tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191725472024-02-21T01:39:39.195+08:00brickbendshort short-storiesMatthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-69763386601898563222018-02-06T12:18:00.002+08:002018-02-06T12:18:46.527+08:00Pytheas and the Midnight SunThe day after Pytheas was dismissed from his job, and while the feeling of humiliation was still with him, he sat alone in his garden, in the shade of a lemon scented gum, and consoled himself with a pot of lapsang souchong tea; he had been saving the leaves for some time. He took a biscuit from a small sunny-yellow plate, moistened it in the smoky infusion, and ate it.<br />
<br />
The warmth of the tea permeated his body; the tender afternoon air spread over him like angels’ wings; and the sweet song of small birds worked upon him like a lullaby.<br />
<br />
Pytheas feel into a light slumber in which he dreamt he was standing upon a circular dais, a turbid sea of people swirling around him. To his left, the towering figure of his father, his booming voice: “Pytheas: you are dismissed.” The hysterically laughter of the crowd; hands tearing at him, pulling him down and drawing him amongst the tumultuous convolutions of their movements. He was badly handled, wounded, and ejected into a place of total darkness.<br />
<br />
Pytheas awoke with a gasp. Night had fallen. All was quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the occasional croak of a frog. The tea was cold in its pot.<br />
<br />
He picked up the yellow plate, and, for no reason at all, moved it in his hand until he was holding it like a discus. A paroxysm of anger coursed through his body, and he launched the plate through the air, feeling at first strong and godlike, but then, as the plate turned towards his neighbours house, horrified at the recklessness of his own actions.<br />
<br />
The plate hit aa wall with a thunderous crash before bouncing off and landing undamaged on his side of the fence.<br />
<br />
A light turned on within the house, and he heard rushed footsteps.<br />
<br />
Pytheas hid himself within the shadows as he made his way silently back indoors.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-43844871586855729032018-01-30T10:58:00.000+08:002018-01-30T10:58:48.980+08:00OverdueThis did not happen.<br />
<br />
One Friday night, a man sat alone reading in a public library. He had gone to that place in the hope that the nearness of strangers would help stave off the lonely feeling that sometimes stole over him when he was on his own.<br />
<br />
As he read, he became more and more frustrated by his novel – the characters were too shallow for his taste – and, with a snort of disgust, he put the book down on the table in front of him.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately for the man, the noise of his snort, and the percussive sound that accompanied the putting down of the book, were above the level of a whisper, which was the normal threshold for noise in this library – even on Friday afternoons – and the librarian and several readers shushed him in unison.<br />
<br />
But a woman – gentle, but with a twinkle in her eye – looked across the room, saw the book and the man, and understood instantly what had happened.<br />
<br />
She stood silently and glided towards him like a swan upon a lake.<br />
<br />
She motioned with her large eyes for the man to follow her; and follow her he did. Noiselessly they escaped the cloistered confines of that soulless place. Then, under a moonlit sky, they walked, laughing and twirling as they went; freedom and creation flowing through them.<br />
<br />
Later, as a fair spring breeze caressed their cheeks, he lent her his coat, and they sat and talked until the early hours of the following day.<br />
<br />
They parted feeling reborn, complete and free. And they vowed to meet again, which they did the next day, and every day forever after.<br />
<br />
This happened.<br />
<br />
A man in a library put down his senseless book with a bang and a snort. Those gathered near him, including some who were browsing through the open stack, expressed their wrath through loud tut-tuts and shushes. But one woman was not shushing or tutting; and, as his eyes lit upon hers, he felt a pang of love pierce him through. He left the library rather hurriedly, then, but returned the next day, and for many days thereafter, always in the hope that he would see her again. But he never did, and the feeling of not meeting her weighed upon him and added to his loneliness.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-82235658807177088882018-01-17T15:36:00.000+08:002018-01-17T15:36:20.485+08:00BabyA foot pressing into my left eye socket wakes me. It is your foot, little girl. You are waking, too, stretching and yawning, smiling and babbling. The morning is cold and grey but your small body is full of warmth and joy.<br />
<br />
I lift you out of bed and let you play on the floor. You stand for a moment, but your legs soon collapse beneath you, and you sink to your knees.<br />
<br />
“Doooo,” you exclaim.<br />
<br />
“Doooo,” I agree.<br />
<br />
