CONTENT WITHIN FOR A MATURE AUDIENCE

All works placed in the EclecticismE-zine retain the copyright of their

respective creators. TEXT:

EDITORIAL Copyright © Craig Bezant 2010

PATRICK O’MALLEY Copyright © Trost 2010

FREEDOM IN ZERO GRAVITY Copyright © Dianne M. Dean 2010

GRISELDA GOSH Copyright © Deborah Sheldon 2010

RUSTLE IN YOUR HEAD, BRO Copyright © Simon James 2010

SMALL PART OF ME Copyright © Juliette Gillies 2010

A BACKPACKER’S GUIDE TO KNOT THEORY Copyright © Lynley Stace2010

COUNTING INSECTS Copyright © D James O’Callaghan 2010

ANZAC DAY © Les Wicks 2008

LONG ODDS Copyright © Shane Griffin 2010

ARTWORK/IMAGES:

Cover image: ‘Old Cage’ Copyright © Asif Akbar 2010

Additional Photoshop brushes from: Stephanie Shimerdla, at: www.obsidiandawn.com

and DamnedInBlack, at:http://www.damnedinblack.net/about.html

Copyright of Background Images acknowledged on relevant images/pages.

Eclecticism E-zine ISSN 1835-5528

Issue 14, October/November 2010

Published by Eclecticism - www.eclecticzine.com Edited by Craig Bezantand Dark Prints Press - www.darkprintspress.com.au

Made in Australia - Incorporating the World

Address all queries to the editor at: eclecticism@westnet.com.au

SSuubbssccrriibbee to our newsletter to receive info on forthcoming contributors and releasedates, and help build our fanbase.IITT’’SSIITT’’SS FFRREEEE!!!!!!FFRREEEE!!!!!!E-mail: eclecticism@westnet.com.auWith the heading: Subscribe Please [your name]

CONTENTSECLECTICISM - ISSUE 14

33

OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2010

p.39: (poetry) SMALL PART OF ME by JULIETTE GILLIES

p.12-15: PATRICK O’MALLEY by TROST

Pages 11 - 61

FREEDOM

THEME:

p.32-38: RUSTLE IN YOUR HEAD, BRO by SIMON JAMES

THEME CONTRIBUTORS:

p.27-31: GRISELDA GOSH by DEBORAH SHELDON

p.62-72: LONG ODDS by SHANE GRIFFIN

p.50-57: COUNTING INSECTS by D JAMES O’CALLAGHAN

OpenShortFiction

CONTENT WITHIN FOR A MATURE AUDIENCE

p. 16-26: FREEDOM IN ZERO GRAVITY by DIANNE M. DEAN

p.40-49: A BACKPACKER’S GUIDE TO KNOT THEORYby LYNLEY STACE

p.58-61: (poetry) ANZAC DAY by LES WICKS

FEATUREDARTIST

44

UUNNFFOORRTTUUNNAATTEELLYY TTHHEERREE IISS NNOO FFEEAATTUURREEDD AARRTTIISSTT TTHHIISSIISSSSUUEE.. TTHHIISS IISS AA PPRROOSSEE--HHEEAAVVYY OONNEE -- HHOOPPEE YYOOUU SSTTIILLLLEENNJJOOYY!!

Eclecticism E-zine would like to congratulate last issue’s FeaturedArtis, MMrr VViinncceenntt CChhoonngg, for recently winning the 22001100 BBrriittiisshhFFaannttaassyy AAwwaarrdd ''BBeesstt AArrttiisstt''. Four in a row, and deservedly so!

To see a range of Vincent's amazing work and to keep up with his latest news, I recommend you visit his websites at: Website: hhttttpp::////wwwwww..vviinncceennttcchhoonngg--aarrtt..ccoo..uukkBlog: hhttttpp::////vviinncceennttcchhoonnggaarrtt..wwoorrddpprreessss..ccoomm

Vincent also has an art book out, titled ''AALLTTEERREEDD VVIISSIIOONNSS:: TThheeAArrtt ooff VViinncceenntt CChhoonngg'', published by Telos Publishing (which can bebought direct from the publisher at http://www.telos.co.uk ).

More information about this wonderful book can be found at : http://vincentchongart.wordpress.com/art-book/ and you can also have a look inside at: http://issuu.com/vincentchongart/docs/altered_visions_preview

THINK YOU SHOULD GRACE THE SAME PAGES ASV I N C E N T C H O N G ? C O N TA C T U S N OW T O B ECONSIDERED AS A FEATURED ARTIST:E-mail: eclecticism@westnet.com.au

AUTHORBIOS:

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Dianne Dean - loves to write speculative fiction - the lure of the 'what if?' is often too hard to ignore. She residesin North East Victoria with her family, one cat and a collection of fruit trees. She voluntarily maintains a websitethat lists writing opportunities: the Australian Writers' resource at www.austwriters.com

This story is of particular pride as it involved some pretty serious scientific research to make the background realand tangible. Oh, just to let you know, the moment within the story encapsulating Steven Hawking's experiencein zero gravity in a Boeing 727 is the moment that inspired the story itself.

Trost - is an emerging writer from Brisbane who concocts disturbing tales that walk the fine line between mystery and familiarity. 'Patrick O'Malley' is his first historical story to be published and is set in an Australia verydifferent from the nation we know today.Trost studied History at the University of Queensland and has since livedand worked in France and China. He spends his days teaching English as a foreign language and his nights drinking and dreaming.

Other tales by Trost can be found in the Black Box anthology, Midnight Echo, Ripples, Eclecticism #11, and onthe LegumeMan Books website.

You can find Trost on MySpace and Facebook or at: www.trostlibrary.blogspot.com

IINN ORORDEDERR OFOF APAP PP EAREARANCEANCE

Juliette Gillies - is a poet and writer from Sydney, Australia. In 2002 she was a guest editor and contributor forNew Zealand e-zine Blackmail Press. She has previously been published by Ozpoet and was shortlisted in theirInterboard Poetry Competition for her poem "Chasing the Dragon". This poem was also featured in SBS NOISES' online e-zine for their project "True Tales of Love and Hate". A fan of dark fiction, Juliette is a member of the Australian Horror Writers Association. A collection of her work will be featured in Issue 45 ofBlood Moon Rising magazine.

Simon James - has been fortunate enough to have more than several stories now published in Eclecticism. Forhim, writing is never a chore, always an escape. The short story is, in its final state, a kaleidoscopic fingerprint,smeared onto paper, rubbed from side to side until an image appears in ink. Smudges and all...

Based in Central Queensland, Simon is a journalist at a daily newspaper, and the energy to meet the desire to writea little more fiction has been, strangely, in more supply of late. He hopes you ain't seen the last of him yet...

Deborah Sheldon's credits include television scripts, magazine articles for national magazines, non-fiction booksfor Random House, stage and radio scripts, and award-winning medical writing. Her fiction has appeared in manyliterary journals including Quadrant, Page seventeen, and Island. Her collection 'All the little things that we lose:selected stories' was published in January 2010. Deborah lives in Melbourne.

Visit her at: http://deborahsheldon.wordpress.com

AUTHORBIOS:

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D James O'Callaghan - lives in regional Victoria where he works as a writer, artist and graphic designer.

Shane Griffin - lives in north west Sydney near base of the Blue Mountains. He has several science fiction workspublished in magazines and e-zines such as Antipodean SF, Potato Monkey, Masque Noir, Mythologue, andRipples. Shane is currently in the process of writing his first full length novel.To see pdf versions of Shane's olderworks that are now out of print or otherwise hard to come by please visit his web site at:http://home.exetel.com.au/f roggy41

Les Wicks’ 8th book of poetry is the Ambrosiacs (Island, 2009).

He has performed and conducts workshops across Australia and is still smiling often. He runs Meuse Presswhich focuses on outreach projects like poetry on buses & poetry published on the surface of a river, latest pub-lication being "From this Broken Hill".

http://leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm

Lynley Stace - grew up in New Zealand and is currently based near Canberra. A Backpacker's Guide to KnotTheory is based on a whole lot of things that she saw and experienced while backpacking around Britain, 2006.

EDITORIAL

Hmmm, you may have been wondering where this issue had gone. Only a week off its schedule -that's okay, right? We're doing the opposite of most magazines, releasing an October issue inNovember (when most 'current' magazines put out a December issue on 1st November). Let's justsay I've been very busy on the Eclecticism and Dark Prints Press front. And because of this, I bringyou lots of exciting news.

First of all, the e-zine's third anniversary was a wonderful celebration, and the issue'sdubious number thirteen was anything but unlucky (I actually like that number). But I am just asproud to present this issue, number fourteen, because the wonderful theme of 'Freedom' has really provided an eclectic range of prose and poetry. It (hopefully) makes you think about whatfreedom means to you. If we analyse our lives, we could say we have no freedom - work, bills, bigbrother, and so on. But in doing so we can also perceive an element of freedom we would love toachieve, and can - even the simplest act could inspire a brief moment of freedom within us. Iwould have said that, for an adult, finding freedom is akin to grasping our purest moments ofchildhood, but things are sadly not the same for (many in) our younger generations. And seekingthat elusive moment of freedom is not always as rewarding as we would think, as you will see inseveral of the stories within this issue.

Next, our first print publication, 'An Eclectic Slice of Life', has returned from the printers, and it looks amazing. I'm not just saying that because it's our book. Honest. I'm very,very proud of the way it came out, and cannot thank its fourteen contributors enough for theiramazing work. We are currently putting together the special gift for pre-orders (a mini-cd with theEclecticism collection) and then will be shipping the book out. By the time you read the next issueof Eclecticism, the publication will have been launched - 12/12/2010. Make sure you get your limited run copy as soon as possible to avoid missing out.

Visit: www.darkprintspress.com.au/eclecticslice.htmlAnd lastly (for now), we are making the moves to get our virtual presence out there, just

that little bit more. Dark Prints Press will be starting a Facebook Page, merging the EclecticismGroup (members will be notified). We have also started a news blog for Dark Prints Press, whichwill include submission updates, publication news, previews, and so on. It will also incorporatenews regarding this e-zine, so to keep up with all the latest information, visit:

http://darkprintspress.blogspot.comThere is much more to tell you, but I shouldn't be taking the emphasis off of why you

are here. Nine works are within this powerfully-moving issue - 7 short fiction, 2 poetry. I hopeyou are able to grasp a moment of freedom to enjoy them all.

Until the next one (January, honest),Craig BezantEclecticism Editor

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PATRICK O’MALLEYBY TROST

For three long years I was beastly treatedAnd heavy irons on my legs I wore.

My back from flogging was laceratedAnd often painted with my crimson gore.

And many a man from downright starvation,Lies mouldering now underneath the clay.And Captain Logan he had us mangled,

At the triangles of Moreton Bay.

- from ‘A Convict's Lament’, Francis MacNamara, 1830s

Original Image ‘Escape’ by Dipu Das

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Patrick O'Malley knew what happened to convicts who were caught escaping. CaptainLogan had no pity for the wretches under his control. The punishment of their bodies andtorment of their souls was a matter of both pride and pleasure for him. O'Malley had seenmen strapped to the triangle and subjected to one hundred lashes of the cat for attemptingto abscond. Indeed, many an evening, the convicts were assembled at the triangle on QueenStreet and forced to watch some poor soul have his back ripped open. But the lashes wereonly the opening act of the Fell Tyrant's torture on those who had offended his authority.The dreaded treadmill, overlooking Brisbane town like a stone sentinel, was where he sentthe men he disdained the most to be worked to death by exhaustion - or, as happened toMichael Collins - to be crushed by the infernal contraption.

O'Malley also knew that if he did not escape the colony, he would eventually diefrom one of the many illnesses that hunger and exhaustion welcomed with open arms.

For many of those with whom he shared his hellish existence, death and freedomwere identical. It was not uncommon for a convict to lift his pick up with weary hands andplant it deep into the skull of an overseer. It had happened just the previous month. Themotive for such cold-blooded murders was frighteningly simple - being sent to the gallowsat Sydney was to be released from hell.

After looking around again, ensuring that the red-coated overseers were not looking his way,O'Malley swung his axe down and hoped that the blow would hit the shackle and not hisankle. If they saw what he was doing there would be no lashes and no treadmill, they wouldprobably shoot him where he stood.

Many a time, he had been tempted to seek the gallows by killing one of the redcoats.They had haunted him all his life - redcoats occupying his emerald isle; redcoats as he crossed the blue seas; redcoats here in this strange new land. But O'Malley dreamt of a freedom other than the noose.

He swung again, and forced himself to suppress a cry of pain as the axe hit the shackle and bounced onto his ankle.

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The redcoats were walking away from him, their rifles pointing towards the deepblue sky. The abominable town of Brisbane, with its hill-top treadmill, huddled on the farbank of the river behind them.

He ignored the pain and lifted his foot. It came clear of the buckled ring of iron. O'Malley's heart pounded. He knew that the moment he had been waiting for had come. There was no time

for hesitation - and he could afford no mistakes. He kept his axe in his right hand and pickedhis shackles up with his left.

An unknown world lay before him, one that he imagined every day and roamedevery night as he slept. He had heard stories of mysterious creatures that would eat a manwhole. He had seen the natives - but did not know whether they would put a spear throughhim or help him in his plight. Some even said that the exotic wonders of China lay to thenorth and could be reached by foot in a few days.

He had heard many stories but he did not know what to believe. At any rate, noneof them really mattered. There was only one certainty: he would be free of a daily routine ofhellish torment and a slow death by exhaustion and slavery.

He bolted for the trees, and kept running as quickly as he could, until he could hardly breathe anymore.

O'Malley did not allow himself more than a few minutes of rest. He knew that his captorswould come looking for him and that, if they caught him, his thirst for freedom would gounquenched. If he was lucky, they would shoot him on the spot. If they felt like being cruel,the red demons would take him back to hell.

He stumbled on, through thick brushes and over hills that rolled on for an eternity.He was heading south, that was all he knew for certain.

As the sun came down on his first day of liberty, he had seen neither man nor beast. For thefirst time since he could remember, he was truly alone. He no longer needed to fear capture;he had put enough distance between himself and the colony. They would not venture this far.

Other problems would face him now; exposure, hunger, isolation, boredom, confusion, perhaps even madness - but, despite all this, he was free.

Original Image ‘Escape’ by Dipu Das

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O'Malley curled up in a hollow at the base of a tall, white tree and tried to ignorehis empty belly, sore ankle, and the mysterious noises that surrounded him.

His eyes closed and he forced himself to smile. He was going to sleep as a free man.

By the time the sun set on O'Malley's third day of freedom, he began asking himself a horrible question: Have I made a grave mistake?

He had found nothing to eat because he did not recognise any of the plants thatgrew in this far-flung land. He had seen no animals other than insects and high-flying birds.His legs were not as eager to walk as his mind, and the latter had no idea where it was lead-ing the former.

How far could it be to the nearest town? He had heard that there was a colony offree men somewhere to the west; a valley where men worked together and shared the fruitsof their labour regardless of origin, creed and social standing. He had heard many tales ofmany places, but if his stomach could not find clean water and solid food, his legs wouldtake him nowhere.

He curled up on the ground. It felt colder than the previous two nights, but he knewthat the temperature had not changed - it was his starving body that was growing tired and cold.

