The Novel.. More Unravelling

So here is the next section, again completely unedited an un-finalised.

I have spent some time going back over the first post and changed a few things to help it either flow better or just make more sense. In this second post I have used dialogue to add some characterization, but I’m still very unsure (of myself) if I want to keep it this way, especially between Bruce and Dennis the two main character’s as they come across as one and the same people, which ultimately it is as Dennis is like an alter ego, the can do man.

The piece really slows down in this next section and I’m still very unsure if this is best, but I felt as though I need to add feeling and emotion to the City, or how it is perceived by the characters anyway. At first I was going to have just the one night at the backpackers, they get drunk and in the morning they wake up in a van. As you can see I have extended this so I could add further details. Maybe it’s a repeat of what has already been said, but I’m not totally sure. Your comments would be much appreciated.

Enjoy

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3

Given that we hadn’t really had much money in the last few months, we decided to head into town and catch a train out to the bigger city, maybe there we could find a lift north up the coast where the weather promised to be much warmer. Ignoring the fee of a ticket we boarded the long slender carriage. In the days leading up to the move we’d decided to just chase the sun , what ever that may bring.

Three quarter’s into the City the train inspector beckoned us to produce our tickets and when we told him we didn’t have one he demanded we produce some identification. Neither Dennis nor I had identification on us, we had gotten used to concealing it so that in these exact instances we could provide a fake name. The inspector wrote us each a $50 ticket and ordered that we get off at the next station where we waited another fifteen minutes, throwing pebbles at a sign across the tracks.

The next ride on the final leg into the City was uneventful other than a baby who cried for the duration of the trip, the mother it seemed was totally ignorant to the infants plead. I watched her for some time, she seemed as if to be distracted by something else that was far more troublesome than that of a fiercely crying baby, a long heavy look lay across her face and a packed bag sat beside her feet. She fidgeted in her seat and when we went to leave I heard the lady cry out desperately.

“Stop crying damn it, just stop crying”, but the baby, too young to understand his mothers torment kept up his own plea. Dennis and I looked at each other thoughtfully, I could tell what he was thinking and asked if we should help, but instead we walked in the opposite direction to where we were going.

The big towering buildings of the City loomed high above the street, sporadic youths hustled in packs, amused by the music playing from there MP3 players, they walked past silently. Asian tourists snapped joyfully at iconic sights while wheelers greased the empty side streets, thinking, planning, dealing and enviably losing. We made our way through the busy street’s to the east end, on Boughfort Street we found an entrance to a sizable back packer’s, a perfect place to start looking for a lift we decided and checked in for the night.

First of all we decided to get a warm shower, it had been some time sense either Dennis or I had, had the luxury of warm water. At first the public showers had not been a problem in the hot months of summer, but since autumn had kicked in, we had become quiet reluctant. I was the first to finish and went out and found a comfortable seat in the commune lounging area. Some people were sat motionless around a big TV, playing on the screen was some show about fast cars with fancy leather seats. Not really interested in the show, my eye’s wondered around the room.

All sorts of characters with different agenda’s lumbered around, there was those that were passing through. They usually sat in two’s or three’s and made jokes which made no sense to anyone other than themselves and the day after tomorrow they would be gone.

Then there were those which had stayed here long enough to know better, they seem to enjoy the scene and would sit around in the evenings and chill out amongst themselves and talk about work and drink quality beer while the rest of the guesses just settled for the cheapest and most effective.

Finally the third type, these were the one’s who, if asked, may not have even known where they were or where they were going.

They confided in sayings such as, ‘we’re on the road’, or ‘I’m half way between here and there’, and ‘Yeah, maybe I’ll see what happens tomorrow’. I guess if I was going to stereotype Dennis and myself we would have to fit somewhere within this group, two lost soul’s, as we were frequently reminded by those who looked at our sad state and say.

‘You’re just two lost soul’s’.

Dennis came out and sat beside me on the empty brown suede lounge, he was clean shaven and his beach blonde hair jagged where he made a rudimentary attempt to trim it back.

‘So, you want to go out for a beer tonight?’
‘Yeah I guess it would be rude not to’, I replied. ‘Better check the notice board before we get too rowdy though’.
‘I had a quick look just before, didn’t really see anything’
‘Cool, well we’ll check it again on the way out’ I insisted, ‘Guess we might as well have a beer here first’.

Dennis got up to get us some drinks while I stayed seated. Surveying the dimly lit room I noticed two blonde girls sitting and chatting amongst themselves. They both had straight platinum blonde hair which sort of just stiffly sat across there faces, they wore make up and spoke softly to each other. I watched them for a while hoping that one might look up and I’d give her a smile, but they didn’t.