You bob up and down upon your knees and I congratulate you on your dancing. Your excitement causes you to fall backwards, and I reach out of bed and catch the back of your head in my palm.<br />
<br />
You smile at me, then, little girl.<br />
<br />
Little girl.<br />
<br />
“Can you say ‘Daddy’?” I ask.<br />
<br />
“Dooo,” you say.<br />
<br />
“Daddy,” I say.<br />
<br />
“Dooo,” you say.<br />
<br />
I laugh, and you clap your hands, happy with your game.<br />
<br />
I get out of bed and lift you up.<br />
<br />
“Let’s find Mummy,” I say.<br />
<br />
“Mum-me,” you say.<br />
<br />
I laugh.<br />
<br />
“I am not all you need, am I little girl?”<br />
<br />
But you do not answer me. Your face is turned towards the door.<br />
<br />
“I will always be here for you,” I whisper.<br />
<br />
“Mum-me,” you demand.<br />
<br />
I carry you to the kitchen where your mother is waiting.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-36325505549687154632016-09-23T11:20:00.000+08:002016-09-23T11:20:35.748+08:00Thursday Angel<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Andrew didn’t like Thursdays. They reminded him of her.<br /><br />He remembered the dappled light upon the plaster ceiling-decorations above her bed, the soft pillow cradling his head, the cool early-autumn air, the feeling of the back of her hand resting against his.<br /><br />The memory of her consisted of fragments like these.<br /><br />At other times, he remembered her as a fragrance that was, for him, indistinguishable from the ever-young scent of the ocean. Or, his memory of her could be encapsulated in the image of a grain of sand caught amongst strands of golden hair. She was sea-salt and sand, but soft, so soft.<br /><br />On Thursdays, these images consumed his mind. Their timelessness held for him an unbearable beauty that filled him with a deep feeling of melancholy. He would stop in his tracks, transfixed by these lingering sensations, the ghost like simulacra that were all that remained of her.<br /><br />An angel passes before the moon, he would whisper to himself, on Thursdays.<br /><br />He had always thought they would stay together eternally. She would not leave him, but if she had to leave, she would leave him on a Sunday. It would be early evening; their hands would remain joined; neither would look at the other; eventually, their hands would part but their fingertips would linger in final communion; a single tear would stain the ground beneath his feet; and, when he looked up, she would be gone.<br /><br />She left him on a Thursday</span>.</span>Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-76774786712965886362015-02-19T17:09:00.001+08:002015-02-19T17:09:17.817+08:00The SolutionDeclan kept a notebook in his right hip pocket, and was forever flipping it out during meetings and scribbling in it. No one knew what he wrote, but we were pretty sure it didn’t have anything to do with work.<br />
<br />
“What are you writing,” Frank asked one day.<br />
<br />
“That’s for me to know…” Declan didn’t bother finishing his sentence.<br />
<br />
“Haughty, arrogant, git,” Frank muttered.<br />
<br />
One Friday afternoon, as we stood around the sales office drinking the week’s profits, Declan started telling me about his notebook. He was three sheets to the wind.<br />
<br />
“I’m studying self-consciousness,” he said. The pride in his voice was tangible despite his drunken slur.<br />
<br />
I considered asking him a polite question, but there was no need: there was no stopping him.<br />
<br />
“People are so messed up,” he said. “Not me, of course, but other people, you know?” This wasn’t a question.<br />
<br />
“I’m observing people who feel like they’re being observed,” there was a gleam in his eyes as he said this, and he paused as if giving me time to come to terms with the import of his words.<br />
<br />
“You know, like, when people get on the bus, and they’re up there paying their money, and they think everyone is looking at them, and they’re carrying ten bags, or whatever, and they fumble their change, and they get embarrassed. I record that stuff.”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” I said.<br />
<br />
Declan pulled the notebook out of his pocket, opened it, and waved it under my nose. The page blurred before my eyes, but even if he’d held it still, I’m not sure I could have deciphered his manic scrawl. The page was unlined, and his handwriting covered it in oppressive waves of black ink.<br />
<br />
“Why?” I asked. I wanted to know.<br />
<br />
“Because…” he started, and then leaned towards me unsteadily. He lowered his voice before continuing, “Because I’m going to work it out, I’m going to solve the problem that makes losers fumble their coins on the bus, or trip as they walk on stage, or say the wrong thing in their job interview.”<br />
<br />
“Oh,” I said.<br />
<br />
“I’m going to analyse all this,” he waved the notebook grandly, “and then I’ll write an essay, or a book, and people will read it, and something will click in their heads, and they’ll be cured. It’s sheer genius, don’t you think?”<br />
<br />