Unseen creatures groaned and buzzed in the darkness as O'Malley closed his wearyeyes; but he could not sleep.

So, this is freedom, is it? His thoughts and fears danced with the seedlings of dark dreams until he could not

tell whether he was awake or asleep. As the strange beasts of the night chanted around him,and a waxing moon grinned mockingly from above the branches that stretched out acrossthe starry sky, he found himself travelling the worlds and lives he had known over the years.He had been born a prisoner to foreign tyranny in his own land; he had been torn from hisfamily and the girl he loved; subjected to a life of slavery in the colony; and now he was lostand starving in the unknown. It was clear that his existence was doomed to suffering andcondemnation.

Captain Logan grinned sternly as he rode his proud steed through the shadowyavenues of a tormented mind. A treadmill turned to a heavy beat like a mournful drum. Ayoung Irish boy stumbled through the wilderness of an immaculate and harsh land that hecould never have imagined existed - and, as the redcoat in his head rollicked with the palewaif of hunger, O'Malley wondered what role freedom had to play in this cruel game.

#

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Zero gravity was a misnomer, Miriam hadbeen told. Gravity exists everywhere - even if ithas only the smallest, tiniest effect.Microgravity, she had then learned, was thecorrect term. Still, Miriam felt that it lackedthe same feeling of freedom the words 'zerogravity' imparted. Because freedom was com-pletely and exactly the right word.

A tap to her left palm with the middlefinger, then a twitch of the smallest and asmall puff of compressed air sent Miriam intoa slow spin around her centre of gravity. Shesmiled contentedly as she was treated to a360o view of her new domain.

Freedom had been lost in a split second seven,nearly eight, years ago.

She had been in the back seat, her Mumand Dad up front, and they were going out to cel-ebrate her High School results. And they hadbeen very good results indeed. With her score, shewas able to pick any course she desired. Miriam'sheart, though, was set on physics. Young and ide-alistic, she dreamed of finding the elusive energythat would effectively and efficiently free a tiredearth from the plundering of her vital essences.

Whether her father was distracted by theexcited discussion that fizzed inside the car,whether he really did need those new glasses herMum had been always harping on about, orwhether it was simply that the other car was in ablind spot and hidden from her father - it didn'tmatter. Not any more.

It was a sudden crunching, splinteringmoment that changed her life.

Later they told her she was lucky. Afterall, she was still alive. Her mother and fatherhadn't been so fortunate. It took nearly five yearsbefore she could start to believe them. Even thenthere were still the dark moments when she toldherself they were lying.

Mostly, though, she did know she waslucky. If the injury to her spine had been anyhigher, only a handful of vertebrae, she wouldhave needed a ventilator to help her just to

freedominzerogravity

bydiannem. dean

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breathe. Her injury had been to the thoracic region inher upper back. She could move her hands and arms,flex and wiggle her fingers. But her torso didn't workvery well, she slumped when she sat, and anything fromthe hip down was a complete write-off.

But then, three years ago, NASA announcedthe LoREx Project. The Long-Range ExplorationProject, to give its full name. Or the Star Trek Mission,as the media termed it in big excited capitals.

Miriam didn't care what they called it.It had given back her freedom.

Time to stop daydreaming. A tap to her right palm and the smallest of

twitches with the corresponding little finger at justthe right time triggered the tiny puff of compressedair that cancelled out her spin. Although up anddown didn't matter, Miriam enjoyed the sense ofachievement that stopping exactly where she hadchosen gave her. In the first few weeks she hadlooked like an insane spinning top, the atmospherestained with expletives as she sought to master thejets of air.

Another tap to signal her intent to use thesensors implanted in the supple gloves encasing herhand, then a slow dip of a middle finger and the jetaimed down her back gently propelled her forward.

As she slipped down the corridor she passedby one of the heavily shielded observation ports.Outside Miriam could see Pluto hanging slightlyabove them, the wide curve of the dwarf planet fill-ing the upper part of the window. It looked like a biground speckled bird's egg and Miriam giggled as shetried to imagine the size of the bird that laid it.

Charon was hidden on the other side at themoment but even now the navigation computer wasfeeding the data into the system that would send theKepler to a position where the moon could beobserved. The New Horizons mission had been ableto collect a lot of information about Pluto, satisfyingmany questions about its chilly nitrogen atmosphereand its curious binary relationship with its largestmoon. Now the scientists were eager to learn moreabout that moon.

Ah, look, she was wasting time again.Although the psychologists had emphasised thatthere was no such thing as wasting time on a journeylike this, that it was important to take time to enjoywhat she was doing, Miriam still felt a responsibilityto ensure the tasks entrusted to her were completedon schedule.

The centre that had looked after her had establishedlinks with a number of universities and schools thatenabled them to provide varied and interesting work-shops on a wide range of topics. These went from interesting to insane in Miriam's view. The barelyveiled aim, of course, was to provide herself and otherslike her with an interest that would distract them fromthe pain and frustration that plagued recovery.

At first she had avoided them, distrusting themotivation of the guest lecturers, seeing pity and piouscondescension. But boredom finally saw her regularlyattending sessions. And it did work. No matter howmany tests she had to undergo, how much frustrationshe felt when she couldn't get a piece of sophisticatedequipment to do her bidding, she began to look forwardto the peaceful interludes when all that mattered waslearning something new and interesting, not just newand difficult.

In the three months Miriam had stayed at thecentre she had learnt, amongst other things, how topaint, and how to compose music on a computer; andshe had listened to lectures on subjects ranging fromAustralian poets in modern literature to the latest developments in laser technology. One of the last lecturesshe had attended was provided by the QuestaconScience and Technology Centre in Canberra. From themoment she saw the iron statue of the astronomer tow-ering over them, peering up through a metal ring intothe sky above, she began to feel awe and excitement.

And when they showed her the stars she fell in love.

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In the science segment of the Kepler, Miriamcarefully packed the samples scooped fromPluto's dissipating atmosphere into a small,heavy canister. A data disc with the Kepler'sreadings on it was put in the shielded slot in itsside. A couple of vials of snap-frozen tissuesamples were also inserted for the analystsback home to play with. Not that she, or they,could do anything if they found any deteriora-tion or high levels of radiation anyway. But shesupposed they felt they were looking after her.And the information could well be vital forfuture missions.

Carefully sealing the canister into thisweek's Tortoise, she then loaded the unit intothe hopper. Another data disc identical to theother was placed into the Hare unit and thenit, too, was placed into a hopper. A press of abutton and there was a slight hiss as the unitswere transferred to the launch chamber, theatmospheric seals sucking into place. Greenlights lit up above both hoppers. Another but-ton and the screen soon confirmed the Hareand the Tortoise were on their way.

When the mission had been designed,the scientists had been determined that nofragment of information would be missed.Not only did the Kepler broadcast its readingscontinuously back to Earth, but every weekthe Tortoise and the Hare also made their wayhome. Each one carried a copy of the sameinformation that should have already beenreceived by the fingers stretching out from aseries of satellites spinning around Earth.Unlike their fabled counterparts, however, theHare always made it home first, taking themost direct route possible. The Tortoise, withits precious cargo of samples, was a little wiserin its choice of route and, while slower, had agreater chance of arriving back safely inEarth's vicinity where a shuttle could retrieveit successfully.

'Hare and Tortoise are away safely,' sheannounced to the empty room.

Every word was recorded and waspackaged up with the daily readings and sheknew the psychologists got worried if she wenttoo long without saying anything. She couldlive in her head for hours, even days, withoututtering a word but she hated to upset theboys and girls at home. She owed them a lot.

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The headlines broke around the world almost simulta-neously, so astounding was the news. NASA hadannounced its first human exploration of the universeoutside our own solar system. In three years theyplanned to send two, not just one, but two, long-rangespacecraft into the depths that had only been peeked atthrough the world's most powerful telescopes.

'Where are they going?' the media had asked.One would follow the path of the Voyager

mission, using the chance to verify the original data andto further examine some of the more interesting phenomena. Eventually it would catch up with thefaithful Voyager 1 and 2. At this point it would be upto the human pilot to determine the best direction totake based on the information so far gathered.

The second would head out to Gliese 581 tofind out more about the planets that spun around thisred dwarf star. Gliese 581c, in particular, was of inter-est. Ever since its discovery, this tantalising planet hadbeen elusive in its behaviour. It orbited in the habitablezone of its star; the place where water could run freelyand there was a chance that life could exist. It alldepended now on how hot or cold the planet was nowand that, in turn, depended on the composition anddepth of the blanketing atmosphere. Scientists were very clever and could use measurements taken when aplanet transited in front of its star to determine whattype of planet it was - rocky or watery. But Gliese 581cwas so small that when it transited its star it was diffi-cult to detect and to take measurements. Therefore itsnature was still, even after all these years, doubtful.Despite this, it still remained the greatest hope of find-ing an Earth-like planet outside of our solar system.

'Who would go?' the media then demanded.'Heroes,' the spokespeople replied, 'More than

heroes because they will know that they can neverreturn. Explorers like the first explorers.'

And the questions that came were many. Andeach was answered with patience, as clearly as possible.

'But what about the deterioration of muscularcondition? How will your heroes cope?' an interviewerfinally asked as there seemed to be no other questions leftto ask.

'Ah, yes. About that … 'The answer sent the world into a spin.

'Time for lunch, I think,' Miriam nodded as shechecked her watch. With a graceful flip she turnedand headed toward the small kitchen.

Miriam had been watching the fateful interview on television. Desperately jealous of the lucky few thatwould be chosen to take this next step on behalf of themall, but too excited by the news to bring herself to switchit off. Her love affair with the stars had continued andshe had become an accomplished amateur astronomist.That someone would actually be able to explore the stars…

'The projected muscle deterioration has alwaysbeen an issue in long-range missions. One of the manystumbling blocks. That, and the psychological effects oflong term isolation and confinement. Whilst we hadany number of volunteers ready to face these challenges,we had to consider the impact on the ultimate completion of our goals.

'Then, one day in 2007, Stephen Hawking,famed astrophysicist, experienced zero gravity in aBoeing 727 as it pirouetted above an expanse of ocean.Normally confined to an electric wheelchair, it wasclear that Mister Hawking thoroughly appreciated thefreedom of movement afforded to him during those briefmoments of weightlessness. It was then that we realisedwe have a large number of people in our society who arealready facing the same problems as our long-rangeastronauts would on a daily basis.

'After many hours of study and research, andthen waiting while technology caught up with ourneeds, we can now finally look for the best and brightest to take humankind's exploration out to thestars. And we want to give the whole world the chanceto be part of this exciting adventure. Applications canbe downloaded from our website.

The distinguished spokesman, clad in a darkblue uniform with impossibly shiny silver buttons,looked directly at the camera. Miriam felt like he waslooking right at her.

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'And don't think that any physical disabilities preclude you from applying. We arelooking for the best for the job and we now knowthat doesn't simply mean physical perfection.

'We are looking for the heroes, the explor-ers of the future, and there is no template for that.'

As quick as she was, she still wasn't quickenough. It took half the day before congestion onthe website abated enough for her to downloadthe application.

Miriam attached the nipple of the shiny blad-der and squeezed a healthy dollop of tomatopaste into the micro-shake. Then she set thetimer. Later the ingenious kitchen appliancewould mix and cook in exactly the way itsname implied - the hybrid of a milkshakemaker and a microwave enabled her to cookmeals that tasted remarkably good. This onewas an adaptation of spaghetti bolognaise. Ithad been realised from the earlier experiencein space that the benefits of simply being ableto cook your own meal were multitude interms of physical and mental health.

As she left the kitchen - it was toosophisticated, she thought, to call it a galley -she noticed a dimmed light above her. Miriamadjusted her course and carefully undid the fit-tings using the tools she had clipped to herchest. She retrieved a new LED from the lock-er at the end of the corridor and quickly put itin place. The old LED was put into a pocketon her overalls to be checked later. If she couldrepair she would, otherwise it would go intothe recycling system.

She gave the new LED a little pat.Miriam had had to learn so much that rangedfrom the practical to the theoretical. But shehad been determined. No way was she goingto miss this trip just because she couldn'tchange a lightbulb!

What had been amazing was that they had actually meant it, really meant it. Anyone couldapply for a place on one of the long-range missions. They had a couple of desirable attributes - they would rather you were relativelyyoung (after all, it was going to be a very, verylong trip) and an ability to learn and adapt to

2211

new tasks was darn near essential. But even these wereweighed up and measured against what else you mightbring to the mission.

It must have been an incredible headache forthe people coordinating the search as nearly a hundredthousand individuals across the world applied.

Miriam had been among them. She had chuckled wryly when she clicked on the send the buttonthat sent her e-mail winging away. What chance did she have?

Somehow the written applications were whittled down and two thousand breathless, astoundedpeople who couldn't believe their luck were then inter-viewed. Equally breathless and astounded, Miriamfound herself once more at the Questacon Science andTechnology Centre where she stammered and stutteredthrough an hour long interview. She dripped with perspiration when she finally exited the fateful buildingand expected to hear no more of it bar a short, polite letter.

Two weeks later she was informed that sheshould ensure that her passport was up to date. She hadbeen chosen to take part in the initial training.

At least once a day Miriam made her way to thebridge. Here, a multitude of lights shone softly incontented peace. No brightly glaring primarycolours at all, thank goodness. The emergency system should alert her wherever she was but Miriamfelt better if she occasionally physically checked.Well, what if the emergency system failed too? Thetechnicians had told her that was virtually impossi-ble as it was running with a triple backup system …but she still checked.

She also made sure she reviewed at least oneemergency procedure every day. Bringing the proce-dure manual up on screen, she found her topic fortoday was 'What to do should there be a breach inthe hull'. Miriam anchored herself to the seat and satdown to read what could be done should the fragilemetal skin of her man-made home suddenly bepunctured and all the air hissed out into the endlessspace surrounding the Kepler.

'I don't understand why, though,' Miriam grumped.'Why, what?' Norton asked patiently, pen

poised above the paper.'Why among all the people in the world they

chose me?' 'You and ninety-nine others.'

Miriam shot an annoyed glance at him, 'Yes,well, you know what I mean.'

Norton sighed and put down his pen.'Although I know you are trying to change the

subject…''I do know this stuff, you know,' Miriam

interrupted.'Yes and no. Like all self-taught experts, your

knowledge is patchy, and I need to check what you doknow and help you fill in the gaps.'

'You'll find few gaps, mister.'Norton sighed again and Miriam nearly (not

quite!) apologised. She liked Norton, she really did. Hewas definitely less stuffy than the rest of her trainers. He made their discussions interesting and was willing togo off on tangents even if he would eventually make surethey inevitably returned to the subject at hand. Most ofthe other trainees either knew a great deal about astron-omy (normally because they were scientists in their ownright and, therefore, totally intimidated Miriam) orthey knew very little. She and a few others were some-where between as astronomy was their hobby. So theyeach had to do one-on-one time with Norton Avery tosmooth out the lumps and bumps in their knowledgeand enhance their expertise.

Early on she had asked why he wasn't doing thetraining himself. He had applied, he had told her, butcertain genetic markers indicated that he had a highprobability of experiencing accelerated muscle deteriora-tion in space. He had withdrawn his application.

Anyway, it was not that she minded the individual sessions with Norton. Not at all. Miriamfound herself contemplating the rich, chocolate brownof his eyes and realised she had missed what he had been saying.