Dennis was standing by the bar chatting to another guy who was tall, slender with long dark hair and next to them were another couple, who looked at each other merrily and held each others hands as they spoke of niceties which had little significance to anyone else. In the far corner I could hear a group of American’s who were playing some sort of drinking game which involved a deck of cards.

When Dennis came back, he was holding out two cans of Emu Bitter. Cringing, I took one of the cans.

‘Three bucks’, he said before I had even asked.
‘Who was that’, I asked, intrigued.
‘Matt, an American dude from Arizona’, He replied. ‘Been over here awhile just thumbing it to and fro, reckons he’s been pretty lucky until he made it to the City. He also said he knew of two German girls who had a van. They were hoping to take off day after next’
‘Did he say where they were going?’
‘Yeah he said they were going to head north, didn’t really say much more then that though’.

I looked up and I noticed Matt was now sitting with the group playing cards so I suggested maybe we should join them for a drink.

‘Bruce’, I held out my hand and introduced myself to the crowd of three girls and two guys. Matt introduced himself first holding out his hand, shaking mine, while the others just gave a shy smile and polite wave. Matt gestured I sit beside him and he moved over leaving a gap on the bench between himself and a pretty New York girl named Jen. Dennis sat at the other side of the table across from me.

The game they were playing was Ring of Death, or that’s the name I know it as. The rules are simple. Every card has a different rule, say for example number night is bust a rhyme. The person who has lifted the card from the circle starts the rhyme. Going clockwise the group keeps the rhyme until someone stumbles, to which they are required to scull there beverage of choice. The idea is that you get drunk, like real drunk, stupid drunk and then you fall down.

Tonight was no exception for the group of tourists, they were a good bunch and we chatted until late into the night. It turned out that they didn’t really know each other but had somehow found themselves hanging out together.

Jen was cute and I talked to her for sometime about her travels, the usual questions for a situation like this. She chatted happily about working in London compared to Sydney, the beach parties in Cambodia and the rafting in the Mekong and home life in a City like Brooklyn, New York.

‘Its bullshit’, she started. ‘It’s like one hundred dollars for a shitty day tour. I’m really sick of all this shit.’ She started when I asked her about Australia.
‘Yeah it’s a rip off alright’, I replied. ‘That’s why Dennis and I are doing what were doing, we don’t need money to see some rock every bodies seein’.
‘Yeah, hey maybe I should come along with you guys’. She declared brazenly.
‘Capre Diam’.
‘Carpe Diam’, she replied smiling back at me.

We chatted some more with the group and asked if any of them were heading north. Matt repeated the stuff he had already told Dennis earlier that night and we asked if he’d be able to get hold of the girls for us. He said they were staying here and would let us know, so we decided to catch up with him in the morning to see what we could arrange.

4

That morning we woke up pretty early, it was drizzling lightly outside. We packed the bags after getting in another shower and then stowed them away down stairs in the locker area of the backpackers. We checked out and went for a walk around the City.

It was a dull morning with gray clouds over head and the constant patter of water on our faces as we stepped from one awning to the next. At one point I went to cross the street and accidentally stepped out in front of a speeding car. It screeched to a halt, and I looked up, through the mirror I could see a fit guy wearing a tight white singlet and dark round shades. Next to him sat a girl, made up all pretty who looked out the side window uninterested at the kerb. Stepping out the way he sped past shouting something from his window.

We ended up at a small groceries were we brought a loaf of wholegrain bread and a litre of milk. Outside we sat on some steps and I watched the water drop to the path in large droplets which formed on the roof above. The water collected itself picking up small amounts of dirt and ran over the rough graduals in the concrete and then down over the kerb and into the gutter where a small stream moved with great vigour, off and down the street to the nearest drain.

The street was busy with car’s driving past. People in black suit’s and expressionless faces, driving to work I’d assume, didn’t notice us sitting on the kerb. They were focussed and consumed by something much larger than two guys sitting on a step eating dry bread and slugging on a box of milk.

‘That was us’, Dennis mumbled to himself.

The Novel Begins..

Okay guys, yesterday I was sitting in the shallow pool with a gorgeous girl. I started out telling her I wanted to write a novel but I didn't have a good plot, a good story and that I didn't know what to write about.

She simply said... Just start writing.

So... The only way to write a novel is too start. With that I present the start of something I hope to develop, its unedited, raw, delightful (Hopefully). Please comment on what you think. (Comment whoring, the greatest bloggers do it the best!)

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Untitled
By Matt Dewse
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1

It was a lonely evening, a cool rain had been falling for a few days now and when a gust blew up a cold wind could be felt sweep through the shacks modest interior. Huddled in some old blankets we had found, smelling old and musky I watched Dennis caress his warm cup of tea between his palms and forefingers. The shack didn’t have electricity, just a lone candle which burnt silently in the centre of the room.