Declan picked up a full bottle of beer, threw his head back, and downed it in one long draw. His Adams apple slid up and down as he swallowed.<br />
<br />
Frank started laughing, then. He had been standing with his back to us, and listening into our conversation.<br />
<br />
“God, Declan,” Frank said. “Everyone thinks about that stuff, and I can tell you now: you’ll be the last person to figure it out.”<br />
<br />
Frank’s outburst silenced the room. Everyone strained to hear what Frank was saying, and all eyes were on Declan. Declan’s face took on a sober countenance.<br />
<br />
“I…” he said, and then turned and fled the room.<br />
<br />
Frank watched him go and then shrugged. “Pretentious git,” he said.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-17968397922449967252014-08-01T16:05:00.000+08:002014-08-01T16:05:40.796+08:00CumulonimbusOn rainy days, sadness seeps through me. It loosens dirt as it flows, and it makes hardened ground soft.<br />
<br />
On rainy days, I am broken. Wounded, I burrow into a blanket of grey, encircle myself in my own arms, lower my head to my chest, and do not move. There I lie still, allowing my tears, those soft droplets, to accumulate within me, and huddle beneath the cumulonimbus covers.<br />
<br />
On rainy days, I do not sleep. I listen, instead, to the sound of a million felted hammers upon the corrugations overhead. The rain congregates in small rivulets that drip from my gutterless roof onto the soft new leaves of deciduous trees. I hear a symphony of taps and trickles, and it is a sound so familiar to me - from a time in utero, perhaps - that it is as much feeling as sound. The many sounds of falling water resonate with me and within me.<br />
<br />
On rainy days, I rise from my bed, healed, but not renewed. The world is bathed in pale light. A drop of rain slides down a blade of grass.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-15636031514648629072014-07-23T17:09:00.000+08:002014-07-23T17:09:21.735+08:00The Black Hat“It would work like this,” says the man in the black hat.<br />
<br />
“We would telephone this person you speak of.<br />
<br />
“We tell her… we tell her that her son has been injured. We name a road far out of the city. She does not ask any questions.<br />
<br />
“It is a dark night. There is no moon. This woman’s headlights do not work; they have been broken for a week.<br />
<br />
“She drives recklessly - too fast - she speeds through the night to save her son. She races down a narrow country road, the one we told her of. There are no street lights. She sees only shadows. Still, she has no caution. She drives like a demon, as if she is possessed by the devil.<br />
<br />
“She does not know that there is another car coming towards her. In this other car, there is a man. He also drives very fast. He is the husband of a client of ours.<br />
<br />
“There is a big collision.<br />
<br />
“They are in the country. There is no one there to help.<br />
<br />
“You will not be there. I will not be there. No one will be able to connect us to this… this - shall we call it an accident?”<br />
<br />
The man with the black hat waits for a response but does not get one.<br />
<br />
He squints at his potential client.<br />
<br />
A minute passes. Finally, the man in the black hat says, “Perhaps you will be there, no?<br />
<br />
“You will have seen this woman leaving the house in a rush. You will follow behind her and arrive soon after the crash.<br />
<br />
“You will save this woman who is no longer the woman you married. You will be her white knight.<br />
<br />
“She would be grateful, no?”<br />
<br />
The man with the black hat stops speaking. There is a long pause. The man in the black hat is calm and relaxed. The client is nervous and anxious.<br />
<br />
“How much,” asks the client.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-2086462637325595822014-02-07T16:51:00.001+08:002014-02-07T16:51:40.136+08:00ProgenitorI will be there for you, my father, though you were seldom there for me. I will fly through the night to stand beside you, your broken body, your bruised and battered face. I will be strong for you my father, though you were seldom strong for me. I will be a tower of strength beside you. I will be a pillar of light before you.<br />
<br />
As a parent, you confused correction for encouragement, anger for strength, and distance for latitude. But I will forgive you, my voice low and steady. I will remind you of your failings and I will tell you they no longer matter. I will forgive you for your anger and your aloofness; I will forgive you now, now, right now, before it is too late. You will leave me soon, my father.<br />
<br />
My father.<br />
<br />
I will stand beside you as you go. I will hold your arm, your wrist, your hand. I will hold that hand as I did when I was a child. And I will remember, then, a sky so blue and wide-open. The sun golden - as it was then - shining through your hair. I will remember you towing me over shallow surf, laughing, waves rolling, sand and splashing.<br />
<br />
And I will remember the fear of growing up and of being nothing and you, a pen in that hand, in this hand, looking up from your work and saying I would always have a place with you.<br />