'Um, huh?'

2222

'I was saying...' A smile was on his face.Miriam wondered if he had realised why she wasdistracted. Oh, she hoped not! '...that I cannotsecond-guess the selection process. However, thefinal hundred were chosen for their intelligence,experience, knowledge, adaptability, and fitness.'

Miriam gestured wryly at her useless legsstrapped into her wheelchair, 'Hardly fit, MisterAvery.'

'How many times have you been told,Miriam? Physical fitness does not mean fitness tothe mission. Haven't you been training with thejets?'

Miriam nodded. The sessions in the poolwere sheer fun as she was taught how to manou-veur using jets attached to a harness she wore overher swimsuit. Every time she moved her fingersthe gloves she wore would send a signal and astream of water would propel her along. As sheimproved, the complexity would increase untilshe would, they said, be able to move like a dol-phin through the water. The technicians wereconstantly refining the system and said that inspace the water would be replaced with jets ofcompressed air. Why air, she had asked. Wouldn'tother gases be more effective? Yes, was the answer,but in an enclosed atmosphere it was better to usewhat she would otherwise be breathing and notto introduce imbalances in the mixture.

'Right, then you know that in space thefact you can't use your legs will be irrelevant.Concentrate on your abilities not your disability!'

'But…' Miriam couldn't stop the wordslipping out. Her voice sounded small and unsureand she hated it. She looked down at her hands.They were clasped tightly in her lap.

'Listen, Miriam.' Norton grabbed herhands, the warmth of his enveloping the cold ofhers. 'You wonder why they picked you? Eventhough you can't walk, even though you are stuckin a wheelchair?'

Miriam nodded, still looking into herlap. Norton put a finger under her chin and lifted it gently until she was looking directly intothose velvet brown eyes.

'Miriam, every day you deal with aworld made for able-bodied people. Every dayyou have to adapt yourself to our environment.An environment made for us, not for you. Anenvironment that is alien to your needs. Well,these missions are going somewhere that will bealien to all of us, able-bodied or not.' Nortonsmiled a brilliant smile. 'And you have experience dealing with just that.'

2233

He grinned at her until Miriam suddenlyrelaxed and grinned back. His hand dropped away.Absurdly Miriam missed it.

'Right,' he said, looking down at his paper,'Will you please now tell me what you understand the"habitable zone" of a star to be.'

Miriam rolled her eyes, making Norton chuckle, before going on to show that this was one areashe definitely had no gaps to fill in.

Miriam ticked off her mental to-do list: the Tortoiseand the Hare were on their way, she had reviewedtoday's emergency procedure and lunch should beready in, oh, just over an hour. Time enough, then,for a workout. That's why she had headed up (as in,toward what she always thought as the top of theKepler) to the observation room. This was one of themost expensive parts of the whole ship. Three giantobservation ports were ranged around the room,each multi-million dollar expanse protected by over-lapping shutters that automatically closed should thetracking computer detect a threat to their integritywithin a thousand kilometre radius.

Positioned in the middle of the room,Miriam appreciated the large empty area. Not that itwas all that big really, it just seemed so after being inthe rest of the ship. Nowhere else was an area of thissize allowed to remain unused, and in this space-hungry vessel that was a true luxury.

Her physical trainers had developed a varietyof exercise routines, most of which had to be carriedout using the fitness equipment installed in the gym.Yes, the Kepler had been fitted out with a gym. Okay,muscular deterioration was inevitable but there wasno reason why it shouldn't be put off for as long aspossible. But her favourite routine was the athleticfreeform dance - the computer played music andMiriam moved where the rhythms took her body.

'Computer: Random selection from instru-mental selection. Increase beat until forty-fiveminute cut-off and follow with standard cool-downselection.'

'Beginning now…' the soft cultured voice ofthe computer replied.

Miriam began a series of stretches, fightinggiggles as the opening swelling strains of the themeto 2001: A Space Odyssey filled the air. Soon, however, she was tumbling, turning and stretching,bathed in the light reflected by Pluto as it hungabove her - very much like the dolphin the techni-cians had promised her so many months ago.

Miriam was fairly certain her trainers would not behappy with her current performance. All except one, ofcourse. And that was because Norton was the one whowas kissing her.

It had started innocently enough. A few friend-ly drinks at a local bar to fill in time while the selectioncommittee made their final selection for the mission. Allthat could be learnt had been learnt. What was left ofthe hundred (some had dropped out of the training asthe full implications of what the mission would demandof them had finally sunk in; Miriam couldn't believethey hadn't worked it out at the beginning and hadwasted everyone's time) had been poked, prodded,assessed, questioned, evaluated and stripped bare. Notimeframe had been given. There was no timeframe,they were told, for getting it right.

Thus, there was time to fill in. Tense, draining,stressful time.

So, Norton's offer of a couple of drinks hadbeen seized with alacrity. And it was not that she couldclaim being drunk or even tipsy. Mindful that shemight (oh, please, let it be so) have to appear in front ofthe selection committee to answer any further questionsthey may have had, at any time, she had wisely stuckwith soft drinks and water.

Then Norton had suggested they go back to hisplace so he could show her his telescope. (Should thathave been a giveaway?) They had spent much of thenight exploring the sky. It was sobering to realise that,after all her work, this might still be the only way shewould get to travel the constellations - a voyeur glued tothe end of a telescope. But, with Norton's solid warmpresence beside her, Miriam was surprised to realise thatit wasn't as dire a future to contemplate as she wouldhave thought only a few weeks ago.

2244

Norton had been focusing the telescopeon Taurus as this was the area of sky the missionto Gliese 581 would eventually travel to after ithas taken a tour of the local solar system. Whenthe image had snapped into clarity, Miriamturned to congratulate Norton on his speedy workout to find his face only inches away from herown.

'You know,' he said softly, 'Your wholeface glows when you are watching the stars. Youreally want this mission, don't you?'

Miriam closed her eyes against the sheerlonging that filled her. For the stars or forNorton? Right now she wasn't certain.

'Yes,' she whispered, unable to admit herfeelings for this kind, gentle man. Admitting toher love of the stars was so much safer. It was sur-prising, then, when she felt a gentle pressure onher lips. She froze when she realised that Nortonwas kissing her. Feeling her stiffness, Nortonquickly drew back. They stared at each other.

'Sorry,' he finally said.Miriam wordlessly shook her head. So

many words tumbling in her head and none ableto reach her mouth, she felt something shatterinside when Norton moved further away.

'I shouldn't have… I didn't mean…'What's this? Confident, mature Mister NortonAvery was babbling like a schoolboy on a firstdate? Frustrated, he erupted from his seat,slammed a fist into an innocent wall, and thenslowly straightened. When he finally spoke, hiswas voice controlled and flat, 'It was wrong of meto do that. I'll take you home now, Miriam.'

The defeat in his posture, the sadness inhis eyes, suddenly gave her hope.

'Mister Avery?' She was proud at howcalm she sounded.

'Yes?' He was puzzled at her sudden formality.

'I think we finally found a gap in myknowledge. I am not at all sure I have the tech-nique correct.'

It was the most incredible sight to see thesorrow fade from his face, replaced by hopefultenderness.

'Is that so? Then perhaps more practiceshould be recommended.' He scooped her up fromthe bench-seat and settled into a wide, comfort-able armchair that had been put there for thosetimes when making to his bed after a long nightof sky watching seemed too hard.

'Oh, indeed,' she murmured as his lipsdescended once more onto hers.

2255

When the final notes had died away, Miriam cameto a gentle halt. Sweating in space was entirely different to sweating in gravity. You could feel thedampness clinging to your skin and every now andagain a fine droplet would spin away from you.There was none of that dripping feeling but, instead,the disturbing possibility of floating into a cloud ofyour own perspiration.

She felt the urgent need for a shower.

They were curled up together in Norton's bed when thephone call came.

They hadn't made love. That had been impos-sible. They were both too well aware of the decision thathad yet to be made. Instead they had held each other,exchanged silly secrets from their childhood, kissed, andtalked some more until they could talk no longer.Miriam jumped when her mobile whistled from thebedside table. The Caller ID listed the CEO of theLoREx project.

'Yes,' her voice cracked. She reached blindly forNorton who caught her hand and held it tightly. Shekept her face carefully blank, giving away nothing of theconversation to Norton, her responses limited to simpleyes sirs and no sirs. Finally, she took the phone awayfrom her ear and pressed the red button.

'Well?' Norton finally asked.'They want me to report in at 0900 tomorrow.

I have been selected for the Gliese 581 mission.'Norton's grin came a split-second too late. Too

late to hide the grief that etched his face before thebeaming smile replaced it.

'Congratulations, my girl. I knew you'd get aspot. I just knew it.'

For a moment Miriam's whole body felt asparalysed as her legs. Then she wailed, 'Norton! Howcan I go now? How?' Her hands slapped against the sheets.

Norton gathered her into his arms. 'How couldyou not? You've worked so hard for this.'

'I can't leave you, Norton.' Miriam suppressedthe guilty voice that argued she most certainly could.

'Yes, you can, love. If you stayed you would onlyend up hating me; hating yourself and the alien worldyou were forced to live on. You belong in space,Miriam.' He gently rubbed her back, carefully makingsure she couldn't see the expression on his face. 'It willbe all right,' he comforted.

How could it? Miriam wondered. No matterwhat she did she would lose.

Miriam was startled when the seals of the shower bagfell open. It was less surprising, though, to feel a pairof warm lips nibble at her naked shoulder.

'I'm hungry,' Norton murmured into herear, 'When's lunch?'

'In, oh, about five minutes. How did the system check go?'

'Fine. The deployment probe completed theoutside scan perfectly.'

He twirled her around and whistled appreciatively.

'You know, I really should had tried harderto convince them about the double sized showerbags.' He leered comically.

Miriam swatted his nose. 'You got your wayon everything else.'

And he had.

Norton had taken Miriam home after the phone callthat night so she could grab a little sleep. Then when shefronted up to the mission headquarters she foundNorton had been closeted away with the powers-that-bemost of the morning. He had a ream of papers a thickas his arm. His own personal collection of variousreports that had been prepared during the course oftraining - some of which he should not have had access to.

The most pertinent, however, was the summary of consistent conclusions of nearly every personinvolved in the project that the missions had signifi-cantly increased chances of success if the spacecraft weremanned by a team of two matched individuals insteadof the single occupant the spacecraft had been designedfor. If that is so, it was demanded, why had no onepicked it up before? Because, Norton had replied, the

2266

comments were tucked away in psychologists'notes, hidden in technicians' diaries and over-looked in scientists' journals. It was there but noone had thought raise it as, after all, the space-craft were made for one, weren't they? And thatcouldn't be altered - could it?

And that's when Norton presented theschematics he had drawn up with the help ofunnamed designers. These showed quite clearlyhow simple alterations could be made to makethe craft habitable for two.

It took some time for the uproar to diedown, for the threats of punishment for breach ofsecurity to cease, but when it did a stunnedsilence reigned. We'll have to take this to the tech-nicians, the experts, Norton was told. Nortonhad scooped up the plans, ignoring the pleading,outstretched hands.

'I have a price,' he told them.

Norton gently drew Miriam out of the showerbag. Clasping her to him, he tapped a finger tohis palm and twitched a finger, sending themboth jetting gently toward the door. He didnot need the harness yet but, as he said, it wasbetter to be ready against the day he would.As they passed an observation port, Miriamsmiled to see Pluto spinning above them.

#

2277

griselda goshby deb0rah sheldon

2288

Little Daughter was five years old and didn't knowabout ventriloquist dolls, so the thing sitting on theman's knee appeared to be a deformed child. Its limbshung slack and its mouth, frozen into a toothy grin,clacked open and shut like a beak. Little Daughtergroped blindly for Mother, but Mother was sittingbetween her two children and was already holdinghands with Big Daughter, and her free hand wouldn'tlet go of her purse. Little Daughter hunched down inthe seat.

Mother leaned over and whispered, 'You watchevery second, these tickets cost money. Now sit upstraight.'

Little Daughter sat up but instead of looking atthe stage, she looked around. There were mothers andgrandmothers and children of all ages laughing andclapping. Little Daughter peeked at the stage. Thething propped on the man's knee was swivelling itsoversized head from side to side and singing in a thin,high squeal, 'Cock-a-doodle-do, my dame has lost hershoe; my master's lost his fiddling stick and doesn'tknow what to do.'

The man on the stage mugged at the audienceand said, 'Hang on just a minute, Griselda Gosh, exact-ly who is fiddling with what stick?' and the mothersand grandmothers and children started laughing again.The reflection of the stage lights cast a glowing, yellowwash over their rapt faces.

Mother hissed, 'I won't tell you again, nowwatch the goddamned show.'

The thing shrilled, 'A-who and a-what stick?Oh don't ask me, Mister Patterson, I'm nothing but ablockhead!'

And on cue, the audience shouted in unison, soloud that Little Daughter jumped, 'Uh-oh! Whoops-a-daisy!' and the thing's jaw fell open as if a wire had beencut and a square patch of scalp on its woolly blondehead flew open like a hatch and Little Daughter suckedin a great draught of air and screamed and screamedand screamed.

The man on stage leapt to his feet. The thingdangled dead from his hand. Little Daughter screamedharder. The audience scrambled, turning to her, point-ing, staring, gasping, and Mother slapped her andyelled, 'Stop it, stop it', but the screams wouldn't stopand Mother dragged her out of the theatre by her arm.

Outside in the red velvet foyer, nine-year oldBig Daughter smirked and Little Daughter ran out ofscreams. Mother dug her fingers into Little Daughter'sshoulder and shook her, rattling her teeth, and said,'How dare you embarrass me like that.'

2299

A startled face appeared behind the candy counter,a teenage boy's gaped mouth and popped eyes. Mothertowed Little Daughter through the double doors and ontothe street. The sunshine blazed sharp as a headache. LittleDaughter began to howl. People in the car park looked over.

'Oh that's right, keep it going,' Mother said. 'Makeeveryone think I'm the worst mum that ever lived, whydon't you.'

At dinner, Little Daughter had to sit at the table with anempty plate while Mother and Big Daughter ate lambchops, mash and peas. Big Daughter kept looking over andsniggering. Little Daughter wanted to take hold of theknives and forks and poke out her sister's eyes.

'Get that angry look off your face,' Mother said.'Right now, or you can go stand in the broom cupboard fora while, how would that be?'

Little Daughter said, 'I want Daddy.''Well, too bad, he's working on the road.'

Little Daughter thought of Ontheroad as a townwith iron-latticed bridges that spanned a river teeming withfish and paddleboats. The last time she had seen Daddy, along time ago, she had sat on his lap while he told her thathis visit home was only brief, that he would be gone andworking Ontheroad again before breakfast, before LittleDaughter was awake. She pictured the two of them walkingalong the riverbank while a family of ducks cleaved a V-shape through the water. She put her arms around his neckand said, 'Take me with you.'

'Oh, no; working Ontheroad is no place for a young girl.'

'Please, Daddy.''You wouldn't like it, it's no fun, believe me. It's

better that you're here with your mother and sister.' AndDaddy had smiled and kissed her.

Now, Mother took the dinner plates to the kitchensink. Little Daughter's stomach rumbled.