The small fibro shack was perched among some tall peppermints on a long sandy dune. It was hard to say when it had been abandoned as everything still seemed to be in tact, even the beds had been made, but a calendar with a small reproduced painting of a wooden craft hanging on the wall just above the bunks read April 1981 and we’d assumed this was the last time someone other than us had ever lived here.

The leak in the old rusted tin roof was the most pressing matter when we first arrived but Dennis had gone to work with his resourcefulness and made good the hole with some spare tin which he had found under the floor of the house. Here we lived comfortably for the next four months, collecting water from the public toilets at the end of the street in a good size pot and eating fresh seafood when we could catch it, otherwise we would heat up tins of baked beans over a small gas cooker and we worked when work was available. I had held a good job on a trawler for a month or two before the business had folded.

I could remember this town just two years ago, a great hive of festivity, construction was going on all around, large double story building’s with endless planes of glass which glistened in the sun and people were jubilant, excessive and ignorant. All just enjoying the fruit’s of there labours with champagne and lazy weekends cruising around the coast in powerful motor boats. Even I, like the others had enjoyed these times, soaking up the warm atmosphere of the evening sun and chilling out to the latest pop-rock which played from the in deck CD player.

‘It’s all an illusion’ Dennis had prophesised one day as we sat contently in the sand. We watched the sun hit the horizon and throw up a marvellous orange haze throughout the cloudless sky. I remember the day quiet clearly, we had spent a good deal of time skiing around the headlands behind a friends speedboat, drinking recklessly on cold beers which we stowed in the depths of his built in ice box.

It was rather confusing when he professed that it was just an illusion. It definitely felt real enough as the water had shoot up from the tips of my ski and into my now bloodshot eyes, or the red blotches on my skin where I had forgotten to protect with sunscreen. Actually I would have to say it was one our greatest days we had shared together since we had meet.

‘All this’, he said jerking me from my thought’s. ‘It’s a charade’.
‘You know what I mean’, he protested when I said I did get it and I didn’t and I was just more confused so I changed the subject and made meaningless jokes about how Ryan, who tripped over board earlier in the day, had managed to protect his beer from falling in the drink.

Things soon started changing though, just as Dennis had predicted, friends who worked away started spending more time at home, sitting around the house drinking Jack Daniels in small premixed bottles and joking about what ever uselessness was on TV. When they got bored of that they ordered chilli muscles with a side of a dozen oysters from a restaurant down the road and feasted with great vitality. A month had past and they offered to sell me there TV for a quarter of its cost.

Condemned by our way of life Dennis once again suggested that we leave this rat race, find something a little quieter, a little easier. When he had first asked I made excuses that I was working a good job, I had an apartment and was too busy most days to contemplate leaving, but finally, a week after being fired I agreed to the move on the proviso that we would stay until my lease was up, which fortunately was only one month away. When we checked our bank balances though we had little room to move anyway.

The cost of the apartment sucked up the dregs of my saving’s and Dennis and I struggled to make the last round of bills. When the day had come to move out, Dennis had helped me move all my furniture to my parent’s shed. They argued relentlessly with me as I had predetermined, but I made my case and in the end they came around seeing as there was no sense in getting rid of perfectly good couches. I promised them I’d find a new job, and kissed my mum affectionately on the cheek as I left.

Two weeks later we found the shack. It was a rather great find, although still nestled amongst the big over looking glass monstrosities in the same town as we had decided to leave, it was the right price. Free. Deciding it would be better to just save some cash before we hit the road, arguing that it was summer anyway and it would be a shame to lose out on this great weather.

For the next four months we spent countless hours just frolicking down the beach, in the sun, my board shorts became loose and every day I woke convicted more with something I still could not fully understand. Dennis smiled contently when I told him and just laid buck on his towel to bask in the radiance of the sun. He was of a slim and well built build and by the first month he was well tanned hinting a Mediterranean complexion.

‘You will understand’ he thoughtfully announced after a minute had lapsed. The more we hung out, living like this, the more I noticed him becoming unhurried and he would sit for minutes before answering, more than usual that is. I, myself had even noticed I wasn’t in any sort of rush either. We just went about doing our thing in our own time, fishing, diving, reading and living until at one point I thought time had almost stood still.

2

The rain echo off the thinly lined tin roof, I looked up at the dark mouldy spot on the roof. The patching had worked even after a few day’s had pasted not a drop had come through. Dennis was sitting in the corner apathetically flicking though the box of books we had found in the main bedroom. It was the main room as there weren’t any others. He stopped to for a moment and I thought he was reading the back, then he slapped the book against the ground and squashed a curious roach.

“I’ve read all these”, he moaned. He usually never complained, he was more of a charismatic kind of guy who hops out of bed the second he wakes up, so it was unusual to hear him like this. Though he wasn’t the only one feeling melancholic, I did too. It was the rain, definitely the rain. It seemed to draw the life out of the both of us, we became lifeless and disinterested. Water had seeped in thought under the threshold of the door and destroyed our playing cards.