<br />
And I will remember the bad news I gave you, and your hand on the back of my hand as I stared at my feet. I was the devil then, my father, but not to you.<br />
<br />
You were there for me, my father.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-13856630622509849692013-10-16T16:18:00.000+08:002013-10-16T16:18:22.956+08:00The Bridal TrailThe dark of night renders the bridal trail unsafe for a lone walker like me. There are things - dangerous, malevolent beasts - hiding in the grassy verges, watching, waiting, ready to pounce.<br />
<br />
I am not making this up.<br />
<br />
There are creatures here that can slither half way up a man’s leg before he realises what has happened. They can wrap around a man’s throat before he has a chance to scream.<br />
<br />
The full moon, gravid mother of light that she is, only makes things worse. The teaspoon of warm milk she stirs into the black-coffee night deepens shadows and gives life to inanimate objects. By her light I see a snake in a nearby tree, its tail wound in voluptuous coils around a horizontal branch, its mouth bent to the ear of Eve. That snake is woman masquerading as man; its sibilant whisper tells Eve of life without Adam, sex without sex, power without machismo.<br />
<br />
The snake turns her cold eyes upon me, and, with a flick of her forked tongue, steals my strength. I try to run but my enervated legs fail me. I am in a nightmare: I am all action and no motion. The sweat rolling down the bony riverbed of my spine is like the touch of a dead man’s finger.<br />
<br />
I beg my legs to take me away from that vile place - away from the snake and her sandpaper syllables. I move, slowly at first, but gather momentum as I go. I run as if pursued. I dare not look back until the lights of my home are before me. Then, when I do look back, there is nothing there but the bridal trail and the macchiato night.<br />
<br />
I run panting through the back-door, dazzled by the artificial light, glad to be safe within my own home. <br />
<br />
My wife enters the room and asks, “How was your walk?” I keep her in the corner of my eye and make my way towards the shower.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-75405953619548145972013-09-19T12:47:00.001+08:002013-09-19T12:47:31.203+08:00The MeetingThe meeting was innocuous enough; seven men who spent most of their work days surfing the internet, had gathered around a table to tell their manager how hard they had been working, and to reassure him that they were focused members of the project team.<br />
<br />
Six of the men sat with straight backs and poised pens, but one of them, Mark, did not. Mark sat slouched back in his chair, his right foot resting on his left knee, and his arms crossed over his chest.<br />
<br />
He despised his colleague’s pretence, the false way they accounted for their time, but he had already decided that he would join in their fiction. He would lie about the quantity of work he had completed in the past week, and he would build on his workmates stories of diligence and professionalism.<br />
<br />
As Mark’s turn to speak drew near, his right foot, the one suspended by his left knee, began to jiggle. He wasn’t aware of it at first, but, when he looked down and saw it, he perceived his discomfort was the phantom controlling it.<br />
<br />
His foot moved rapidly but he did not try to stop it. He thought someone might remark on it, might ask him if he knew that it signalled a desire to run. If they asked him this, he would say “Yes,” and he would demonstrate his desire by running out the door, out of the building, down the busy city streets, on and on, faster and faster, until, at last, he would reach the ocean’s edge and he would plunge himself into its cleansing waters.<br />
<br />
But the foot went unremarked.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-4523476363895134152013-07-03T12:07:00.001+08:002013-07-03T12:07:12.860+08:00The Hidden HandHe was sleeping as she sat down next to him. His hands rested on the tray table in front of him. Next to them lay an uncapped pen and a page of neat handwriting – a letter perhaps. She could have read it, but she dared not.<br />
<br />
She watched his hands instead. They weren’t the kind to fidget, she decided. She thought that there must be a calm mind controlling them, a mind at ease with itself and at ease with life. She looked down to her lap where her own hands lay trembling. She imagined lifting one of her hands and lacing her fingers through those of this stranger, but she dared not.<br />
<br />
The engines roared. The plane surged forward. Gravity’s unseen hand pushed her into her seat. Fear overwhelmed her. She gripped her armrests. She could not breathe.<br />
<br />
She did not relax until the fierce engines lowered their voices and the plane levelled out.<br />
<br />
He slept as the plane lifted off the ground. His hands, those comforting hands, did not hold hers, did not give warmth to her, did not provide safe shelter for her.<br />
<br />