'You can do your homework,' Mother said to BigDaughter, who pushed off from the table and saunteredinto the living room. 'And you,' Mother said. 'You can gostraight to bed, and think about how horrible and mean youwere today.'

It was still light outside but the bedroom curtainswere drawn. The dark held images of Griselda Gosh. LittleDaughter hugged her toy rabbit and pulled the sheet overher head.

Much later, when the light had faded from aroundthe curtains, Big Daughter came into the room and climbedinto the other single bed. Mother tucked her in and left. Assoon as the door closed, Big Daughter scrunched the doonacover and whispered, 'Hey, did you hear that? It's GriseldaGosh and she's coming for you.'

3300

When Little Daughter at last fell asleep,she dreamed of falling through an open hatch intoblackness, into nothing.

The next day when the girls came home from school,there was a rectangular box sitting on the kitchen table.Little Daughter couldn't read the writing on the sidesbut she hung back. Stamped along the box were cartoonimages of a goofy grinning face with yellow braids.

Flushed and happy, Mother put down her wine-glass, flung out her arms and said, 'Surprise! I wentshopping today. Go ahead and open it, it's for the bothof you.'

Big Daughter reached into the box and pulledout Griselda Gosh.

Little Daughter knew the sorts of things thatwould be coming next and wanted to run and run butshe had nowhere to go and couldn't manage her buttonsor shoelaces by herself.

Mother said, 'Isn't she great? It's a replica ofcourse, not the real thing, but I just love her cowgirl out-fit, don't you, darling? Look at the fringe on her skirt.'

'She's perfect.' Big Daughter kissed the doll thenheld it out to Little Daughter. 'Now it's your turn.' Shetook a step closer. Little Daughter took a step back.Griselda Gosh had bulging, unlidded eyes with whitesthat showed all the way around the painted irises. Thebaby-pink lips were pulled back over two rows of tinywhite teeth.

'Go on,' Mother said. 'I spent a lot of money onthat doll. Do as your sister tells you and give Griselda a kiss.'

Little Daughter shook her head. No one spoke ormoved.The sound of Mother's breath moving in and outof her nose got louder and louder.

Then Mother snatched Griselda Gosh andthrust it into Little Daughter's face, demanding that shekiss it, kiss it, go ahead and kiss the goddamned doll,while Little Daughter stumbled and flailed. She bumpedher head somehow and ended up on the hallway floor.Mother hauled her back to the kitchen. Big Daughterwatched with cool green eyes.

Mother said, 'I do my best to make you happy,and I've had it, I tell you. I've had it up to here with you.'

Mother opened the broom cupboard and shovedher inside and shut the door. Little Daughter fell in thedarkness against the stack of toilet paper and hit her chinon the wall. Broom bristles like spiders whiskered at her ankles.

'Is it lonely in there? Well, is it, you bad girl?'

3311

The door opened a crack and Griselda Gosh flewin. Mother slammed the door as the oversized headsmacked into Little Daughter's chest. The body rustledand tumbled down to her feet. Little Daughter jumpedand kicked but Griselda Gosh wouldn't stop touchingher.

'Now stay in there until I tell you otherwise.'

Later, she heard canned laughter. The cupboard dooropened when she pushed it, and she stepped out. Motherand Big Daughter would be sitting in the living roomwatching television. On the floor of the cupboard layGriselda Gosh, her skinny limbs in an untidy sprawl andher head angled into a corner.

Little Daughter whispered, 'I tell you, I've had it.I've had it up to here with you.'

From the wardrobe in the master bedroom, shegot one of Daddy's golf clubs. Back in the kitchen, shehooked the putter around Griselda Gosh and draggedher out onto the tiles. She made sure the doll was look-ing at her and then raised the club. It whistled throughthe air as she brought it down.

The head cracked on the first blow. LittleDaughter lifted the putter again. She had seen asmashed bird's egg before and expected Griselda Gosh'sinnards to be the same, a yellow and red pulse of custard.The cheek broke away on the second blow but there wasnothing behind the shattered plastic, nothing at all.Little Daughter stared into the void.

Mother and Big Daughter came running andstopped. Like twins, their faces fell open in identicalshock.

Big Daughter recovered first. 'Oh no, my beautiful doll,' she whined, clutching and plucking at Mother.

Mother's mouth hardened into a line. She tookslow and deliberate steps towards Little Daughter. BigDaughter sat up on the kitchen bench, eyes shining.

Mother said, 'Drop that golf club. Drop it right now.'

Little Daughter squared her shoulders and sether teeth and tightened her grip on the handle, whichmade Mother hesitate.

But only for a second.

#

3322

Rustl

ein

you

rh

ead,

bro

by simon james

3333

He wasn't what I expected. A short figure, black cropped hair, small goatee. Both earspierced with round hollow stainless rings an inch wide. A conical stud protruded from the left side of his nose. Tatts meandered up and down his arms by the look of what protruded from the sleeve of his coat, which was a simple Bluey. The dress of choice for anight by the campfire, strolling the streets in winter, watching suburban footy on a windswept afternoon.

As I stood there, the figure rocking back and forth on the heels of his Conversehigh cuts, it all seemed so easy, not daunting. Casual humdrum if anything. He hadn'trapped on the door, but I could feel his presence, courtesy of a drop in temperature as I'dleant on the stove in anticipation of the kettle's climax. So I opened the door…

A plastic bag in his left hand snapped and crackled in the breeze, occasionallybrushing his denim-jeaned leg. I looked at the bag, a grey colour, and thought it was a fitting container for the mundane contents it would receive.

No pomp, no ceremony. More importantly, no warning for me to turn back.How typical for the myth to be so exaggerated over time, I told him.He smacked his lips. It sounded like dead hands catching a welted cricket ball.What would happen if I chose not to go through with it? I wondered.Was it always like this? I asked.Oh, I responded after he told me it wasn't.I waited for him to make the first move. I felt like a skittish girl wanting to be asked

out, minus the fear of rejection hovering in my mind. At least you're not mindlessly looping hair through your fingers, I thought.

The reason for his appearance on my doorstep was simple: I'd tired of the burdenof carrying it around. And who better to have it? Someone might as well get some use ofit, I'd figured. I was done with it, and it had not served me well, of that I was certain, morehindrance than help, so I might as well get something for it in return. The bag rustled,irritated.

I wanted to be like everyone else, I informed him. At least I wanted to have thechance to be like everybody else: the carefree, carpe dieming set you see on TV, in cafes,clubs or crisp new cars. Shouldn't we all aim to be like them? I asked.

3344

I thought he was going to vomit if I kept it up, by the look on his face, so I shut up.I looked back from the doorway to the wooden-framed clock hanging in the

kitchen above curtains that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine for years. It was11.11am. Soon it would be 11.12. Time moved on.

Have you got others to pick up today? I asked.He shook his head, pulled out a cigarette. Smoke wafted toward me within seconds,

trailing the way a cat's tail does around a human's leg. I'd ask him in after he finished. Myflat had a no-smoking policy, which extended to all.

The plastic bag whirled in his hand, the wind lifting it for an instant. It looked new.I figured it hadn't been used often. Perhaps it would never be used again. Perhaps the figure used a different receptacle every time he paid a visit to someone who wanted rid ofwhat I was about to hand over.

I began toying with the idea to offload it about two weeks ago while sitting at mywork station. Yep, eight till five, week in, week out. Punching in data that never stoppedappearing on my desk. I never got ahead. I never got behind. The pile was always there.Constant soon becomes constipation in a way. It never unblocks, never overflows, neverfrees up.

The smoke flurried from his mouth, and I noticed the tan of nicotine stains on hisfingers, fore and middle.

Non-smokers die, I said. It was a Bill Hicks line, if not verbatim, but the crux of acomedic adage nonetheless.

The figure smirked. Perhaps he'd met Bill Hicks, or was a fan of his work. Perhapsboth. I didn't ask.

He dropped the cigarette butt, grist for the Converse mill. The dead never run outof breath, he said, as I held the security door open.

Do you really want coffee? It seemed an odd request. I don't have milk. Or sugar.Black tea it is, I said.I concocted the brews. I went with black tea as well.We sat at the kitchen table. A stack of newspapers, mags and papers were off to one

side. They never stopped appearing. Daily data.You're right, so much for the internet meaning the death of paper and the planet

once again being overrun by trees, I nodded.

3355

So how does this play out? I asked, steam rising from my mug as I looked into thedark brown liquid.

With a shrug of the shoulders, he went through the process.That's the plan, he saidin conclusion. Then he drank the tea in two gulps, his Adam's apple throbbing like a piston. The tea, a liquid last time I checked, moved its way down his neck the way a rodentslides, bumps and grinds down the body of a snake. This was a little weird. Like watchinga Goth buy sunscreen at the chemist.

The bag, which he'd dropped over a knob on the dining chair's backrest, rustled aswe sat in silence. He hadn't disturbed it, and there was no breeze coming through my flat.The heater wasn't running, no windows were open. It rasped again while he drummed hisfingers on the mug's rim.

I nodded in recognition of the plan. Is that it? Thought it would be more involvedthan that, I said. Little wonder you're kept busy. I took a sip.

I asked him if people would notice a difference in me. And I'll be happier, you say?That intrigued me because it was the one state of being I could never imagine myself in.

My mug was drained. I felt warm inside. A little high. I would be thrilled, relieved,to get rid of the listless feeling I constantly lived with. I felt like a floorboard with everylast creak trodden out of it.

I sat on the couch, cranked up the stereo via remote. He was nonplussed with mychoice of CD: Slayer's Reign in Blood.

Be comfortable, he instructed. I wouldn't feel a thing. Famous last words, I grinned.And I could leave my pants on. That bodes well, I said, laying back.

Dizziness filled my head as it hit the cushion. Had he spiked my tea? I couldn'trecall seeing any devious movements, any sleight of hand, no contemplative stare as I polished off the brew.This could be the oddest date rape never reported, I thought. I closedmy eyes and tried to clear my head.

The night after I brought this idea to the grey-mattered table, at the tolling of twoin the morning, I finalised my decision. Intuition, inspiration, call it what you will - I don'treally care and am not about to dwell on the metaphysical mechanics. I stared at the ceil-ing as I lay, pulling the doona up to my chin, a wisp of warm air billowing from beneathover my face. To relinquish wholly, that was it, I thought, and could feel the iron bruises on

3366

my fate left behind by horrendously bad life decisions change colour, lessening in ferocityand losing the steely resolve they had held for the past decade and then some…

Yeah, I called in sick, I replied, my mind clearing, the dizziness calming like a lakereturning to normalcy after being rudely intruded by a boisterous stone.

It'll be fine. No one will miss me, I suggested. Perhaps the woman at the canteen.And perhaps miss is too strong a word. When I show up tomorrow it'll click I wasn't thereyesterday, I told him.

I will be right for work tomorrow, won't I? The question popped out.So, all I have to do is lie still and not open my eyes?I didn't ask why, but I wanted it over now. My nerves had awakened butterflies

(what an odd analogy, one that should never have been invented or written). My thoughtsturned to how such a peculiar adage for the feeling in your stomach could have arisen inthe English vernacular.

I kept my word. My eyes didn't open. A pressure grew on my chest and I recalledthe time I had a wisdom tooth out. A small female dentist of Asian descent had climbedon my chest to yank out the tooth that had chipped away to half size. I thought she hadabsolutely no chance of extracting it without taking to it with a scalpel. But she managedit adeptly, in what was in reality less than two minutes' work. I had nowhere near the apprehension now as I did when I visited the dentist.

I felt a touch on my shoulder a time later. Three taps on the bridge of my shoulder.I blinked. He stood by the door. Now that was odd. I gulped. The music had ceased. Didyou stop it, or did I black out? He didn't reply.

I pushed myself up to a seated position. I saw the plastic bag in his hand, bulgingat the bottom, as though a crystal ball rested at its base.

Are they all that size? That insignificant? I asked. The bag crackled, jumpy like a terrier.

He gave me wry grin.So why all the fuss? No, I didn't mean from you, I stated. From us, the great

unwashed. The easily conditioned. The unheard herd - that's a better analogy than the butterfly one.

3377

He didn't respond. I looked at him and wondered if he remembered what had justtaken place. I got the sense that memory was not one of his strong suits; his mind couldpossibly be devoid of any recall. What a cure that would be for so many of our ills…perhaps if we were fitted with total un-recall, I wouldn't have needed to unload. To relinquish.

I rose from the couch. The least I could do was show him out.I glanced at the clock. 11:13.A thin layer of grit graced the bland kitchen bench. What was it? In one look they

were the remnants of flies, moths, bugs that most of the time fly under the radar of oureyes, only seen when they're directly in our line. In a blink, they were desiccated memoriesscattered to the wind at the behest of a sigh. Not my sigh, his, I understood. But my memories flamed in his internal inferno, and left to settle before me. Should I hold a smallceremony, in remembrance? I enquired. Oh, I'll think about it then. (Later I would spraythem with vanilla kitchen wipe, and slide a sponge across them like a bum washing a windscreen.)

Now I was unfettered, unburdened and perhaps now I could enjoy life for what itwas. Free of worry, concern, anxiety. No longer a slave to the grind, or the mind. Peace,tranquillity. So very underrated.

If this is all it took, more people should do it, I said. They shouldn't believe every-thing they read. Or what they see in the movies. Yep, religion does have a lot to answer for,I concurred.

I watched him walk down the driveway. The bag swayed at his side. Rustled.Yes, it was definitely a fitting container. Recyclable, reusable. Just like the contents.

And I wouldn't forget the sound it made. In time, I found I had little choice. It arrivedevery so often throughout the rest of my life, usually when I least expected it.

The only unnerving aspect of the experience: I couldn't recall what he looked like.This memory evaporated in days. I could remember what happened, every detail, except hisface. Perhaps I'd wiped it up off the kitchen bench one day without realising.

He stopped and grabbed a cigarette. He placed it in his mouth, inhaled, and smokealighted from a red tip. No Redhead, no Zippo.

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Now you're showing off, I said, and ran a hand through my hair. My headache hadgone, my eyes felt clear, I felt a slight buzz of a tingle of energy.

A rustle in your head, bro, and for an instant I saw a glimpse of his reality.Eyes of black cholera, teeth stained the colour of shit-mottled sand. The stainless

steel cylinders in his ears became kaleidoscopes, vitamising the world behind as I staredthrough them: trees, landscape, road, passing cars, electricity poles and nature strip becamea blending swirl.

He dragged on his cigarette; the noise it produced sounded like blood drainingfrom a revelation. He turned the corner of the driveway and off he went with what he'dcome for.

I waited, expecting the blue panorama of the late morning sky to turn a potentapocalyptic scarlet in response to his departure.

It didn't.

#

3399

I'll never be slimNever have perfect skin

Never be a 'I love your hair' girlCan't be taller than I am

Can't get that summer tanBut my teeth are straight

And so is my backChild bearing hips

My smiling, sexy lipsBig boned with an inner strength

And love at finger tip length.

#

Small Part of Me

byJulietteGillies

4400

A Backpacker’s Gui

de to KnotTheory

by Lynley Stace

Original Image ‘Gillian at the Hostel’ by Jorge Alejandro Preciado Oseguera (Medialab)

4411

Mathematical knots are closed loops. Unlike a usual knot, there are no loose ends.