We tried to go out diving one day, but the swell had come up with the persistent wind and rain, the water being to murky we decided to try do some fishing. After an hour had passed the best we had managed was one thick bull herring, but being so cold we resorted back to the shelter of the shack and shared other the single fish amongst ourselves with a portion of plain rice.

By the sixth day from when the rains had started we busied ourselves packing our rucksacks. Dad had brought me my pack a few years back when I had gone on an extended camping trip with school. It had a large zipper so you could open it out making it easy to fill and a second bag which zipped on and off with ease. With a sturdy metal frame and good set of padded handles it made a great pack for walking.

Dennis offered to carry the cooking gear, which consists of a pot, a pan and the little gas stove, I packed the two bowls, two cups and utensils. When it came to packing the rest of our stuff I didn’t have much, just a couple cloths, an old thin sleeping bag, a well worn book by the title of “The Rum Diary”, a large wrap of plastic and spear gun that strapped to the outside of my pack. Dennis, like me had very little but his bag was bulging with other bits and pieces he thought we might need along the way.

We set out and cleared the small shack. We put the large pot back under the waterless sink, washed the sheets and made the beds. Dennis repaired the leak under the door and locked up all the windows. When we had finished we looked around and then at each other, Dennis looked joyful and we both felt proud. Even though the shack wasn’t ours we felt someway connected to it and we agreed one day we’d return to find it just the way we left it. Neither Dennis nor I ever did though.

3

The day before we’d left we decided to just chase the sun, where ever that may be.

Darwin, Another Day With Dylan

It was some time in the afternoon when I had just finished a solid day’s work and was back at the sanctity of the back packers. Actually to be honest, sanctity, much like solid, is nothing more than words employed to put an intricate spin on rather dull facts. Let’s just say I did go to work.

You see I’m currently sitting across the table from a gorgeous, dark, wild haired, blue eyed, tanned skinned beauty. So to be most frank, I’m laying it on thick, using words cunningly disguised like Château, romance and Italia indirectly for other much more cynical terms such as submissive and sex. She, to my surprise seems somewhat receptive and the conversation soon swings to where it was inevitably going to go.

“Oh no, I think it’s nice to take things slow”, she starts. “You Australian’s are just straight at it”.

“I agree”, I say with seeming delight. She doesn’t want me to think she’s easy. Okay of course, neither am I. I’m a Gemini gorgeous. I’ll be what ever you want me to be… for the night that is and I give her a dedicated grin.

“Juice”, some strange gaunt character starts beckoning from behind, I can just make him out in the peripheral but I refrain from turning as I’m stuck in a sensual lock of eye’s, even Casanova would find it concerning to look away at this point.

“Juice” He rudely interrupts again not sensing the importance of this display ofg affection. This time though, he gently lays his limp fingers on my shoulder and nudges me timidly. God who is this character I think to myself as I hastily rummage through my pockets for some loose change.

“Just take it”. I snap aggressively and hold out what would be three dollars twenty in silver pieces. Fucking beggars, how have they managed to learn my name and what’s more, make it into the building! Where are those useless baboons anyway who always seem to interrupt me when I’m having a good time?

“Excuse me guys, no smoking in the car park”, he, the one in a tight black uniform starts. “What are your names and which room are you staying in?” He continues then quickly scribbles Matt Juice room 37 and I give him a hostile ‘eat shit’ red stained, cock eyed stare as I walk past in the hands of a pretty girl. I ask her if she has any food but she shrugs and leads me to room 48.

I digress.

He’s wearing a small button up which drops off his thinly framed figure. His hair is short, neat and receding while his skin is fair and soft.

“Dylan”, I ask as I take a better look.
“Hey no way”, he replies. “I thought it was you, but I didn’t really know, you know, like when you see some one and you’re not quite sure”.

Damn shame, I haven’t seen this guy since back when I was on the hunt for the great Art Director. For the uninformed that’s some 3500km’s down the road in a crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving freak town. So I tell him.

“I haven’t seen you since back in Albany”.
“Yeah I know”, he starts. “Crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving town of freaks”
I nod approvingly.
“Yeah”
“So I was thinking about getting a beer, maybe check out the casino” he continues unsurprisingly. “You want to come get a drink with me?”
I quickly look back at the stunning scenery. She’s busy talking with some other people at the table and I decide it’s still a salvageable conversation.

“It’s only $8.50 a jug here” I say knowingly to Dylan and his eye’s light up brighter then a loony in a girls wash basket, without another word he beelines to the bar. Bloody journalists are all the same I think to myself and I turn to face my growing interest. She smiles a purely wicked smile of delight.