She turned her head to look at his face and realised that she was already in love with him. She told him this as he slept. She told him that he was her safe place in a time of trouble. She spoke softly, her voice hidden beneath the sound of the aircraft.<br />
<br />
His eyes opened then, and he smiled at her: the kind of non-smile one stranger offers another. She thought she would say hello, but she dared not.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-64649691981297692682013-02-08T16:14:00.003+08:002013-02-08T16:15:51.839+08:00The Sound of the Sea<br />
“Listen,” my father said. “Tell me three things you hear.”<br />
<br />
“I hear the wind,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Yes?”<br />
<br />
“And I hear the sea.”<br />
<br />
“Yes?”<br />
<br />
“I can’t hear anything else,” I said<br />
<br />
“Listen.”<br />
<br />
We sat at the end of the old seawall in the place where the ocean splashed against its wooden railway-sleeper slope. My father’s feet were close to the surface of the rippling water and his gaze was fixed on the distant horizon. I imagined that his ears could hear everything, even people talking on the other side of the world.<br />
<br />
I strained to hear what he heard. The gentle breeze played its sibilant song around my head. The ocean rolled over and over, scrapped across the seabed and then leapt and lapped against the seawall.<br />
<br />
“The sea is lots of sounds,” I told my father.<br />
<br />
He smiled at me.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” he said.<br />
<br />
But that was not the answer he was looking for. “What else?” he asked.<br />
<br />
The sea was so bright: a million mirrors in the mid-day sun. I closed my eyes to shield them from the glare and turned my face towards the sky. Red light, warm and rich, shone upon me.<br />
<br />
I listened.<br />
<br />
My eyes flashed open. I jumped up and pointed along the beach, beyond the seawall, to the place where a small group of children were building sandcastles at the ocean’s edge. How had I not heard them earlier?<br />
<br />
My father laughed and bundled me up in his arms.<br />
<br />
“Well done,” he said. And he carried me on his shoulders as he walked back to the car.<br />
Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-7656913075051621002012-08-13T11:35:00.000+08:002012-08-13T11:35:23.083+08:00I Travel<br />
<i>The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.</i> – John Milton<br />
<br />
I am far from home.<br />
<br />
At night, after a day of mindless work, I find a small corner in the hotel lobby lounge, and watch other travellers relax.<br />
<br />
They are louder than me. They wear their travel well.<br />
<br />
I long for home.<br />
<br />
They flirt with the girl behind the bar. They ask her when she finishes work. She smiles but does not answer them.<br />
<br />
They are trying to make the journey from alone to not alone. That is a journey I cannot make. They are trying to fill their emptiness. My emptiness is unfillable.<br />
<br />
I watch them.<br />
<br />
They drink. The noise they make drowns out the silence inside them.<br />
<br />
They will end up alone tonight, but they will not feel alone. They will go back to a dark room that looks like other rooms they have slept in. They will lie on a bed that thousands of other people have lain on. Sleep will escape them. They will think about the future: the glorious future. They do not think about the past. They will get out of bed and drink strong liquor from a tiny bottle. They will watch infomercials on television. They will see the sun as it rises over the city’s tall buildings and they will not long to see the sunrise over the ocean.<br />
<br />
They will shave. They will call their wives and not tell them that they love them.<br />
<br />
They will iron a shirt and pack their bags. They will collect their cars and they will travel.<br />
<br />
They will travel into the glorious future.<br />
<br />
I watch them with envy . I am envious of their ability to put their loneliness in the future. For, while I am like them in many ways, my loneliness is not in the future. I cannot escape my emptiness, no matter how much I travel.<br />
Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-60949241190429913262012-05-21T15:36:00.000+08:002012-05-21T15:41:17.366+08:00Mr Stanthorpe and the High-Speed Newspaper PerforatorJames swung himself down next to a wispy-haired old man and closed his eyes. He would have preferred to sit alone, but this was the last free seat on the bus.<br />
<br />
“Good evening young man,” the old man said.<br />
<br />
James pretended not to notice.<br />
<br />
“Allow me to introduce myself: I am Mr Stanthorpe, inventor of the world’s only high-speed newspaper perforator.”<br />
<br />
James looked up and nodded at the old man.<br />
<br />
“James,” he said.<br />
<br />
James was about to close his eyes again when Mr Stanthorpe picked up a newspaper and began waving it in the air.<br />
<br />
“My invention allows its user to remove the main fold of any newspaper,” said Mr Stanthorpe. <br />
<br />
“Individual pages are far easier to manage, don’t you agree?”<br />
<br />
“Hmmm,” James replied.<br />
<br />