One female Backpacker, slim build, finds her hostel by accident. Maps in guidebooks arealways printed upside down and any destination lurks deep in the page binding. Murphy'sLaw. Is she in Ireland now, or Scotland? It's easy to forget these days. She checks the frontof her guidebook. She peers through semi-darkness at the door ahead and notices a small,laminated sign. 'Beds from 13 pounds.' Groan. The Backpacker mooched down this verylane twenty damp minutes ago. She has managed a closed loop around the old town. Knothappy.

So, this is The Royal Mile? Dusk must come early to Edinburgh. Through its hazeof drizzle, this street feels like something out of a Scottish murder mystery. Is Scotland Yardanywhere round here? Should've looked it up.

She presses a button and speaks into a circle of holes in the wall. The speaker phonereminds her she is not really a bit part in some gothic horror flick.

'Yeah, we've got a bed. Come on down.' The voice is unmistakeably Australian. TheBackpacker hears a click and the heavy door swings open. The hinges don't creak, but sheexpects them to. Laminated arrows lead her down a warren of corridors. She clomps downa steep staircase, gripping each handrail with fingerless gloves. Weighted down by a tall canvas pack, gravity is not on her side. She is glad to reach the bottom without going headover turkey.

Underground, The Backpacker discovers a décor of primary colours, bulletin boardsand phone cubicles. Reception is enhanced by burnt-out light bulbs - a kind of mood lighting particular to hostels. Shadows always help to mask grime. She hears the click-click-sink of billiard balls coming from an annex to the left. Laughter emanates from the livingroom. This kind of snorting hilarity is often heard from cliques of semi-permanent hostelresidents who despise fly-by-nighters. The Backpacker has seen many hostels just like thisone. So why, after three years' travelling, does she still not feel at ease?

The Backpacker casts a shadow over the front desk. The receptionist has her eyesfixed on Neighbours broadcasting from a bench-top telly. This must be the fellow Aussie.Unused to the climate, the receptionist wears long-sleeved stripy thermals under aKathmandu tee. Her hair is wrapped in a towel turban. Wet, bleached strands fall out, sticking to her neck. She hasn't lost her tan yet. She drinks noodles like beer, but from apolystyrene cup. Like every other hostel within cooee, this one must be short on forks.

The receptionist sees the new guest from the corner of her eye. 'How many nightsyou staying?' Two curly, maggot-coloured noodles hang out of her mouth. Clear juice dribbles down her chin. She wipes her mouth with the heel of one palm.

The Backpacker feels a familiar knot in her stomach. She is hungry. 'What's theweekly rate?'

'No discount for long-termers. Soz.''I'll pay for two nights, then.' The Backpacker has not spoken to anyone all day, not

since leaving Victoria Station on the 0900 Megabus. Her unfamiliar, husky voice strugglespast a lump in her throat. It's official. The Backpacker is fighting another foreign cold. Afterthree years of this she should have developed immunity to northern hemisphere bugs. Butshe hasn't.

'I can stick you in a unisex room for cheaper?' One maggot flies across the desk andlands on a well-thumbed Time Out mag.

The Backpacker is a fellow Aussie but this is the extent of their camaraderie. In anyBritish hostel, Australian guests are the default. They each meet so many young Aussies overhere that they feel a bit sorry for the dude left behind.

Would anyone have noticed if Australia sunk into the ocean? The Backpacker thinksthat maybe she should call her Dad. It's been months. Or has it been a year? She'll call theold man for Christmas. Get a phone first, with some credit on it.

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What's left when you can't see the knot? Not just because there's no matter there, but because spaceitself doesn't extend to where the space used to be.

The receptionist wipes a salty trickle from the corner of her mouth. 'Down the hall, secondon the left. You're sleeping on Elvis.'

If the receptionist expects a puzzled look she gets no such reaction from this guest.The personification of beds is a tacky trick favoured by hostels far and wide, as an aid to thedrunk and forgetful. Three years of dossing has uncovered common themes: bed bugs,smelly feet, noisy sleepers and laminated labels on bunks, secured by tape. Scotch tape, nodoubt. Ha.

The Backpacker hovers in the doorway and scans her temporary abode. Dolly, Kylie,Madonna, Fatboy Slim… Elvis wears his sheet tucked in. His duvet is slick and smooth, hispillow fluffed. The Backpacker puts little faith in ostentatious displays of housekeeping. Atucked-in sheet means nothing. She dare not sniff his bedclothes. She flips over his pillowand hopes the linen dude didn't do the same.

Elvis is a top bunk. The Backpacker is pleased. Proximity to the ceiling engenders asense of privacy and gives her a bird's eye view of the room. Eleven open packs spill acrossbeds. A survey of scattered boots tells her most of them are blokes. Experience tells her atleast one of them will be drunk and two of them will snore like billy-o.

The bathrooms are unisex too. An oval mirror covered in white flecks of toothpasteis studded to the wall above the hand basin. The basin is garnished with a scrap of dirty, yellow soap and someone's haywire toothbrush. The Backpacker catches sight of her ownreflection. The overhead bathroom lighting flatters no one; dark eyes disappear into herskull. Her face is waxen white and unfamiliar. The face does not smile back.

In the real world, mirror reflections are no more than mental images. In mathematics, reflections are as real as the objects themselves.

Original Image ‘Gillian at the Hostel’ by Jorge Alejandro Preciado Oseguera (Medialab)

4433

This hostel, like every other she has known, has too few ablutions. Half are in a state of disrepair. One toilet is blocked. Another is occupied. The third will not lock. The door staysshut with the help of one leg extended. This is no place for the inhibited; the bogs leadstraight off the living room. The Backpacker gazes at multi-lingual greetings and invitationson the back of the door, drops a load and hears laughter.

She hears another familiar accent: Saffa, or maybe Kiwi, 'You'd look badass withmutton chops, babe.'

The Backpacker pulls off reams of point-five ply toilet tissue and imagines a surfiegirl reclining across the lap of a twenty-one year old grungy bloke who hasn't seen a mirrorin weeks. She emerges from the toilet and stands for five minutes beneath a lukewarm trickle masquerading as a shower, then appears at the door of the living quarters. Nobodylooks up but The Backpacker has imagined right. The surfie Saffa girl strokes a stubblycheek and kisses the bloke's grungy neck.

The furniture is a motley collection from every era. Low couches sag under the weight of crammed-in bodies. The group waits for something to begin on a muted television. A cricket match, no doubt. It's summer back home. Hard to believe.

Some of the somebodies sip from cans. A pair of legs in low-riding denim standsupon a coffee-table. The head has disappeared through a window set high in the wall. Heangles his lips onto the footpath outside, but his exhalations catch on the breeze. The livingroom fills with sweet smoke. Nobody complains. Still, nobody looks up at the newcomer.Non-descript thumpy music drums from a cheap stereo by the fireplace. And there are nospare seats.

In the kitchen, German tourists have gathered around the table. They might speakDutch. Or Afrikaans. Anyway, The Backpacker is glad for a reason not to converse. Themen hold playing cards like Japanese fans. One pumps his fist into the air. The others groan.Two of the party are young women, each as tall as their men. One dishes out stew from abubbling vat on the stove. The other dishes out instructions. The kitchen smells of trout.

The Backpacker rinses a chipped mug and refills with Edinburgh tap water.Shavings of cabbage block the sink. The Backpacker stares into the plughole. She gulps thewater, wincing as its chill stabs her throat. The taste is not bad. It's better than the soupybleach-water of Earl's Court. The water does nothing to make her less hungry. She opensthe fridge and sees knotted plastic bags, each announcing its owner's name and date. A two-litre bottle of milk is almost empty. 'DO NOT TOUCH', it warns. 'I SPAT IN IT, BTW'.The Backpacker grabs the thick-nibbed marker and etches her own message onto thestranger's milk: 'SO DID I.' She takes a swig and lets the creamy milk soothe her throat.

In her bunk room, two Kiwi boys sit cross-legged on the floor. They pore over a freetourist map. They look up and grin.

The Backpacker raises her eyebrows in greeting. She recognises their faces from anEarl's Court pub. Or maybe not. Maybe Kiwi boys all look the same.

Long hair is bad for nits but works well as a blindfold. The Backpacker masks hereyes with her dark locks to avoid glare from the centre-ceiling bulb. She drifts off with theaid of a cold-and-flu tablet, lulled to sleep by discussions about castles, walking ghost tours,and a circuitous debate about the unlikelihood of afterlife. One of them reckons he's seena ghost. He'll have to embellish his story before it counts as a bona fide travel yarn.

The Backpacker wakes later to rustling and giggling. The light was switched off ateleven, flicked on again at midnight, off again at one and on again at two. A male andfemale stagger in. Each stifles bursts of laughter. The Backpacker groans and thrusts herselfover to face the wall. The couple snigger at the newcomer's lack of joviality.

She wakes again before dawn to a pair of entwined grunts. She buries her face intothe foreign pillow and imagines she's anywhere else. After all this time of unisex bunkrooms, this backpacker knows she is no voyeur. Hearing a guttural release from an adjacentbunk excites in her the same feeling you get waiting outside a toilet while someone takes adump. It's all natural. But then so are cadavers. She'd rather not see one of them either.

4444

The keenest of the tourists rise early and enjoy the only hot showers of the day. Adifferent sort of groan choruses throughout the bunk room as the grumpiest of the sleepersattempt ten more minutes' shut-eye. The main light flicks on and off. Long zips emitshrieks, struggling to contain dirty washing and collections of fridge magnets.

The Backpacker's sore throat has metamorphosed into a proper cold. She wakeswith a dry mouth and a full nose. Her stash of semi-transparent toilet paper has come to anend. She navigates down the squeaky bunk ladder, gripping cold metal. She waits for a toilet, pinching wet nostrils between two fingers. A dude with after-grog-bog hangs his headin shame as he ducks out of a cubicle. The Backpacker has lost her sense of smell and is gladof it.

Again, she cannot be bothered eating but her stomach growls. Cornflakes and whitetoast with jam are included in the overnight price. The kitchen is quiet this morning assolemn faces stare into bowls. The pitter-patter from outside means another day of damptouring. A few of the breakfasters travel in pairs, murmuring to each other in foreign whispers. There are plenty of cornflakes but no spoons. One glance into a stubborn cutlerydrawer reveals a carving knife, a rusty vegetable peeler and a serving spoon. Hunger dictatesuse of the serving spoon, too big to fit comfortably inside anyone's mouth, but sufficientfor the job of shovelling in food.

The Backpacker sits at one end of the trestle table, face dwarfed by her eating implement. She suspects a snide remark from two Germans and wishes she could speak theirlanguage, surprising them with a witty retort. She dabs at her pink nose with a fresh supplyof hostel toilet paper. She always fashions her hair in one long braid over breakfast. Thisgives her a mildly religious look and people tend to trust that. Or maybe they avoid her,wondering if she's a bible basher. Fine either way. She secures the end of her braid with theelastic band she keeps on one wrist. A male voice interrupts her thoughts.

'You sleep on Elvis, no?'

Original Image ‘Gillian at the Hostel’ by Jorge Alejandro Preciado Oseguera (Medialab)

4455

The young man has sandy hair, standing up at the front as if he's been pressing hispalm to it. Sitting opposite, he looks far too cheery. Her oversized spoon makes for a goodtalking point but The Backpacker does not want a discussion about the bloody spoon. Shedoes not want pleasantries, not at this time of the morning, not ever. She grimaces a greeting. This underground warren is overheated.

'You are the girl who slept on top of me last night, no?' He is definitely one of thoseirritating morning fools, ill-suited to communal living.

The accent is French. One of life's disparities: when the French speak English theiraccent is attractive. When English speakers attempt français they only manage to bugger itup. The Backpacker knows this from a trip to Pareeeee. She's too scared to go again in casethe blokes at Heathrow don't let her back in. But Irritation Phrasebook French may provehandy yet; a butcher's job upon his mother tongue might shut the ribbeting up for good.

For now she nods. So, this is the bunk mate that came in late, rattled his pack forway too long and then tossed for half an hour. Tossed and turned, that is. With Elvis beingan aluminium construction in need of a good squirt with the WD40, The Backpackerknows her bunk mate's sleeping habits. He breathes heavily through his nose but doesn'tsnore.

The Backpacker puts down her spoon, suddenly self-conscious. 'Sorry about lastnight. That useless bunk creaked and shuddered every time I blew my nose.'

'No problem. I too have a cold. Maybe you contracted it from me.' He shrugs,sniffs, and takes a bite of his breakfast. He has come prepared with light, crusty bread of hisown, smothered in glistening jam of deep red. That can't be hostel jam. Hostel jam issmooth and translucent with wood chips for seeds, and comes in tins the size of paint cans.

Perhaps he senses envious eyes fixing upon his bread. 'Would you care for abaguette?'

'Aw, nup.' The Backpacker stares into her bowl of soggy cereal.'The bread will be stale before lunchtime, so...' He passes his spare bread-roll across

the table. The golden crust glistens from behind cellophane. The offering looks far moreappealing than a bowl full of scabs.

'Gracias.' Hang on, that's Spanish. 'Merci beaucoup.''Jam of Strawberry?' He produces a cute jar from a paper bag and slides it across

the table.The Germans wipe their mouths and drop dirty dishes in the sink. The Backpacker

and her bunk-mate are now alone at one end of their trestle table. They each eat a baguettefrom one cellophane two-pack. Theirs is a strange kind of intimacy: the kind that comesfrom sleeping together but alone. They eat in comfortable silence, as if they might havebreakfasted this way for years.

A union of several loops is called a link.

He flips through a weighty book which sits flat upon the table. The Backpacker sees upside-down numbers and mathematical symbols: universal language deciphered by few. She hasseen many unusual things in hostels: fisticuffs over the TV, arguments over the washingmachine, drunks passed out on the stairs. Human turds in the entrance hall. But she hasnever seen mathematical studies over breakfast.

Perhaps he senses her gaze. 'Mathématiques. I came to Edinburgh last week.Next semester I will study for a PhD in knot theory.'

'Not theory? What, then? I didn't know you could get a doctorate in anything practical.'

'Knot theory, like on the shoelace.'

4466

From school The Backpacker vaguely remembers trig and algebra. 'I can tell youhow to deal with tangles,' she says. 'It's not something you need to work out with a pencil.All you do, right, is you grab it in the middle and wriggle hard with both hands. Worksevery time.' She waves her crust in the air, animated for the first time in days. Or months.

The Mathematician smiles. He bows his head in submission. 'I will try to wrigglehard next time.'

'I'm shit at maths,' The Backpacker says. 'Bores the hell out of me. But I'll tell youwhat I've always wondered, yeah?' The Backpacker produces an iPod from the front pock-et of her jeans. 'Look at these headphones. Knotted every time. Explain that to me, doc.'

'Ah. That is the second law of thermodynamics. Left to nature, all things turn to merde.'

She knows he is right. You spend your mid-twenties moving from country to country, town to town. But life doesn't change. Not really. The climate changes. The landscape changes. But sooner or later all things turn to shit. The bag is packed. Fresh start.

'Either that or... knot pixies? Ch'sais pas.'The Backpacker shifts in her seat. She does not usually find strangers attractive, but

she likes the width of his face, the way his cheeks taper down towards a sharp chin. TheMathematician could pass for a knot pixie himself. He pulls out a tissue. She likes the wayhe sneezes into it.