“We are going now, would you like come”, She says in her sweet accent.
“Oh really’ I confirm, rather dismayed. “Umm well, I’m having a drink here. Maybe we’ll catch up later?”
“Yeah, maybe”

She holds out her hand for a high five, but I snatch it up in my own and I feel the smooth subtle skin of her palm with the tips of my fingers.

“Wow you held my hand” I lie and grin jokingly.
“Yes this is much too fast” she say’s and smiles back cheekily.

Damn, just my luck I think to myself as I watch her walk away dressed in nothing other than a tight black bikini that folds suggestively to her beautiful shape. I turn away when she has disappeared around the corner. Dylan by this stage is already in the crowd of unruly characters weaving back with a disgustingly wild smile, two clean glasses and frothy jug of beer. He looks like a lion in a flock of flamingo’s and better yet, he holds the secret to well being.

We get talking. It’s mostly about the latest happenings and I fumble with my beer, it goes down unappreciated as my head toils with a raucous hangover. Dylan though pours himself another glass.

“It’s paradise up here”, I start.

He looks away mindfully, observing the sounds and smells. The balcony is perched above the main street, car’s bustle by as the Indi-pop music rings from loud speakers. Tradesmen in soggy singlets whistle and young girls with big heels trip clumsily on the jagged roadway to reveal hints of fancy lace. It‘s a smorgasbord of debauchery that spills out from under dark and mouldy crevices and palm tree’s sway lazily in the mid afternoon breeze.

“Yeah, looks like it” he nods.

……………..

Before long we are sitting around a small table in a dingy lit pub. The Victoria Hotel is long known to the frugal traveller, and it’s no surprise to find that a failing journalist would share this common interest, boasting $7 jugs and free food.

The music resonates loudly from speakers which tower above the stage, men hustle and tourist sitting on miniature scooters spin around the island tables, laughing, they are busy chasing the free beer that pours endlessly around these parts. The MC shout’s some god-awful slur over the PA and we watch on with bemusement.

“Bob Dylan”, begins Dylan as a classic starts to play over the crowded room.
“I just want to make money”. His long thin fingers dance through the air leaving whirling tails of thick smoke. His substituted words are purposeful and to the point.
“He was all about making money” Dylan reaffirms as if clarifying what he has just said and our Israeli friend, Hanani, chuckles and when the next chorus begins they break out in a long fried drawl…
“I just want to make money”.

Dylan’s words are severed and disconnected, his body thin, gaunt and awkward. His hands move with his words, but the words being so disengaged find him lost like he were reading ancient braile. If I were drunk I’d imagine him as a great wizard with all this mystical body talk and gibberish murmurs, but alas, he doesn’t have that magnificent telltale beard of many wise men.*

“Kerouac, now he was something”, I start and Dylan nods approvingly. Is this because he’s just agreeing out of pure admiration for Kerouac’s short self destructive life of alcoholism or because he appreciates his works, I wonder. Dylan, across the table slugs at another beverage.

“There was something about Kerouac”, Dylan decides. “In his time he was a lot freer then we are, he never had to worry about the impending doom”. Dylan’s hands hover, palm down midway above his head, his fingers are limp and point to the ground.
“No, even Kerouac had this feeling in Dharma Bums when he reaches a town and is told he will be locked up if he plans to sleep out”. I say. “I guess it was the start of what was to come”.

Hanani listens in carefully. He’s not familiar with Kerouac like Dylan and I, and rather make bogus claim’s like clammy Australian’s he just listens in to our rambling’s.

Should I explain, Hanani is a mellow man with few words. Not that he’s shy, far from it, but rather he is purposeful within his speech. Under a husky dull voice floats peaceful, patient words matching his rough and weather beaten appearrance. His clothes are torn and frayed like the unspoken memories of his past.

“100 Years of Solitude by Gabrial Garcia Marcas” Hanani begins. “Oh, it is a great book”.
“Yeah I’ve heard of that”, Dylan confirms while tilting his head slightly and pushing it further in.
“I haven’t”.
“You haven’t”, Hanani mutters disbelieving. “Oh man you have to read it.

The conversation drifts along like this for some time, listing the, who’s, who and the, who’s read what and who’s the best. It’s a list of modern literature, the Kerouac’s, Boroughs, Thompson, Marquez, Twain…
Were a fag is a fag, and mescaline trip is a lolly for the lost degenerates who seeks more than the delicious findings of a bible reading. A new vision where we can sit at the front of the bus, as Kesey put it, to be and do as we please without recourse. This is writing which reaches to the bowels of society and tries, but ultimately fails to ignore the injustice of the modern world.

“Impending doom”, Dylan’s hands are now more frantic. “Impending dooooooom”.

………………

The next afternoon the air is warm and the sun is lofting just off the horizon. I take a deep breathe and absorb the sweet smell of the salty ocean. Beside the pool I’m sitting when the beautiful girl from the day before swims up to the edge.

