, their blank expressions telling her nothing.

Tom stood for a few seconds looking around; then took off in a run, yelling to the men as he went. Mary-Ellen took a deep breath then turned to see the house was still standing. Smoke was rising lazily from the roof and verandahs, suggesting small fires were smouldering, but not burning. She was needed urgently, to help fight for their home.

For hours they carted water drenching down the house and verandah and carefully checking hot spots. The house was full of ash and the smell of smoke, and as darkness fell fire could still be seen in the distance. But everyone here was safe, Mary-Ellen noted with thanks, her babies, her husband and their workers. It would take weeks to clean up the mess but their home was saved, this time anyway.

Mary-Ellen looked at the small portraits, of family left behind in the old country, as well as the belongings they had bought from there. She took comfort in them although it was obvious, they were just belongings. She prayed her thanks to God for saving them from the fires of Hell, and said another for her neighbours and friends, who may have suffered injuries and lost loved ones and their homes.

Mary picked up the bottle of Holy Water and tipped some into the small font by the bedroom door. She smiled as she remembered Bridget’s remark made earlier in the day as she dipped her fingers in the font and blessed herself with thanks.

(c) 1999 Carley Rey

The music surrounded me, controlling my thought processes and drawing my attention to the small spotlight slowly appearing, enlarging and scanning the stage. The haunting tune drifted, weaving a spell around unsuspecting listeners and ensconcing them into a cocoon of mystery and intrigue.

He appeared in an expulsion of vapour, wrapped in a huge black cape in the midst of the dull lights. He searched, he found, his sight held mine--dark brooding eyes--hypnotising, drawing me into a world of fantasy. As his vision seared into my own he extended his arms straight and high, pulling the cape open, holding it to form a large semi-circle. The silver lining created a shimmering background to a glittering blue shirt and black satin pants, conjuring thoughts of him immersed in a pool of clear sparkling water. The cape drifted away from him seemingly on its own, and he spun like a skater then stood to observe his captive--me. He moved as a dancer, graceful and silent, bright against the insipid background of dull scenery. Long tapered hands beckoned me as he drifted toward a curtained box.

People appeared from nowhere to join him. His slaves--trained to move when he demanded--there to please the master of control. A stern look would bring them to their knees so he could use them mercilessly. One of his drones he cut in half then reassembled her with a simple, light touch. Another, firmly chained and locked in a box, appeared free, within seconds in the middle of an overwhelmed audience. Then the master performed the most prodigious miracle. As soft clouds formed at his feet and over his head he danced gracefully, lifted, floated, moved through the air, flying free of all inhibitions. Still he glared at me, inviting me to join him, challenging me to become his vassal.

Tricks? No--phantasm passed on by an illusionist. I was mesmerised, one in a crowd of hundreds, yet his enchantment was aimed directly at me. Lost to him, I could only see those leering eyes. I did not want to be found; I could stay here forever.

The end came. The cape drifted in and enclosed him in its folds and with a final inviting glance my way--he was gone. Poof! Vanished, as suddenly as he had appeared earlier.

I blinked as the lights, shining brightly plunged me back to reality. Looking around I saw a stunned crowd still waking from an induced daze.

Taking a deep draught of air I wondered if I had breathed through any of the show. I could not remember doing so and my lungs felt tortured.

Slowly I stood and joined the shifting crowd making their way to the exit. I could not but wonder at the sensation of unreality still holding me as I merged into the milling throng. I took one step at a time and mused over the attention bestowed me during the show. I was the only one in the crowd seen by Him.

In front of me, slightly crippled and white haired, an elderly couple staggered toward the door. The lady turned slightly to her husband her voice animated with glee. ‘Did you see that Richard? He was just staring at me all through the show.

No! The thought shattered me. She was wrong. He was staring at me. I was the only one he saw. Then I looked around and discerned the faces of all who had seen it, felt it and believed; the man was there for them only. It was part of the illusion, a fantasy and yet it felt so real.

I reached the front door and consciously became aware of my husband by my side. He came into the show with me but that was all I remembered. He looked at me and smiled. He was real, familiar, and normal. We walked quietly towards our car.

‘You enjoyed that didn’t you?’ he whispered, ‘He had you under a spell you know.’

‘Really.’ I replied. ‘Are you jealous?’

He shook his head and pursed his lips in thought. ‘Nah, no need.’

‘He would be easy to fall in love with.’ I remarked casually and thought how true it was.