“Thanks to my invention, people can read their newspaper on the bus without disturbing the person next to them,” said Mr Stanthorpe.<br />
<br />
“I read the newspaper on the Internet,” replied James sardonically.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” said Mr Stanthorpe.<br />
<br />
Right at that moment there was a tremendous bang. A truck had smashed into the back of the bus. The passengers were thrown forward but luckily no one was badly hurt.<br />
<br />
The bus began to fill with smoke. The driver tried to open the buses doors, but it was no use, nothing was working.<br />
<br />
People began to panic.<br />
<br />
“We’re trapped!” someone screamed.<br />
<br />
Mr Stanthorpe reached into his bag and pulled out a black box that looked like an overgrown hole-punch. He pulled the base off the box and held it up to the window.<br />
<br />
“Cover your eyes,” he warned James.<br />
<br />
James heard the window smash and felt a rush of cool air.<br />
<br />
“How did you do that?” he asked Mr Stanthorpe as they climbed out the window.<br />
<br />
“I used my high-speed newspaper perforator,” said Mr Stanthorpe proudly. “It also breaks glass.”<br />
<br />
The bus crash was headline news the following day. James decided to buy the morning paper as a memento.<br />
<br />
“Would you like me to perforate the fold for you, sir?” the vendor offered.<br />
<br />
“Yes thanks,” said James.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-68222502629917978672012-05-07T21:50:00.003+08:002012-05-07T21:50:49.868+08:00The Leviathan SeaA ragged cliff marks the place where Land concedes defeat to Ocean. The cliff stands stoically, a monument to the effects of time: crumbling; weather beaten; eroded. Overhead, iron clouds hang heavy and foreboding. The light that passes through them is pale and insipid. Nearby, a family of seagulls drifts on a strong breeze; beaks and beady eyes turned towards a grey and turgid sea.<br /><br />There, on the rocky foreshore, a man stands alone.<br /><br />The chill of the day, the movement of the sea, the keening cry of the seagulls, fills him, envelops him, wraps around him, and gives him peace. There, in the midst of the world at its work, he stands and meditates.<br /><br />He feels his blood pumping through him; the warmth inside his gloves; the chill on the tips of his ears, his nose, his cheeks. He feels alive.<br /><br />The sea is wild that day. It is a mighty leviathan beneath an enormous grey net. The man feels this, feels the movement of it hypnotising him, bending his will to its unyielding purpose. The man feels the sea’s anger. It is the kind that brings calm and focus. He feels its hunger. It is the kind that fills a man with force and purpose.<br /><br />He feels the line of the sea extending beyond its natural boundary. It passes through him where his nose meets his forehead, permeating him and becoming one with his mind and thoughts.<br /><br />He feels the wildness of it, the aliveness of it, the freedom of it. The force that keeps the sea moving is the same force that keeps the blood flowing in his veins.<br /><br />The bracing breeze that comes from the ocean winds around him. It winds around his muscles, binding him and holding him. It makes him stronger, squeezes the miasma from his lungs and fills them with fresh air: cool, salty, and alive.<br /><br />He has come to this place in search of these things. It was these things, the essence of life that he is here to fill up on. He will lock these memories away, ready for the joyless days ahead of him. He will store these feelings in his heart, and, one day, he will close his eyes and return to this foreshore, to this land, and he will remember. He will remember.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-41007189479492460972012-04-23T10:40:00.001+08:002012-04-23T10:40:39.152+08:00If Love is a DrugRon Reynolds was a has-been and he knew it. He lived off the royalties of his one hit song, ‘If Love is a Drug’. He spent his days watching televangelists and talking to Iggy, his pet iguana.<br />
<br />
Ron was painfully aware of the smallness of his life. In his heyday he had been a king amongst men: now he was nobody.<br />
<br />
He missed the fans most of all. He missed the electric feeling of forty thousand voices screaming his name. Nothing in Ron’s life compared to that feeling. Ron’s life, his heart, was an unfillable void.<br />
<br />
Ron longed to have that feeling one last time, but no one was interested in him anymore.<br />
<br />
One day, as Ron sat watching television, a televangelist announced that he would be visiting Ron’s home town of Chicago in two weeks.<br />
<br />
“What do you think, Iggy?” Ron asked the iguana.<br />
<br />
Iggy turned his reptilian eyes towards Ron.<br />
<br />
“You’re right,” Ron said, “I should go.”<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, Ron found himself sitting in the third row of a massive stadium that was packed to the rafters. The televangelist was telling the crowd that he had a cure for broken hearts. Ron hoped he was right.<br />
<br />