“You coming for a swim”, she starts.
“Yeah I think I will”, I reply nonchalantly.

I look around for Dylan to see if he wants to come for a dip, but like he came, he has gone. Bummer, I’ll miss that guy, I think as I slip off the stairs into the clement deeps of the pool.

*****************

Dylans blog - Lament the Dementted


* Which poses a question in itself, do baby wizards have glorious beards when they are born or are there no ‘baby” phase within wizardry lore? I wonder, anyway I hear it’s a prerequisite for this kind of occupation.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 3

The tall white 4x4 ute comes barrelling down the highway, holding about 120 kilometres and hour, it’s inertia blows up dust as it passes. From inside the cab, the Parasite sucks eagerly at the poisonous port sack, then takes out his rifle from behind the front seat and loads some live shells into the chamber and cocks the level under the trigger..

“Stop the ute when you see a goat”, he exclaims calmly.
“You’ll never get it from the car”, Shane protests. “We need to pull off somewhere and stalk ‘em”.
“Don’t be silly”, the parasite replies confidently, “This is a Winchester lever action 30.30, I could knock over an elephant with this thing”…

Shane shakes his head and peers into the rear view mirror anxiously to see if anyone is coming up from behind. It’s all clear, but up front a few kilometres away he can see an object in the heat blurred horizon…

“Better wait until this car passes”, He say’s.
“Ha hmm, don’t worry about it”, Parasite urges pathetically.

They pass a few goats which are chewing lackadaisically a few metres away on the side of the road. Parasite twitches in his chair and thumbs the handle of his rifle excitedly, almost stroking it like it where an expensive jewel. Shane disapprovingly shakes his head once again but the Parasite is too distracted by the passing shrubbery to notice his disfigurement.

“I bet I’ll hit one”, the Parasite boast’s, breaking the tiresome hum of the roaring tires.
“And what are you going to do with it Zac?”, Shane replies sarcastically, emphasizing his name.
“We’ll eat it!” he affirms earnestly while looking impatiently through the open window.
“You’re not putting that thing in my car”.

The Parasite doesn’t reply and within a few minutes a twin trailer semi rolls past with a burst of sound and momentum. It makes the ute shake violently by the built-up pressure between the two objects. Shane checks the rear view mirror again.

“Stop the car”, The Parasite burst’s with excitement just moments after the truck has passed.

Stones crunch under the heavy wheels, three goats look up distracted by their monotonous task and the car comes to a slow halt. As the car door opens the goat’s turn and bolt sensing some immanent danger. They should - the parasite although a wanker at the best of times, is a bloody good shot, not that they know this. Shane quickly plugs his fingers into his ears, while the Parasite rapidly braces the rifle hard against the corner frame of the window. He balances himself and watches the goats bounce erratically through the open scope. They dart from left to right looking for some shrub to hide under but the land is hard, barren and futile..

The gun sounds with deafening forcefulness and a loud audible crack. The Parasite’s shoulder jerks violently under the recoil and the 80gram lead head explodes from the end of the rifle furiously. The second goat bursts open like an egg in a microwave as the bullet enters its arse and blows out the side of its abdomen the size of a basketball. A bloody mess, it tumbles lifelessly to the ground.

The Parasite grins excitedly and jumps out of the car, rifle in toe.

“Stalking ‘em, pfft” he echo’s. “Haha hmm”.

He bounds through the red dirt on the front balls of his naked feet. His slender body moves naturally against the sterile background. Shane checks the road methodically before stepping out of the cab.

“What are you going to do with it?” Shane asks inquisitively.

The parasite is already standing over the dead creature, flipping it over with his hands and examining his work with pride. It’s a terrible kill shot, but with a bullet as ridiculous as it is, its little work knocking a goat over.

“You’re not putting it in my car”, Shane reinforces again.

The Parasite looks up momentarily at Shane, rather perplexed as to why Shane would be so inconsiderate.

“Well I want its horn’s”, the Parasite decides rather unhappy that he can’t take the whole bloody carcass.
“I have a knife in the car” Shane helpfully suggests.
“Meh, effort!” and with that the Parasite wipes his bloody hands across his shorts, picks up the rifle, cock’s the lever and holds the heavy barrel above the goats skull. Shane turns away and the rifle once again pops like an angry grenade.

When Shane turns back, the Parasite has already reached down and divorced the two horns from the disgusting pool of mush.

“Hehe”, the Parasite sniggers in his own bemusement.
“You are an absolute fucking dickhead”, Shane argues, but he might as well whisper it under his breath as it falls unheard.

Minutes later they are back on the Great Northern Highway, destination Carnarvon. Parasite holds up his trophy and examines them quietly then busies himself again with the Port sack.

