…and finally ladies it is very important that you keep the face sock on until you are completely submerged under the water. The Ushigi Method of Skin Rejuvenation relies on the hydro molecules rubbing against the skin and gently agitating away all those nasty dead cells without damaging the structure below.
Month: March 2018
I should warn you, that if you were to amble along the walking track that follows the winding banks of Penny Creek in Mooroolbark, take care to avoid my hideaway that sits beside the bushy banks beneath the old English oak tree – as time is not of the essence there.
Richard, had been left unattended and was staring out through the rear glass double doors, spellbound by the lush, green, rear garden. Gradually, he turned his eyes toward the sparkling light reflecting off the swimming pool to the right.
He had a fascination for water, be it a bath, a swimming pool, the ocean, a river, any water feature captivated him such that he couldn’t resist approaching it, without fear, without any consideration of the consequences.
His mind wasn’t what it used to be. Not since the accident. Impending danger was not on his radar. His physical limitations were a pale imitation of the brain damage suffered when, five years earlier at the age of 32, his head speared through the windscreen of his brother’s car.
He needed constant surveillance all his waking hours and everybody knew water was the main enemy. When near the water, Richard had to be supervised. Today, however, distracted by the need to win an argument, two of his carers, his father and younger brother, forgot.
While they were arguing over who should mow the lawn and who should wash the car, Richard was more and more mesmerised by the shimmering, glistening pool and eager to investigate. He struggled to his feet and stumbled out through the sliding doors, toward the protective fence. The gate, as it happened, had been left wide open by the same brother who drove the car that terrible day.
He reached the pool and leaned over to see his reflection in the water. Stumbling briefly, he regained his balance and sat down at the edge, dangling his legs over the side, his shoes and socks, and the lower part of his trousers now saturated. He delighted in the cool, fresh feeling of being near the water, being in charge.
Minutes passed, while out front, those that should have kept an eye on him were still arguing. It was a trivial dispute, but neither was prepared to compromise. Suddenly, there came an almighty scream from inside the house. It was Richard’s mother, Elsie.
He was floating face down when they got to him. Elsie was frantic. “Get him out,” she screamed. “Get him out!” His father Brad, was the first to reach the pool. He jumped in fully clothed, and immediately turned Richard over, getting his arms underneath his elbows and edging him to the side of the pool. Elsie was seriously distressed. “How could we have let this happen?” she sobbed. Elsie and her daughter Susan tried to contain their emotions. Warwick, their other son, still smarting from the spat with his father, arrived. “Someone give him mouth to mouth,” Elsie cried out.
He looks me up and down in the dim light that makes it’s way past the intricate golden calligraphy work on the window, trying to work me out. He couldn’t be further out of his depth if he tried.
In the Year of Our Lord, Our Dear Lord, I continue to procrastinate.
Sitting in the driver’s cabin of a Metro train about to leave Lilydale Station, Bronwen Miller never regretted chucking in her well paid job in ‘bullshitland’ public relations to become a train driver, where she derived a basic contentment in helping people get from A to B.
The venetian blinds made that metallic whishht sound as Mum yanked the cord, pulling the slats up like a demented accordion and flooding the room with light. Dust motes floated in the air and resettled on Grandad’s side table. His glasses sat there. Not his proper ones – we were still waiting on some of his stuff to be sent home from the hospital, and he was wearing his proper glasses when the ambulance came and took him. At least we think the glasses were at the hospital. I don’t think funeral homes hang on to that sort of stuff.
Once upon a time, in a deep dark forest, there was a house. It could be called a house only in the most tenuous way in that someone one once lived there for a while. For a short while. And then they rapidly didn’t. But this is not a story about them, although they are part of the decor.