'I have only been here a week,' says the Mathematician, 'but I can show to you thevicinity. Do you want to see Edinburgh Castle?'

'Seen one castle, seen 'em all.''Ah. Let's go for a walk.''It's pissing down with rain.''Not pissing. Sprinkling.'

Original Image ‘Gillian at the Hostel’ by Jorge Alejandro Preciado Oseguera (Medialab)

4477

And so The Backpacker follows The Mathematician up the steep staircase and outside, into Old Town. He wears a transparent poncho over his woollen jumper. Dropletsdecorate his glasses. She wears long boots and a leather jacket. The front zip is broken, butshe turns up its collar.

'Where are we going?' she asks. In the hazy daylight, the streets look different. Shecan't even remember the route back to the bus station.

'Let's walk in a circle.' The Mathematician examines a map on his mobile phone. 'Acircle has a shorter perimeter than a quadrilateral. We'll see the same sights, yet we willbecome less wet.'

They walk together. The Mathematician gives names to parts of the architecture. Hespeculates on the current temperature, tells her which way is north, points out local plantlife. The Backpacker wonders if he ever talks about normal things. She tells him her nameis Ruby, because she feels like a Ruby today. She tells him about her mother who spies UFOsfor NASA in the outback, and about her father, still on compo after injuring his lower backin a circus related incident, October '76.

Mathematics is a kind of fiction. We talk as if numbers exist. A statement like 2 + 1 = 3 is justas false as 'World's End Close is just inside the Netherbow Gate', but both are true according tothe relevant fictions.

The Mathematician knows that the best view of The Royal Mile is from Arthur's Seat - anextinct volcano, apparently. At Holyrood Park, the climb to the summit is slippery. TheMathematician offers his hand. She takes it. Her face is wet and her nose is red. He offersher a tissue. He produces a pack of twenty-five from his breast pocket, reaching under hisponcho, insisting she take the lot.

From Arthur's Seat, the roofs of Edinburgh slope off sharply. The buildings are greyand white and terracotta. They both shiver.

It is still drizzling and the hills are deserted. The Backpacker realises that she isalone, once again, with a man she doesn't know. But she shared a bunk with him last night.What else is there to know about a person? They lean slightly into each other, shelteringfrom the wind. She watches his face as he looks, through smeared spectacles, into the horizon and she wonders if he's processing some mathematical equation.

'Would you like a mint?' The Mathematician produces a bag of green and white pearls.

The Backpacker accepts one. 'It always pays to take a mint. You never know if it's a hint.'

The Mathematician examines her face. 'I do not know the state of your oralhygiene.'

'Do you want proof, or something?'With a mint stored in each cheek, he reminds her of a squirrel that startled her once

in St James's Park.Whenever she closes her eyes it is a little easier, pressing her lips against those of

another. He angles his head to match the gesture. His nose is cold against her cheek. Heplaces one gloved hand on her knee.

Seconds later she is giggling - a private, inward laugh. His smile is small and his eyesconfused. Looking away, he rolls the mints around inside his mouth, counting them withhis tongue.

'Your mint,' he says. 'Before, I had two mints in my mouth. Now I think three.'

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The Backpacker composes herself, but a high-pitched snort escapes. 'You are a truemathematician, mate.'

'You want it back?' Perhaps he hopes for another kiss.She shakes her head, stands up, heads back down the grassy slope. 'Are you sure?' He proffers the bag, but she is gone.After a moment's confusion, The Mathematician catches her up. He walks behind.

When she slides across mud towards gorse he grabs her arm. She regains balance and pulls away.

The Backpacker cannot remember her way back to their hostel. The Mathematicianhas good spatial IQ. He leads them back to the alleyway.

She stares at the cricket on the TV, seated between two South Africans on the sagging couch.

He says nothing more, and goes to their bunk. He passes his eyes over a biographyof Lynryd Skynryd which he found on the communal bookshelf earlier, edged between a1989 guide to Czechoslovakia and The Holy Bible. Eventually, the Kiwi boys invite TheMathematician in for a round of Black Bitch. He joins them on the floor and wins all sevengames by memorising the cards. The boys think he cheats. They conclude, several days later,that it must've been The Frog who pinched their phones, eh.

At five twenty-five the next morning, the keenest of the tourists are still asleep. TheBackpacker brushes away her blindfold of dark hair, sits up in her bunk and carefully, gently, negotiates her way down the metal, three-rung ladder, cool beneath her feet. Usedto shared accommodation, her fingers work silently with zips and domes and drawstringsuntil at last she is ready to leave.

The overnight receptionist is asleep on the front desk, head in arms, lulled intoslumber by lilting Scottish accents on a talk-back radio show turned down low.

The complements of knots can never be the same space.

Original Image ‘Gillian at the Hostel’ by Jorge Alejandro Preciado Oseguera (Medialab)

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A sign at the depot tells The Backpacker that she has just arrived in another Scottishtown. She is last to leave the bus, descending from the top deck only after checkingthe overhead racks for forgotten treasure. The driver chucks her a heavy travel pack.It's one of those bags with straps coming off everywhere and which feels like it's beenpacked tight with bricks.

The Backpacker struggles to lift it, grunting with the exertion, almost fallingbackwards. Even through her leather jacket, its straps dig into her shoulders. Sheturns away, peers into the dreich. She is free: open-ended, untethered, untied.

This. This is what they call Freedom.The Backpacker calls it Lonely. Another knot forms like a fist in her gut.

#

5500

counting insectsby D James O’Callaghan

5511

The man was unable to fathom his mistake. His detention seemed incredulous even as it wasunfolding. It was similar to the popular notion of trying to count the number of insects living under Uluru except all functional wisdom had inexplicably vanished - no, was deprived- and what remained was the absurd logic of a dreamlike reality devoid of humanity and individual freedom.

'Dog,' barked his bully-boy oppressor as he jostled the man away from the bus.The man shut his eyes, firstly hoping not to worsen the situation, secondly hoping

not do something stupid, and lastly, he may still be dozing on the bus, all this was a dream,and he would shortly wake up.

'Kneel,' the man's tormentor growled.There was a damp caustic silence. Then the man's head exploded. Something akin to

a dumbfounding earthquake passed through his mind, forced him to accept the inevitable,and deepened his now gloomy disposition. Realisation: to survive he must stomach what wasabout to occur. Be a man, he told himself. Endure, yield - live in the hope there will be atomorrow for whatever was about to happen has become unalterable.

#

'Down,' ordered the gargoyle-faced sergeant, his broken, heavily-accented English punchinga hole through the humid air. He squinted against the stinging morning sun. Switching to hisjabberwocky tongue he uttered a series of rapid-fire machinegun commands to two equallysquat underlings standing each side of him.

All three khaki combatants were human curios - little taller than the checkpoint's forward sandbag ramparts; each pencil-thin with black razor-sharp hair, nicotine-stained lipsand fingers, and dark feral eyes hidden under boxed eyebrows. The soldiers and their strong-hold was one of a string of roadside blockhouses dotting a grimy no-man's-land, dividing onebarbed-wired sector from another.

#

5522

The man wondered if his abrupt incarceration was the sum result of past events combinedwith the laws of nature. If so, why wasn't he more alert when he'd boarded the bus earlierthat morning? That collective knowledge should have given him foresight into his immediatefuture, down to that very moment.

Alas, it hadn't.

#

'Kneel,' the sergeant reiterated. He smirked and pushed the man towards the ground. The man stumbled, hands first, over sloppy soil; tumbling, all sixes-and-sevens. Then,

without warning, the sergeant smashed the cane baton he was holding in his left hand hardand down into his victim's back.

A raven's croak broke the clammy silence.Strike one; gasps for air. Strike two; gurgled sounds. Strike three; convulsive pain spasms.The slashing clouts crippled the man, forcing him to huddle on the ground; arms and

elbows rammed hard against unprotected flanks, mouth full of spittle, snot dribbling from hisnostrils.

'Get back on your knees. Hands on your head,' the sergeant commanded, toweringabove him.

#

Just minutes before, the man had been an anonymous passenger riding an unremarkable bus.He was middle aged, unshaven, sun-darkened, with a rounded leathery face. Now he laybefore that same vehicle. He glanced up; a fresh perspective. The trees were singing, whippedby unsullied morning air. Fresh moist air wafted through the vehicle's open doors and win-dows. The bus was something akin to how he currently felt: halfway through a prize-fighter'sfirst twenty rounds. Beaten black and blue, the vehicle was a survivor, a forty year plus dieselbuilt at the turn of the century for inter-city runs.

5533

Although his pain was excruciating, the man scanned the faces of the other passengers. Each traveller stood in rigid silence, eyes averted from his predicament as theiridentity cards were being checked and then rechecked.

'Hah, hah. You weak vermin amuse me,' shouted the gargoyle-faced sergeant, ostensibly taking delight in everyone's unease. He barked something in his jabberwocky lingo.His subordinates halted, left what they were doing and turned towards their sergeant. He inturn extracted a mug shot from his shirt pocket. Silently, theatrically, he first pointed to thepicture then to the kneeling man and without warning brought his baton down on the man'shands, smashing his fingers in one action. Then, with a rapid uptake, he wrapped the batonacross the man's face.

Front teeth went first. Blood. Snot. More spittle. The man buckled, urinated in histrousers and vomited where he knelt.

The soldiers laughed.'Hope is an unprincipled notion,' said the sergeant in a snide, backhanded manner.

'But I'm not an animal. I'll return you to the freedom you richly deserve.' He took a back-wards step to avoid the urine pooling around his boots.

In a time-honoured militaristic manner, the sergeant removed a leather notebookfrom his breast pocket, checked his wristwatch, recorded the date, time, location, and natureof the incident, along with his judgement. Next to this data he jotted down the man's name,date of birth, and identity number before dropping the ID card on to the ground. Afterreturning the notebook to his pocket the sergeant bent down, and in a low tone told the manthat this was the age of uncertainty. Then he stood upright, drew his sidearm and put a bullet into the back of the man's head.

#

The other bus passengers stayed rigid, cosseted in arctic silence, as the sergeant inspected the bus, then each passenger - face-to-face, person-to-person, eye-to-eye. He revelled in the freedoms bestowed by his superiors to subjugate the locals and enforce political control.

'Move on,' he ordered with a wave of his baton, its tip aimed to the open road ahead.The executed man paid the bus's fare for an onwards journey; blood sacrifice. The survivorskept their seats and maybe, just maybe, reached the end of the line.

5544

None of the travellers on the bus knew the executed man's name or anything abouthis past, or his crime. To the soldiers the man was more-or-less identical to the multitude ofunshaven lost souls who roamed the borderlands looking for work, food, and a safe place tobunk down for the night.

As the bus departed the sergeant inspected the blood-specked tip of his baton whilehis underlings rifled through the dead man's meagre belongings. One smoked the victim'scigarettes; the other slugged alcohol from the man's water canister while idly examining theexecuted man's identity papers.

‘Sarge, was he the Postman?'The sergeant laughed, further accentuating his reptilian features. 'Does it matter?' he

replied in a morose voice. 'They're a defeated people; liars and thieves one and all. Besides,all their faces look the same to me and their fates are identical. In the end it comes down tothe same thing; their extinction or complete subjugation as we expand into their lands.' Heeased himself down onto his haunches, farted over the dead man's face, and was furtheramused by the fact that flies, ants, and beetles were already burrowing into the corpse's bloodand body crevices. 'Radio ahead. Tell the next guard-post to recheck all papers when theyarrive and select another example. Their Postman may fight for their freedom but we equally have the right to defend ours. Political freedom is a gift for winners, not losers,' thesergeant said as they retreated back to the blockhouse's barricade safety.

#

When they were gone, a man stood, stretched stiff arms and legs, and emerged out of an olddestroyed gun emplacement no more than fifty metres from the blockhouse. He was of medium height, middle-aged, unshaven with a dark leathery face. He wore a worn but wellcared for postal worker's shirt and carried a matching satchel over one shoulder. Reeking ofhard liquor, he silently stepped around rusty nests of barbed wire as he casually rolled a cigarette. He lit it and approached the executed man. Before the war, he had never touchedtobacco; now it was a welcome comfort. It had not given him immunity to death but its nectar of tar reassured him of his own mortality.

Only when the bus was completely out of view did his companion, an angular erectwoman, appear behind him. She pointed to the corpse, its blood pool, the discarded items, and a confusion of footsteps leading to the blockhouse.

5555

He didn't reply. Even from where they stood they could see the soldier's silhouettesinside the blockhouse, hear their jocularity as they proudly regaled their deed, watch as theyparaded about as if they were preening themselves before an unseen mirror.

'Postman, it wasn't your fault,' whispered the woman. She was older than him andcradled a baby whose features were an ungainly amalgamation of the soldier's race and hers.

Silence.'I still feel responsible,' Postman finally said in a hushed, forceful tone.She grimaced. 'Before the bus arrived they were shouting and working themselves into

a crazed frenzy. They intended doing what they did.' 'Is it right what we do? We seek our lost nationality, liberty and freedom, at what cost?

Hit-and-run attacks followed by their revenge attacks on innocent non-combatants?'The woman squeezed his arm. 'Postie, they're scared of the truth. What freedom do

they have? Look, they lock themselves in defensive positions during the day and are afraid towander about at night. They know they can't defeat us. Slowly but surely the tide will turnagainst them, the longer they stay resolute.'

Postie sighed and searched through his satchel. 'Truth is a casualty of all struggles.Besides, I'm our cell's propagandist. Ultimate victory only comes when you have the massesby their short and curlies - be it using friendship or terror. There's a fine line between rightand wrong, political freedom and interference, oppression and suppression. We may eventually prevail but in turn become guilty of the same sins as theirs. It all comes down topoint of view.'

'Why do you drink so much?' she enquired, thinking he was rummaging through hissatchel for alcohol.

Postie swallowed. 'Feelings,' he replied. 'It deadens the valves of my thoughts.'She considered the circumstances of their existence. Live for today as if tomorrow was

a dream which may not come. 'Does it clean the valves?' she asked.'No. It makes me more melancholy.' With that, mildew colours crowded Postie's

mind; his imagination grew mouldy and crumbled into dust. He recalled summer being his least favourite season. 'Could you learn to love me?' Postie asked, speaking to the woman's baby.

'Yes, she could,' the woman snapped, speaking on her infant's behalf. 'Like a rainy dayspent with a glass of insipid beer and a loaf of stale bread.'

The statement's truth resounded like cicadas walking in circles inside Postie's brain.

5566

'Where did you find the child?''She found me,' said the woman. 'Her mother was dead. We needed each other. I've

grown tired of needless death. Something needs to germinate.''It's more one of them then one of us,' Postie said, holding a finger against the infant's

bare marmalade thigh. 'You should have fed it to the birds.''She didn't get a choice about her origins. Why should she suffer for the sins of

her father?''You're a strange one!' Postie became aware the woman was scrutinising the veiled

movements inside the blockhouse. 'What of the world's evil?' she asked.'Only individuals are truly evil. Masses of people effect freedoms - be they personal

or group.'She sniffed the baby's bottom, rummaged through her own carry bag, found what she

was looking for and turned to Postie. Instead of a clean nappy she clutched a grenade. As ifon cue, circus music spewed from loudspeakers attached to the blockhouse. Goosebumps roseup Postie's arms, instinctively telling him what the melody shielded; a second possible victim.