It’s not until the next day that the two roll into the Oyster Farm. The Parasite was moving impatiently, all fidgety and smiling as I watch the car pull up. He bursts from the door like an escaping cat, in his hands he’s holding these horns and yabbering on at a speed I can hardly understand, or care to actually listen. I smile and greet Shane as he slowly makes his way from the car.

“Did you have a good drive” I ask, directing the questions towards Shane. He shakes his head disapprovingly.
“Never again”, he exhales, “Not with Zac”.
I look at the Parasite and he’s excited with this statement.
“Feel the bump on my head”, he exclaims as wildly as he had been talking just before. He put’s his hand against the back of his head and feels at an apparent swollen bump. I don’t bother.
“I had to hit him across the head to shut him up”, Shane explains, “He got so drunk last night and he wouldn’t shut up”.
“Yeah and I can’t remember it”, the Parasite interjects then laughs some more and adds, “What did you hit me with?”
“A metal bar”, Shane smiles.
“Fuck”, the Parasite exclaims, ‘No wonder it hurts so much!”.

This makes Shane’s grin grow a little broader and he laughes a little under his breath.

“Well welcome to the farm”, I say, “Make yourselves at home. I have some work to finish off, won’t take long”.

As I turned to head back to work they were arguing about some minor indifference. This was going to be one hell of a weekend, I thought to myself and walked away.

Town Beach - A Weekend Back Home

Opening my eye’s slightly I could just make-out the silhouette of a man standing over me. Paying little attention I shifted my body some more and dig deeper into the warm moulded beach sand below. Two empty pizza boxes providing all necessary protection, splayd over my filthy stained jean. The shadow. It was Parasite, I presume - moving around doing something. Maybe he's still fishing with Dan. To tired to care, I didn’t take much notice and drifted off again into a heavy exhausted daze. Sleep wasn’t coming on exactly, just a heaviness from the tips of my toes right up to the lashes below my brow.

The water lapped gently against the sandy shore, the open air was still, warm, snug and it was about midnight when I had decided to turn in. That is, right after a big feed of the aforementioned pizza which seemingly filled that large, self induced bottomless pit which formed somewhere deep within my little left toe.

‘What a great day’ I decide as my body got heavier and I breathed out, sinking deeper and deeper until at one stage I figured I was under ground but wouldn’t move, wouldn’t panic.. Just drift, drift deeper, drift further, drift off somewhere into the abyss and I would smile contentedly.

They say too much of a good thing is a bad thing but whoever said that obviously never slept on a beach with a tummy full of delicious golden oat soda and a head lightened by a little friendly smoke. Just lying around - take it all in, the smell of the sea, just still and lazy. No point in moving, theres nothing more than the 'here’s and now’s'. Nothing else to discover other than maybe the pleasant wisp of the salty sea goodness and the feel of the sand between my toes and I slept a deep sleep.

Sometime in the early morning, when it was still a little dark, I awoke slightly cool. The beach was deserted other than a small tent pitched a few yards away. Parasite was sound asleep inside, tucked in his sleeping bag. I think he was sucking on his thumb but I couldn’t tell. Gathering up the two full pizza boxes which I had been using as a pillow I made my way up the beach to the resort in hope of finding some water. I tried opening the rear door which overlooked the beach. No luck. So I snuck around looking for a tap, my mouth was dryer than a bitumen road on a stinking hot day and I made an audible ‘nic’ sound as I drew my tongue from the top of my mouth.

‘Click’, the door sounded, I looked up and Dan smiled. He had just gone to bed, he told me.

“You can sleep on the couch” he mumbled dazedly so I walked in and lay on the stiff suede lounge. He stumbled a little then headed up to the next room where his newly-wed wife was waiting in the room? Maybe she was already asleep, I decided. The lousy couch was uncomfortable so I got up and found some water. Gulping a few times from the container I then brought it to where I was resting. I woke up intermittently, trying to get comfortable but at first light I got up frustrated and went outside.

The sun was warming up the sky. Shades of blue drifted lazily around me and I watched some early morning swimmers paddle through the cool silent ocean. Finding a more comfortable day lounge, I stretched out and drunk some more water while observing the scene. One of those magic mornings where you ponder the definition of heaven, and think, no, decide, that this would probably be it…

Feeling drawn towards the beach I started thinking maybe I could live in that warm sand and just eat fresh fish with a small portion of rice. It was always the dream and I was happy. Town Beach is the name of this particular strip. Dad used to bring me down here when I was young, but these days things had really changed.

It’s another billion dollar project which has reclaimed land, high rise apartments and pompous café’s dwell there now. It's where the latte arrives with a complementary cookie and the man reads his paper bitterly as the coffee cools down.

His wife looks over from across the table and notices she has missed a spot on his shirt and wonders if she should iron it again. Instead she decides not to disrupt him and alternatively pours some water from the bottle into a dish and lays it out for the complacent poodle by his legs. Sitting back she gazes off silently into the marina and admires the morning sun shining through the beautiful boats which are stowed within their locks.