When the alter call came Ron raced down the aisle and joined the queue of people waiting to be healed.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t long before an usher came and led Ron towards the televangelist.<br />
<br />
“Hello Ron,” the televangelist said. “Tell the good people of Chicago what brought you here tonight.”<br />
<br />
Ron felt a wave of goodwill from the crowd. He felt alive; his heart was full; he felt the best he had felt in a long, long time.<br />
<br />
He snatched the microphone form the televangelist and yelled: “If love is a drug then you’re my cure tonight – Chicago!”<br />
<br />
And with that, Ron walked from the stage, his right fist held high in the air.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-38956949684098016792012-02-09T18:54:00.001+08:002012-02-09T18:54:45.639+08:00Billy Gently and the Annoyance Pandemic of 2012The Annoyance Pandemic of 2012 started with the blast of a car horn, on the 28th of September at precisely 1.34PM. The horn was sounded by New York City taxi driver, Don Smith. Mr Smith was expressing his annoyance at how slowly traffic was moving through Times Square that afternoon.<br /><br />Eva Mendel, who was holidaying in New York at the time, heard the car horn and exclaimed: “Damn, all this noise! I wish I was back home.”<br /><br />New York local, Barry Jackson, yelled back, “Hey lady, if you don’t like it, why don’t you go back to wherever you came from?”<br /><br />A group of passers-by heard both Ms Mendel’s exclamation and Mr Jackson’s reply. They quickly polarised into two groups: those who were annoyed by Ms Mendel, and those who found Mr Johnson the more annoying. Both sides were annoyed at the annoyance of the other.<br /><br />Soon a third group started to form. These were people annoyed by the two groups arguing and blocking the street.<br /><br />“Move on people!” the third group chanted.<br /><br />Things really went downhill when a fourth group, a group who believed in the right to free speech, started to yell their annoyance at the third groups annoyance.<br /><br />Soon there were groups of people arguing everywhere. By night fall New York City was in chaos.<br /><br />‘The Annoyance Epidemic’ led the evening news and people around the country watched in annoyance. “Is this really news worthy?” they asked.<br /><br />For those already annoyed by the poor quality of television journalism, this was the last straw. People left their homes and took to the street to express their dissatisfaction at the state of the media, and anything else they could think of.<br /><br />International news picked up on the story and renamed the situation ‘The Annoyance Pandemic’. People around the world were annoyed: “Is this all those Americans have to worry about?”<br /><br />And so a wave of annoyance spread around the world.<br /><br />Everywhere you looked there were people getting annoyed at other people who were getting annoyed right back. Streets were filled with people having loud and heated arguments and other people who were telling them, equally loudly, to be quiet.<br /><br />People who refused to get annoyed were forced indoors. There was nowhere else to go.<br /><br />After a week of heavy arguing, governments started to get annoyed. They ordered riot police to step in, but the use of rubber bullets and water cannons just made people more annoyed.<br /><br />Global annoyance levels peaked on the 23rd October, 2012. On that day, eight year old Billy Gently of Glasgow was running home thinking about dinner, when he found his way blocked by a wall of angry arguers.<br /><br />“What’s all this about?” Billy asked one of the group members.<br /><br />The woman looked at Billy and scratched her head. “To be honest son,” the woman answered, “I don’t really know.”<br /><br />The woman turned to the rest of the group, “Hey!” she yelled, “Can one of you please remind me what we’re arguing about here?”<br /><br />No one could.<br /><br />The group wandered off and found another group of arguers. This second group didn’t know what they were arguing about either. And so it continued.<br /><br />Around the globe the tide of annoyance began to recede.<br /><br />Everywhere you looked you would see: people apologising to each other for being so grumpy; people smiling again; people shaking hands and making-up.<br /><br />Well, everywhere except New York City. People there were still quite cranky.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-56335139394330325162011-11-25T22:10:00.002+08:002011-11-25T22:10:58.582+08:00Making Money Made EasyIf I was rich things would be different. People would take notice of me. I would be able to do whatever I pleased. I would not have to worry about the mortgage. I would not have to worry about my car. I would not go to work. I would take things easy.<br />
<br />
I wouldn’t want to be too rich though. If I was too rich I would feel bad about all the poor people in the world. If I was medium-rich I would do my bit for charity. This is more than can be said of some of the really rich people in the world today; they keep their money to themselves. Are they blind? Can’t they see that there are poor people everywhere? Sure, some of those poor people are just freeloaders, but still: they’re everywhere.<br />