‘Remember it was just an illusion. He gave you one night of magic to remember. But, I am more tangible.’ He smiled cheekily, wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled out a single stemmed, red rose from behind his back. ‘Where he is a wisp of air that will disappear; I am solid matter and here to stay.’

Tonight I heard the sorcerer had performed his last enchantment. He moved into another dimension joining my late husband who had passed over six months ago. The news led me to find a small treasure hidden in the depths of memorabilia. I smiled as I opened a small wooden box holding a pressed red rose and thought of the long happy moments we shared together.

Including that long ago night we spent in the magic of illusion.

(c) 1999 Carley Rey

‘e’d ad a stroke the doc said. ‘pologised for it too. Yeah, I were shocked. Didn’t spect it ta ‘appen at ‘is age. Took me a bit ta work out what it all meant. I asked the doc. ‘e didn’t know. It weren’t good, debil -debilitating I think ‘e said. ‘e can’t move or talk, they didn’t know if it were permanent. We needed time.

Time. I got plenty o’ time.

We got no kids an’ the farm’s got nuthin’ goin’ for it. What else’ve I got ta do ‘cept look after an invalid? I went ta see ‘im. They told me ‘e won’t look good ‘caus of the tubes an’ machines an’ all. They thought it might upset me or somethin’ ‘cause it looks scary. There’s only one way ‘e’d look scary to me and it aint in no ‘ospital bed ‘tached to no tubes an’ things. Don’ know what they thought o’ me, at the ‘ospital caus I didn’t cry or nuthin’. Prob’ly thought it were shock or som’thin’.

I went ta the intensive care ward. ‘e were asleep--or unconscious--I don’ know but ‘e didn’t know I’as there. ‘e looked smaller, weak as water. Decievin’ really.Yeah, ‘e looked sick. I left the ‘ospital.

It were three months before ‘e come ‘ome. In a ambulance ‘e was. Came in a wheelchair. ‘e couldn’t walk or talk. ‘e could move ‘is arms a bit but ‘e couldn’t write or nothin’ like that. ‘e needed me ta do it all for ‘im. Huh! needed me for everythin’

Something’s not right.

They say she’s me wife, Tania, but I didn’t see much of her in the hossie. She come sometimes but didn’t talk or nothng; just put in me clean ‘jamas an’ left. A bit cold this one is, not like the nurses in the hossie. She’s different when someone’s around, fussin an’all. Like now with the ambulance men ‘ere, making me comfy, showing them where to put me. Near the fire so I don’t get cold.

I look out the window and see the ambulance leave. I feel a bit funny seeing them go. Sorta scared or something. I don’t know what to expect. I only remember bits ‘n pieces from before I got sick. She comes in. She looks old, haggard but I think she’s only in her twenties or so. A new dress and a haircut would do wonders for her but she don’t seem interested in her looks. Shits me really, she should look after herself.

‘Well come on Rodney. I’ll show ya to ya room, I hope ya like it.’ She jerks the wheelchair forward, out the room, up the hall and into a small bedroom. What an awful room. The window is tiny, hardly letting in any light with the blind pulled down. There’s a bed in the corner and one of them commode chairs next to the bedside table. That’s it, nothing else, no carpet and the floor ain’t even polished. The only light is a dull globe hanging from the ceiling. Everything looks so drab, including her.

‘Enjoy.’ she says and she leaves the room. I’m sitting ‘ere alone. It’s the first time I’ve been alone since I went to the hossie. I can hear the tele going and her moving around the house. The kettle’s boiling. I can hear the whistle. I wonder if she’ll make me a coffee?

I’d love a cup of coffee.

I don’t see her. She doesn’t come. I’m hungry now, an’ thirsty. I need the loo. If only I could call her, remind her I’m here. Has she forgotten? Damn =BE now I’ve pissed meself. Why doesn’t she come? It’s cold. I move me hands across meself to try an’ keep warm. I’m shivering; me wet pants making me even colder. I can’t do anything. Why won’t she come? Time keeps dragging on and on. I sit here hour after hour. I hear her laugh at the tele. I smell food cooking. I’m so hungry.

I’m getting really pissed off here. If I could move like I used to I’d beat the shit out of her for treating me like this. I look over at the window, I think it’s dark out there now. I’m hungry, thirsty, tired.

I want to sleep.