The 'here’s and now’s'. I’m laying here on this day lounge right in the middle of all this. The residences nearby had written to the local paper when this development was first approved by the local council. 'A town beach with no facilities' they exclaimed, other than those provided at the hotel which bounds up casting shadows across the crisp white beach. Facilities we must mention are 'exclusive to those staying at the hotel' it went on to say and the old lady with her dogs now feels forlorn with the whole situation and the council planners busy themselves at some award ceremony.

Watching on I catch Parasite walking up the beach towards his car, tent in hand and Dan’s inside getting a drink. I look around at the ocean with it’s gentle morning haze thinking how lucky I am being here right now and how tomorrow this time I’ll be on my way back to Darwin… Darwin… It’s only been two day’s and I’m missing that crew already. Good people with all sorts of stories and I’m loving life. So is Dan and Parasite and we’re saying goodbye once again. I decide too hell with all this - I’m happy to be leaving.

Thanks Dan for a great day and especially thanks for asking me to be your groomsman. Best of luck to you and the missus!




(Sorry guys I drifted off track with the Carnarvon stuff, it’s a couple of years out of date but I wanted to get some stuff down, and I have heaps more too go. Anyway this is the latest going ons, hope you enjoyed it)

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 2

Colby was out cooking up some toast in the kitchenette when I awoke. The air was already hot in the small donga accommodation and I threw off the single sheet restlessly. It is the only protection from the busted up fan which spins methodically throughout the night.

6:00am…

Really was it that early? I stood up tiredly and then sat down again in front of the television for a few minutes of Morning Sunrise. Meanwhile Colby fixed up a strong caffeine mix for the both of us. Most of the time since first arriving Colby would have already had the first pump running before I even thought about waking up, but somewhere, somehow I had ended up on the payroll.

The morning felt soft and warm against my bare skin as I walked outside. There is nothing better than waking up dressed in a loose pair of board shorts, so natural, so normal and just so right. It reminded me of those early mornings during the school summer holidays, all excitement, anticipating another long day on the sandy white beach.

The Oyster farm, most commonly described as the bum-fuck rat warren is located on a small tributary to the south which drains into the Carnarvon basin. Surrounding the oasis of dishevelled structures is kilometres of dusty infertile salt marsh, baked crisp on top. The drive way and overhead powerlines, the only form of infrastructure comes in from the north side off Oyster Creek Road. The road is a skinny compacted gravel path which regularly floods when the tide comes in.

This is certainly a contrast to the cushy office job back down south, I thought as I looked out over the makeshift boardwalk. The knife was in my small canvas fishing bag down near the water and I pulled it out as I made my way to the crude pontoon. Some nights I would sleep out here, in my comfortable swag and just look out into the peacefulness of the Midwestern stars. Last night though, I slept inside.

Through the early ray of light I could just make out the fishing line, the loose couple of rolls I had left unravelled were gone and the line was taught. Always a good sign something had taken the bait I’d left out the night before. Reaching down I pulled swiftly at the line to make sure I had something on the other end, dead weight. I pulled again and the line restricted around my supple fingers. Placing the line back down I looked into the murky waters as the tide rushed in. The line pulled increasingly tight again. After a brief moment I reached down and drew at the line once more, this time with as much strength as I could muster. It was moving, but hellishly slow. I struggled as it bit into my fingers. It hurt, but in a good way.

The blood started pumping though my body - adrenaline. Hell, I wonder what it could be? It didn’t take long to find out unfortunately. The end of the log poked out of the water first and I looked at it thinking how unusually heavy it was. I grabbed at it the first chance I got, hoping to take some weight off my hands. It was rotten and crumbled in my fingers, I wrestled at it some more, grabbing at it, finally getting a good hold and I struggled at the mammoth log to bring it aboard. The line was intertwined and looked like an ornate dream catcher weaved by some spiritual wizard, I traced the line, and there on the end was a nice size spotted cod.

You beauty, I thought to myself and quickly detached it from the hook. Leaving the log on the deck I scuffled off the dodgy pontoon and up to the feeble accommodation. Colby was just walking out to start the day when I showed him the catch.

“Is it still alive?” He asked disinterested.
“Yeah, but it’s been on the line all night”, I replied, holding it out fondly.
“Well, chuck it in the pond” and with that he walked off into the shed and disappeared around the corner.

I could tell he was keen to get started and I knew he didn’t want me to be far behind, though he never said anything. I shimmied between the store and the donga, through the work shop and out of the garage to the ponds. There was a series of ponds which held a variety of fish, I dropped it in the first and watched it dart off into the shallow weed. The Mangrove Jack drifted out and looked up at me in anticipation of some food.

Better get to work I thought mindfully.