'They may have a plaything,' said the woman as the screeching noise turned her cold.Her eyes steeled. Postie accepted her gift. She drew her baby into her bosom, placed herhands over the infant's ears. 'We'll wait for you down the road,' she said, cuddling, petting,and cosseting her baby as Postie sidled into the camouflaged shadows of nearby trees.

#

Freedom, Postie thought, was an illusion. Was he a terrorist? Was he a freedom fighter? The notion haunted his dreams. Do the means justify the end? Long ago he came to the realization history was littered with failed idealists like himself. He then considered the woman's baby and smiled. He knew what it was he had lost from his existence - the freedom to love the uniqueness of innocent individuality. Its denial, he realised, brought onpersonal disrespect of oneself.

He looked at the blockhouse, considered turning the other cheek and walking away.

5577

#

He needed to work quickly, thought about the soldiers inside and recognised that they too were victims. They had all, one way or another, been coerced into a nation's rigid uniformity to achieve an immoral end. Their respective nations had pushed their combatantsto momentarily become devoid of love, overlook their individual talents, thoughts, preferences and desires.

'Walk away,' he said in a soft tone to himself as he rummaged through his satchel,located his pistol and additional ammunition clips. 'It's not as if I have to go ahead with this.Every man has a choice.' He mumbled as he left his camouflaged hidey-hole, crossed the roadto outflank the blockhouse's sandbagged entrance and approach via a less fortified route.

As he increased his pace he listened to the buzzing of the blockhouse's electric lightbulbs and the happy cackling laughter coming from within. Glancing inside, he noted therewas no second victim, and that one of the younger soldiers, a lad who bore a passing resemblance to his own son, was wearing a jacket that was several sizes too large for him. Thesergeant, in another time and place, would have been an entertaining drinking buddy. On the other side of the room he saw that another soldier was writing a letter - most likely to hismother or sweetheart.

He grimaced, wondered how many souls he had ferried across the River Styx, butrealised the number was immeasurable - it would be simpler to count up the number ofinsects living under Uluru.

Unseen, the Postman peered through a gun slot, noted where everyone was, established his shooting order, and began.

#

5588

40% of the eligible went. 60% didn't.

To the accompaniment of the Bathurst Railwaymen's Band

at the edge of mammary -

23 young men

boarded the night train to Sydney.

Robert had heard something

scandalous about the French.

George had family in London.

There is heat in colour, ginger harbours.

As it happened, they invaded

and galvanised

a crumbled Ottoman Empire.

Heads full of Gallipoli sand and cocaine,

they fought nowhere over nothing

then climbed back on their ships...

this Old World tour

with less embarking each stop. Hold flesh.

Birds fall off the ride, aloft in recollection.

ANZAC

DAY

BY

LE

SW

ICK

S

5599

Women stay still on air.

They work and patch their shoes with prayer.

Apollo follows scratches

while Thor mumbles above

sheep and omens,

chains of yellow gas.

You could be comic, bloody oath -

ignore the horror. This war to prove nothing

bar the fragility of skin. Valour, insubordination, desertion

the expendable colonial number.

More came home seeking silence. Remembrance was a curse.

War is tactile and clings to the sinuses.

Some say it heals

to take the old wounds out.

Anzac Day is a construct

whatever the motive. Gunbarrels by candlelight,

empty beer cans fall like spent shell casings.

When I was young the day had lost its candle

balmed with dust.

It was my grandfather's quiet prayer

for the Golden brother who died

and his own insignificance mirrored in smaller injury.

The bitterness of his father, the wrong son had returned.

6600

Vietnam changed the settings. My father

who enlisted twice

endorsed (or forgave) the Masters

Sacrifice. Sidestepping contested family

he shuffled off (1971)

like it was a shameful habit.

Women in bib-overalls marched parallel to his parade

commemorating victims of rape in war.

He and I never spoke, I was

vengeful in my pacifism.

We are a shard of a generation, those who have not fought/

will not fight.

My eyes too are fixed,

dawn is the fatality of night. I try

but cannot KNOW.

6611

When there is nothing left

we are as Australian as our military...

at a world buffet

serving chips.

This day gets restored,

like a government lick of paint

and a bucket of movie tears.

Just after the Easter eggs

comes the regimental colours. To mothball this ceremony

is to put the option

of any future war into that terrible category of "history".

Even though the diggers "have to be out of it

if they want to get into it".

It is holy, but unhealthy. I admit

it will never be mine...

they once said in remembrance we avoid repetition

but that's been dropped. The parade

will always need new faces, our failure feeds the ranks

as yet again they march across the bones.

#

6622

Isa walked along the street with her head down. She snuggled deep-er into her heavy overcoat as she went. It was so cold it felt like itwas about to snow again. Despite the chill weather, the city streetswere packed with people all looking for a good time - something toexcite them and make them forget their mundane existences - justlike every other night on Teklas. It was that quest for something different, for a little hope, for something better,that kept food inIsa's stomach these days.

Teklas was originally a mining and industrial colony which,in the previous decade, had seen a booming economy. A strongeconomy meant more money and more money meant that morepeople had come to Teklas. Like everything else in life, the boom didnot last forever, and Isa for one had been feeling the pinch for sometime now.

Isa stopped at a neon drenched street corner and waitedpatiently for the pedestrian signal to change. As she stood waiting,another woman stepped up and stood close beside her. She was inher mid-twenties, much like Isa, though a head taller and not as slimor athletic.

Isa glanced sideways at the woman, but said nothing - theyhad to be careful not to look too obvious. Plain clothes cops weren'tthe only things you had to worry about when working the streets.

The traffic on the street finally came to a halt and Isacrossed, the other woman keeping pace beside her.

'Do you have them?' the woman whispered as they walked.'Yes,' replied Isa discreetly. 'Have you scouted out the block

yet, Tara?''I did this one and two either side. Looks like we're going to

just have to keep our eyes open and stay on the move tonight. I sawat least three pairs of beat cops.'

Isa turned right after she had crossed the street and headedtowards a small alley between two closed shops. Tara followed closebehind. With both of them scanning the street thoroughly, makingsure they were not being watched or attracting any attention, Isamade the exchange.

She opened her coat and slipped a portable poker machineto Tara. It was no bigger than a small envelope and not much thicker. Its bottom surface was metallic while its top surface was aluminescent colour touch screen.

Tara grabbed it greedily.

LONG ODDSBY SHANE GRIFFIN

6633

'What odds is it set at?' she asked.'One in eight payout, with an eight hour expiry,' replied Isa

sheepishly.'What?' groaned Tara, annoyed. 'It's the best Jous had. He won't go higher any more; he

reckons it's bad for business.''How much?' asked Tara with scepticism.'He put the price up again. They were two fifty each.' Isa

added hastily, 'He's still taxing us because of the one you lost lastmonth when you got picked up by the cops.'

'Shit, Isa! How do you expect us to make enough money toget off this dump of a planet with a one in eight that costs two fifty?'Tara shook her head in frustration. 'Screw this, I'm going to fix mine.'

Tara quickly pulled out a hacking tile that was slightly smaller than the pokie. She flipped the pokie over so the metallicsurface was facing up and laid the hacking tile on top so the nanowireless connection between the two devices would open.

Isa looked on in concern.'You're going to burn it out Tara,' she said. Tara ignored her

and kept tapping away at the touch screen on the hacking tile.'No chance,' she replied confidently. 'The burnout

protection is only on the expiration timer, not the core probabilitymatrix. The guy I got this from hacks these all the time.'

'I hope you know how to reset it when you're done becauseif Jous finds out you've been hacking the machines he's going to getangry,' said Isa, absently rubbing the small scar on her left cheek-bone where Jous had given her four stitches a few months back, forhanding back a pokie with a cracked screen.

'It's either this or go back to stripping!' replied Tara harshly.'You really want to go back to that? Or maybe back to the mineswhere you get double the amount of sleazy guys groping you in thedark for half the pay?'

'Maybe we could try and find IT work again?' suggested Isa.'Forget it, Isa the IT boom is over on Teklas. All of the

infrastructure is built, they only need caretakers now. All the smartpeople left while they still had the money and the rest are left working the street. Just like us.'

'We could still try,' mumbled Isa, wishing, not for the firsttime, that she had never come to Teklas.

'There, done,' said Tara, smiling, 'Now mine is a one in ten!You want me to do yours?'

'No way, I'm not risking it,' replied Isa.'Why not, with your luck you'll be fine. You always seem to

slip under the cop's radar. I don't remember the last time theychased you.'

'Ha ha,' replied Isa sarcastically. 'Let's go, it's cold tonight; Ineed to keep moving to stay warm.'

The two of them entered the street and gradually worked thelength of it, one on either side. At all times they were discreet andconstantly moved around. Whenever they spotted beat cops theyeither blended into the crowd or simply moved on in the oppositedirection. Everything had been going well for over an hour and Isahad thoughts of warm coffee on her mind.

6644

'Chance your luck, sir? It's a one in eight machine,' she saidflashing the pokie as she walked, making her way along the street.One man finally stopped, nodding excitedly.

'Excellent! I was hoping to come across one of you lottonight.'

He held out his palm flat in front of her and she quicklyswiped the back of the machine over it so it was able to scan his credit chip. The fellow then grabbed the pokie and accessed fundsfrom his account and transferred them into it.

Isa ushered him off to the side and sheltered him from directview by standing in front of him and opening her coat, pretendingto fish around for something inside as the man played.

With practiced ease, Isa kept one eye on the man and theother on the street. The screen flashes reflected in the man's eyes andgave his face an eerie glow. It always amazed Isa how much excite-ment the players got out of what was effectively a boring game ofchance inevitably stacked in favour of the house. All for that one-in-several-million chance of a massive, life-changing payout.

The man quickly chewed through the fifty credits he hadput on the machine and handed it back, disappointed. 'You sure thisthing is paying out at all?' he asked suspiciously.

'Oh yes, sir,' assured Isa as she hastily brought up the payouthistory. 'See sir, just fifteen minutes ago it paid two hundred andfifty credits.'

The man looked closely at the screen then shrugged.'I guess it's just not my night, then. Sorry, but I think I'll try

another machine,' he said then briskly walked off.Isa breathed a sigh of relief as she did whenever a customer

challenged her. The illicit machines really were programmed to payout minor amounts at one in eight odds, but gave zero chance of themajor payout offered by the government sanctioned machines.

It felt like time for a break and she was about to cross thestreet to see if Tara wanted to stop for coffee when she heard some-one shout from off to her left. She spun in alarm towards the soundto see two cops racing down the opposite sidewalk directly towardsTara. Tara saw them too, but when she tried to run she was heldfirmly in place by her last customer, a rather burly tattooed manwho was clearly not very happy.

'You're not going anywhere with five hundred credits ofmine still in that machine, bitch!' the man shouted.

Tara was madly trying to wrestle her arm free from the manwhile at the same time extracting the pokie from him. The cops wererapidly closing despite the heavy crowd. If Tara got caught runningpokies again she would be dumped into the foundries for threemonths' slave work for sure.

Even though it was going to put herself in direct danger, Isashoved her machine into her coat pocket and sprinted across thestreet, narrowly dodging oncoming traffic as she went. One of thecops noticed the commotion and pointed at her. The other cop wasalready shouting into his radio and calling for backup. Fortunately,Isa was much closer to Tara than the cops and reached her first.

The man struggling with Tara did not see Isa approach frombehind and was caught completely off guard by Isa's mighty kickbetween his legs and up into his groin.

6655

The man crumpled to the ground with an agonising moan.Unfortunately, he dropped the pokie at the same time as he let go ofTara and it fell to the footpath directly underneath him. Tara triedin vain to roll the man off it, but he was firmly locked into the foetalposition and not going anywhere.

'Leave it Tara! Let's go!,' cried Isa as she started off down thestreet away from the cops.

Tara glimpsed back to see the cops where only yards awayand quickly gave up on retrieving her pokie. She leapt up over theman and sprinted after Isa. Isa lead the way rapidly down the streetusing her slim build and nimble athleticism to weave efficientlythrough the crowd. Tara was not as fit and quickly lagged behind.

Isa reached the next intersection and intentionally waited forTara to catch up.

'You go left, I'll go right,' she said and they went oppositedirections. Splitting up was always the best option since cops neversplit up during a chase unless there was more than one pair of them.That would give Tara a fifty-fifty chance of getting away.

Isa jogged a short way down the less crowded side street andlooked back at the intersection. Tara was right - the cops never normally followed Isa - so she was surprised when she saw themboth round the bend and head in her direction, shouting out for herto stop. With Tara having lost yet another pokie and the night onlyyoung, there was no chance Isa was stopping.

Isa sprinted, leaving nothing in reserve as she tried desper-ately to get some distance between herself and the cops. She burstthrough the next intersection oblivious to the traffic flow. It wassheer luck that she made it across without being run over.

She cut right as soon as she crossed the street. She was getting close to one of her well-used escape routes. If she could justmake it into the maze of backstreets in the red light district, another old stomping ground of hers, she would be safe.

With the cops now lagging behind, but still in pursuit, sheweaved into a heavy part of the crowd, stopped momentarily andcrouched down. She ran in the low crouch across the flow of people,into a narrow alleyway that was used by the city's waste removalrobots.

The alleyway opened out into a nearly deserted street. It wasat the edge of an old information technology precinct that had beenlong condemned, awaiting absorption into the commercial district(something that was unlikely to happen in the near future while theeconomy was so bad).

Isa did not look back. While she was confident that thepolice could not have seen her duck down the alley she pressed onat a jogging pace, down to the far end of the dead end street.

She stopped at the door of an old three story building thatstill had a dull and rusty sign hanging above the main entry. It read'Interstellar Server Solutions'. Isa smiled, she never thought her oldworkplace would ever be a sight for sore eyes until she had startedusing it as an escape route.

She pushed gently on the double doors, but to her surprisenothing happened. Alarmed, she pushed more firmly. Still nothing,so she threw her shoulder into it. It was no use, it was locked shut,which should have been impossible because she had broken the lockover six months ago.

6666

She cursed her luck. What were the chances of someonefinding and fixing the lock to an abandoned building?

Her luck got even worse a few seconds later as the two heavily-sweating and awfully annoyed cops came running out of thealleyway behind her. It did not take them long to spot her and alsoto realise they were now blocking her only way out. They spread outa bit and slowed down in their approach with the clear intention ofboxing her in. Isa was not about to give up that easily. She sprinteddown one side of the street away from them, trying each door shepassed. With a sinking heart she quickly reached the last building inthe street, a huge abandoned computer chip manufacturing plant. Ithad several large locked roller doors across its front, but on the farcorner she spotted her last chance, a small service door.

She ran directly over to it and to her amazement the key hadbeen left in the lock. The cops apparently saw it too and broke backinto a sprint again. Before they reached her, however, she wasthrough the door and locking it from the inside.

Isa spun around, her back pressed against the door as thecops pounded on it, yelling from the other side. The door flexed. Itwas alarmingly flimsy and Isa knew it would not keep the cops atbay for long. The problem was, now that she was inside, everythingwas jet black and even after her eyes adjusted she could not see athing.

'Wow, Isa, how are you going to get yourself out of this one?'she asked herself quietly. No sooner had the words left her mouthwhen a single light came on. It blinked to life through a doorway onthe other side of the small room that she now found herself to be in.Isa quickly looked either side of her to check she had not bumped alight switch, but the walls were bare.