O’ course I never ‘ad a life o’ me own. First me father thought ‘e ‘ad sole possession o’ me. Then ‘e decided to get married ag’in so ‘e married me off to the ‘ighest bidder. Well, not quite, but the first man who took any sort o’ int’rest in me. I were just sixteen. Rodney was twenty-two. He’d just in’ereited the farm and needed someone to look afta the ‘ouse and cook for ‘im. It suited ‘em both, me old man got rid o’ me and Rodney got ‘is slave.

I just wanted a real life; like the girls on the tele. They went to parties and got nice clothes an’ all--but me--I were married and spent me days cleanin’ an’ cookin’. I ‘ad to buy all me clothes at the Salvo’s store. I even cut me own ‘air.

But ‘e weren’t ‘appy. I never did nothin’ right.

‘This food taste’s like shit.’ ‘ed say. It ‘as no flavour, or it were too spicy, or too salty. It never tasted like ‘is mum’s cookin’. I don’t even know what ‘is mum cooked. ‘is family was all dead when I come, that’s how ‘e in’erited the farm. Anyways I never ‘ad no money for much food so I don’t know what ‘e ‘xpected. I think ‘e used ta buy ‘is meals at the pub while I lived on watered down soup and bread most o’ the time.

I tried ta run away once. Went to a shelter but it were full and they ‘ad nowhere for me ta go. I didn’t ‘ave any bruises or nuthin’ so they thought it were safe for me ta go ‘ome. That were the trouble, if there was bruises ‘e’d lock me in that tiny room till they was all gone. Anyways, when I got ‘ome ‘e put me over ‘is knee and strapped me bare arse with ‘is belt, then locked me outside for the night. Said if I wanted to know what it were like to live away from ‘ome ‘e’d show me.

It were cold that night.

She’s finally come in to me. Complained about the smell. What’d she expect? I couldn’t control me bladder all day. She’s got some food for me. I don’t know what it is. Mush. Not much taste. It’s just all mixed up together. She expects me to eat it straight from the bowl. Just like a dog. She says I’m just an animal anyway. I eat it. I have to, I’m starving. I have more food on my face than in my stomach by the time I finish. She feeds me a cup of coffee. It’s awful, cold, weak and full of milk and sugar. I’m so thirsty I drink it. She pushes me over to the bed and tips the chair up so I can fall onto it. It’s not very comfortable. She pulls off me pissy pants and complains about having to wash the stinking things. Now I’m naked and all she gives me is a doona to cover me. It’s not very warm. My feet are cold and I can’t do anything about it.

I sleep. I don’t know for how long but it’s daylight when I wake. I can hear Tania in the kitchen. I wonder how long it will be before she comes to me. What will she feed me for breakfast? Or will I get any breakfast at all. Mush again; this time I think it’s cereal or something. I lift my hand to push it away. She threatens to starve me. I look at the hard expression, her cold eyes. I believe her. My face feels all stiff where the food’s dried on it. It is so uncomfortable. She gets me on the commode chair and wheels me into the bathroom. Shoves me over the loo and leaves. I’m naked. She could have covered me, it’s embarrassing and it’s cold. I’m bloody freezing here woman. God I wish I could yell and scream. Needs me belt across her backside that one does.

Thank God! How long have I been here. A couple of hours at least. She’s turning on the shower, just what I need. Shit! It’s cold. A cold shower. I find my voice but she belts me across the head and tells me to shut-up.

I’ll kill the bitch when I feel right. I’ll kill the bitch.

All me life I’ve bin abused. Physical, mental and sexual. Just someone’s slave, their toy.

Did’ya read the paper? Woman Tortures Invalid Husband, it read. Big headlines too. Found ‘im dead in a bed o’ his own waste, ‘xposure, neglect and starvation it said. Three years o’ it. It were the best three years I had ‘cept for the smell an’ his moanin’. Sixteen years of abuse from me ole man, ten from a mongrel ‘usband an’ I only got three years of revenge. It were a good three years. Oh well, jail’s good. Clean clothes, good food and plenty o’ friends ta talk ta.

Yeah! I think I like jail.

(c) 1999 Carley Rey

SOME OF CARLEY'S FAVORITE LINKS

One Look Dictionary
Wordsmyth English Dictionary-Thesaurus
Geneology Resources on the Internet
Websurfer's Guide to Making Holograms
E-Mail Carley

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April 1999 Featured Writer of the Month,
Charles Langley

March 1999 Featured Writer of the Month,
Elsie Roark

February 1999 Featured Writer of the Month,
Lauren Roche

January 1999 Featured Writer of the Month,
Barry Blackmore

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