She left the door and crossed the empty room. The light wasat the start of a long, narrow corridor. The fluorescent globe was sodull that she could not see more than a few feet down the corridor,but as soon as she stepped out of the room another light buzzed tolife. It was the next light in the corridor.

Isa froze. Although it was probably just some old sensor system designed to save energy outside of office hours, she could notresist calling out, just in case.

The only response was another light flickering on a little further down the corridor. The hairs on the back of Isa's neck stoodup. She had not moved this time. For a few moments she stood rooted in place and contemplated giving herself up to the cops.

She started to turn around when the lights behind anddirectly above her went out. A moment later the remainder of thecorridor lights all came on at once.

Behind her she heard the entry door start to crack as thecops tried to force their way through again. Suddenly resolute, shecrossed her fingers and followed the lights, hoping that what she waswalking into was not worse than what she getting out of.

The lights lead her through a maze of rooms, old offices andcorridors. She climbed up stairs, then down stairs and changeddirections so many times that she was quickly disorientated. Thewhole time she was at the mercy of the lights that came on ahead ofher and blinked out as she passed.

6677

After what seemed like an eternity, she came to a closeddoor. The lights stopped outside it and did not change. She guessedthat meant she was supposed to go through so she grabbed the handle and turned it. The door was not locked. She opened it.

The room she stepped into was small. It had a tiny desk inits centre; behind the desk was another door. The room was lit bytwo things: one very dull desk lamp, and the eerie glow from anancient-looking laptop. The young man sitting behind the desk andlaptop looked up at Isa as she entered and gave her a nervous-if-knowing smile.

'Hi, my name is Chance,' he said, extending his hand as hestood up. Isa just stared at him, not really knowing what to say orthink. He retracted his hand, clearly embarrassed. 'Um, sorry, butcan you shut the door behind you?'

Isa creased her brow, still trying to figure out the situation,but at the same time shoved the door closed. As it clunked shut theman appeared to relax a little. He was quite tall and fairly thin. Hewas wearing a dark tee-shirt and old jeans and sneakers. His hair wasjet black, most likely dyed, and hung in a long ponytail. His eyeswere such a dark brown that at first glance he looked as though hispupils were fully dilated. He looked a little older than Isa - maybelate twenties, possibly early thirties.

He looked back and forth between Isa and his computer as he cleared his throat. Isa beat him to the punch though - sheneeded to hurriedly figure what this was all about.

'Are you the guy who was been playing with the lights?''Um, yes,' he replied, sitting down again in front of the

laptop and clacking away at the keyboard.'Why?' she demanded, as she looked longingly at the door

on the other side of the room and wondered if it lead to a way out.'Well, that's a little complicated,' he replied, looking up

from the screen.'The short answer will do fine,' replied Isa.He attempted a friendly and disarming smile, but Isa did

not fall for it and her face remained stern.'Your friend played around with the odds on her machine.

She should not have done that. It mucks everything up,' he said.'How do you know about my friend?''That would require the longer answer,' he retorted with just

a hint of sarcasm. 'The important thing is, that when she did that,she put you both in danger, so I helped you. That is how you got here.'

'Have you been stalking us or something?' demanded Isa,edging towards a clear run at the rear door.

'No, no,' reassured Chance. 'Although I have watched youplenty of times before, at the internet cafe when you come in to see Jous.'

Isa stopped and looked at him more closely. 'I don't everremember seeing you there.'

'No, I know,' he mumbled to himself solemnly.'Look, I don't know what game Jous has you playing, spy-

ing on us, but I'm leaving, okay. Thanks for the help with the cops.'Isa sprang past Chance, who remained sitting at his laptop. His onlyreaction was to tap at a couple of keys.

6688

As she reached the door and grabbed the handle, he swivelled around in his chair.

'What do you think the odds would be that the door lockwould temporarily jam?' he said, smiling.

Isa tried the door handle, but it was jammed tight. Withoutpause she spun back around and went straight for the other door.Chance swivelled around in his chair again, watching her.

'Strangely enough, the odds of two doors jamming are actually not the square of one another, but rather an exponential.'

Isa tried the door she had come through initially. Bile rose inher stomach when its handle would not budge either.

'Let me out of here!' she spat angrily as she tried in vain toopen the door.

'Sorry,' he said, a little crestfallen, 'That little trick was supposed to impress you, not scare you. Nonetheless, I can't let yougo yet; it's not safe.'

Isa strode back to the desk and leaned across it, trying tosound menacing. 'Why the hell have you brought me here?'

He looked at the laptop screen then breathed a sigh of relief.'Finally! I mean, there was an eighty percent chance you would askme that before it was too late, so I did not want to fiddle with it, butanother two minutes and I would have had to do something myself.'

'Listen, Chance, wasn't it? If you don't either let me go rightnow or at least start making some sense I am going to hurt you withthat ancient stone tablet you have there.'

Chance reacted by pulling the laptop towards him andcradling it like an infant in danger.

'No! Don't do that, this thing's a prototype. You know, oneof a kind; I'm not sure I could rebuild it. Anyway, to answer yourquestion, I brought you here to keep you safe. You see, I'm a mathematician, or at least I was until I got into programming andended up stuck on Teklas out of work. This little baby here I callNexat.' He smiled and waved his hands around the laptop melodra-matically. Isa's brow creased further as her patience wore even thin-ner. 'Anyway, um, well, I have always had this love for probability,which landed me hacking and reprogramming the machines forcash. Thing is, a mathematician who can hack and program who haslots of time on his hands leads to a lot of tinkering. To cut a longstory short, I worked out a way to control probability....inherentprobability.'

'Inherent probability? I've never heard of that.''That's because I made up the term,' he grinned, 'It's the

chance that things will happen to you. For example, the chances thecops would follow you and not your friend when you split up were fifty-fifty, right? I worked out a way to predict that and alsochange it.'

'So you're trying to tell me you can control everything that'sgoing to happen in the future?'

'No. I can predict the probability of what might happen inthe future and I can modify it in the present. So yes, for the mostpart, I can make things happen the way I want them to. Unlesssomething is a sure thing - you can't modify things that have onehundred percent probability.'

'Prove it,' demanded Isa.

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'I already did with the doors and the lights.''You could have set them up. You will need to do a lot more

to convince me of a claim like that.'Chance sighed deeply and reluctantly tapped away at the

laptop again. 'You know, it was a sure thing you would want me toprove it to you the hard way, but I'm still annoyed you're actuallymaking me do it.'

'Maybe you should just let me go then,' replied Isa sarcastically.

'Okay,' said Chance, ignoring the jibe. 'Those two cops havebeen wandering around the building with their flashlights lookingfor you. They were about to give up, but I fiddled the odds of thelights coming on completely of their own accord, just like I did foryou. They will be here in about a minute. Once they arrive at thatdoor it's a sure thing they will come through it and find us; I can'tchange that part. When they do, I'll make one last change and weneed to make a break for the door.

'One of the cops will pull his weapon and fire at you. He'sapparently a good shot because the chance of him hitting you isabout ninety-eight percent. The chance of his gun blowing up in hishand and stunning them both instead is literally billions to one, butnot a sure thing. I'll swap the two around, equilibrium stays in checkand we get away.'

Isa was about to tell him he was mad when there were shoutsfrom outside the door. It was the cops and they were threatening tobreak the door down. Isa looked at Chance, her eyes wide and herskin crawling.

He smiled nervously and grabbed his laptop, still open andat the ready. He moved to the back door. 'Um, this will only workif you come over here with me.'

Isa stepped briskly around the desk and stood with Chance.As she reached him the cops burst through the door.

'Hold it right there!' one of them shouted.'Sorry, no can do,' replied Chance as he hit the enter key on

his laptop then grabbed the door and flung it open.'Stop or I'll shoot!' replied the lead cop, drawing his weapon.

Isa stood frozen for a second, but Chance grabbed her firmly anddragged her out the door behind him. The cop pulled the trigger;there was a crackling noise and then a loud bang as his weapon malfunctioned and exploded in his hand. The shockwave propelledIsa through the doorway and hard against Chance's back. Both copswere knocked out by the blast. In the same grimly fascinated waythat passer's by look at a fatal car accident, Isa spun around andpeered back into the room.

She was awakened from her daze by a gentle hand on herarm. 'Come on, we need to get going. Don't worry about them,they'll be fine, although awfully pissed off.'

Isa let Chance lead them through several more corridors androoms until they finally reached the street again. Chance kept themgoing at a brisk pace back towards the rabbit warren of slums, brothels and pubs that Isa had originally been trying to get to.Occasionally, Chance would tap at a few keys, presumably changingthe odds on something crucial.

When they finally reached the crowds again, Chance sloweddown and smiled.

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'We are safe now, at least for the moment. Come on, I knowa pretty quiet bar close to here where we can get a beer, or somethingstronger if you like.'

'Okay,' replied Isa, still dumbfounded.They reached the small bar, went inside and sat down in a

corner away from the street. Her mind now having had a little moretime to digest things, Isa perked up. She ordered vodka, needingmore than beer. Chance sat opposite, his laptop open in front ofhim, as though he was anticipating her question.

'If you can change what will happen to you, then why areyou on Teklas and not rigging the lottery or something?' she asked,still trying to determine if Chance was somehow trying to scam her.

'That's also complicated,' he replied shyly.'Try me,' she insisted.He looked at his laptop screen and creased his brow. 'You

know, I really thought that saving you from the cops would haveimproved the odds more that you would believe what I'm about totell you.'

'Sometimes you just have to trust your luck,' she repliedimpatiently.

'Fine. Once I worked out the power of what I had discov-ered I put a lot of thought on how best to use it to my advantage. Iwas just about to set things in motion to get off this rock. Then youwalked into that internet cafe to rent a pokie from Jous,' he saidtimidly, not looking directly at her. 'As soon as I laid eyes on you Iknew I wanted to meet you. It's silly, I know, but even though I havethe power to manipulate anyone or anything in my favour, I was tooscared to talk to you.'

'So you manufactured this?' she asked accusingly.'Oh no,' he replied hastily. 'You friend Tara caused your

problems tonight. Like everything else in the universe, probability isin constant equilibrium. When you take from one side you need togive back to the other. That's why it's never good to hack themachines - you are just asking for bad luck.'

'How did you know I would need help, then?''Because I have been watching you,' he admitted. When

Isa's brow creased again he quickly added, 'But only recently. At firstI wasn't. For about six weeks straight I sat at the cafe every day waiting for you to come in to see Jous. I never once during that timelooked at or touched any of the odds that related to you or mychances with you. I was just hoping you would notice me of yourown accord. Then one day you turned up with stitches on your face.I found out later that it was Jous who did that to you. I was so angrywith him that I changed a few odds around so that his regular chicken curry gave him severe gastro for a week.'

Isa smiled at that and let out a brief giggle. 'I remember that,I thought it was just Karma.'

'Close, it was me. Anyway, after that I did start checking onyou. I was worried something bad might happen. From that pointon I have been kind of looking out for you. Didn't you notice thatfor the last six months you always manage to avoid the cops?'

'But why?'

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'I am about to become the most powerful man in the entireuniverse and I wanted someone to share it with. Someone whowants to share it with me willingly. Someone beautiful, like you.'

It was Isa's turn to blush and shift nervously in her seat. Shewas very flattered by the romantic concept, but it all seemed too surreal to her. She had to get some space and have some time tothink. She decided it was time to ditch Chance and find Tara again.

'After all the excitement tonight I really need to pee. Excuseme for a minute or two.'

Isa slipped out from behind the table and headed for the Ladies.

Chance sat tensely in front of his laptop as he scrolledthrough various number streams. It was close to an even chance thatIsa would come back. His fingers hovered tantalisingly close to thekeys yet he resisted the urge to tamper with fate. He really wantedher to fall for him on her own volition. Instead, he forcibly crossedhis fingers. Something he had not had to do for a very long time.

Isa walked directly to the back of the bathroom where there was asmall window that opened out into the street. It would be tight, butwith her slight figure she could squeeze out. She pushed it open,then hesitated. She wondered if it would be that bad to at least getto know the guy before she ran away. He was offering her a way offTeklas and a better life. Isa shook her head as though snapping outof a dream. She had always prided herself on being independent andself sufficient. The thought of never really knowing whether whatshe was doing or feeling was of her own free will was too much toignore. With some effort she squeezed out the window.

Back in the bar, Chance's shoulders slumped. He sighed and tappedat a few keys. He guessed some things just had to happen the hard way.

No sooner had Isa's feet touched the footpath outside the bar whenshe felt a searing pain in the back of her neck. She remained conscious just long enough to realise that it was a cop's stun weapon.

When Isa regained consciousness she found herself in a brightly lithospital ward. In panic she sat up, but was firmly pressed back intoher bed by a nearby nurse.

'Just relax, miss,' chided the nurse.'But I don't remember how I got here,' said Isa frantically.'You were stunned by a police officer by accident.

Unfortunately, he mistook you for a poker machine runner that hehad been chasing. Worse still, you had what we call a synaptic overload. It's very rare, but some people react badly to the stun field.

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You'll be okay, but you might find you have lost the last few weeksor even months of your memory.'

'What? No!' Isa desperately tried to focus her mind andremember something, anything. The last thing she could rememberwas losing her job long with her friend Tara at Interstellar.

'I'll give you something to relax you,' said the nurse gently,noting Isa's distress.

Very soon Isa started to relax, feeling sleepy. The nurse leftto tend to other patients and for the first time Isa noticed a guy sitting on the other side of the room next to the bed of anotherpatient, who appeared to be fast asleep.

'Wow,' she whispered to herself, 'what are the chances I'dend up in hospital and wake up with such an attractive-looking guynot five feet from me?'

He looked up from an ancient-looking laptop that he wasworking on and smiled at her.

'Hi,' she said, smiling back. The guy stood and walked overto her, then nervously put his hand out. She shook it clumsily, feeling quite groggy.

'Hi, my name's Chance,' he said as he sat in a chair next toher and opened the laptop again.

'I'm Isa,' she replied. 'Pleased to meet you.''Likewise,' he smiled.'Just my luck, I meet a nice guy and I'm about to fall asleep.''Don't worry, I'll be here every day visiting my brother, Jous.

He's had severe food poisoning and had to get his stomachpumped.'

#

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THETHE THEMETHEME FORFOR THE NEXTTHE NEXT ISSUEISSUE IS:IS:

greed!

Greed - the backbone of much in our world. The possibilities and styles are endless in this one – I am particularly looking at works that capture the raw,

human essence of greed (and its aftermath). Yes, we havehad Obsession, but Greed is in another league. WillGreed be the hero or villain here – let's see what the

issue has in store.

So brings the end of another calendar year forEclecticism. We hope you are able to enjoy a

break during the festive season - remember, dowhatever it takes to obtain your freedom!

All constructive comments are appreciated - e-mail them to:

eclecticism@westnet.com.aueclecticism@westnet.com.au

ISSUE 15TO BE RELEASEDJJAANNUUAARRYY 22001111

www.eclecticzine.com

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Have you read the entire collection of Eclecticism E-zine?

http://www.eclecticzine.com/back_issues.htmlEach issue is available to download, for free, in the Back Issues section:

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