<br />
If I was rich I would do something significant to help people help themselves. If you teach a man to fish they’ll at least have fish to eat; which is better than nothing. If you’ve got fish you don’t need to freeload.<br />
<br />
If I was rich I would start an organisation that taught freeloaders to become fisherman. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more off putting than a bunch of freeloaders hanging around when you’re trying to take the world by storm.<br />
<br />
First I’ll take the world by storm then I’ll set-up the freeloading-fisherman organisation.<br />
<br />
I have to do it in that order because I’ll need cash to buy fishing rods. I will need loads of fishing rods and some brands are really expensive. Having said that, freeloaders probably aren’t that fussy about what kind of fishing equipment they use.<br />
<br />
Perhaps freeloaders should be fussier? Perhaps if they cared more about things like fishing equipment they wouldn’t be in such a predicament?<br />
<br />
Anyway, my point is this: I am going to take the world by storm, and then I’m going to get rid of some of the couldn’t-care-less freeloaders around the place. Then, once I’ve done my bit, I can start some serious luxuriating, comfortable in the knowledge that people are eating fish because of me and my plan to take the world by storm.<br />
<br />
I might even do a spot of fishing myself.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-27921104645542815872011-11-17T22:43:00.000+08:002011-11-17T22:43:22.629+08:00The RetreatZoe likes to feel that she's done some physical activity to earn her relaxation which is why she loves yoga retreats.<br />
<br />
It had been months since our last retreat. Zoe was getting really tense at work. She came home one day and told me that she had snapped at a co-worker. The next day I rang the retreat and made a booking.<br />
<br />
The man on the end of the phone took our details.<br />
<br />
“And will you be arriving by car, sir?” he asked.<br />
<br />
I confirmed that we would be.<br />
<br />
“Would you very much mind picking up a fellow retreat participant? Allan is stuck without a car. I’m sure he will be no bother.”<br />
<br />
I hesitated. I had thought that the drive to the retreat would be a good time for Zoe and me to catch up. So it was with some reluctance that I agreed to the request.<br />
<br />
Zoe was thrilled when I told her that I’d booked the trip. She arranged leave and bought herself some comfortable clothing. She seemed happier at the thought of going away, and I felt very pleased that I’d arranged it.<br />
<br />
The day of the retreat came. We slept in and picked up our fellow retreater in the afternoon. He was an unusual chap, not the kind of person you’d expect to find on a retreat; he was quite a tight person and seemed very serious. <br />
<br />
As we drove, Zoe and I tried to make polite conversation with our passenger, but it went nowhere.<br />
<br />
It was quiet in the car, too quiet really; until Allan said:<br />
<br />
“Truck drivers are 91% more likely to have beards than other members of the driving population.”<br />
<br />
Zoe and I laughed. This was more like it, we thought.<br />
<br />
Zoe quipped back, “Does that include women?”<br />
<br />
Allan’s reply made it clear that his observation was no joke. <br />
<br />
“Yes, of course, the study included all truck drivers, regardless of gender.”<br />
<br />
Zoe and I exchanged glances. What study, we wondered. But we didn’t say anything.<br />
<br />
After that we couldn’t shut Allan up. He had a statistic for everything. Some of the statistics, well most of them actually, seemed to be aimed at women. Some even seemed to be aimed at Zoe:<br />
<br />
<i>Women whose names start with the letter ‘Z’ are 12.3% less likely to be married at the age of 37.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Women who do yoga are 83% more likely to suffer from a relationship breakdown in their mid-forties.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Women who wear loose fitting garments are 36% more likely to let a major illness go undiagnosed.</i><br />
<br />
It was a bit much. I wanted Allan to shut-up but I couldn’t think of a way of stopping him without being incredibly rude.<br />
<br />
Finally, in desperation, I suggested that we pull over and have dinner at a salad bar.<br />
<br />
Allan said, “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Salad was a contributing factor in 56% of the food poisoning cases reported in the past year.”<br />
<br />
We drove on.<br />
<br />
Zoe was upset I could feel it. Like I said, she’d been under an enormous amount of pressure at work and she just wanted to relax.<br />
<br />
It was with a sense of relief that we drove up the retreat’s long unsealed driveway.<br />
<br />
It was dark when we got out of the car and the sky was a sea of stars. Allan was saying something about women’s inability to name the constellations being 25.6% less than men's when Zoe finally snapped.<br />
<br />
She turned on Allan and said, “Life is not just about facts and figures, you know. Life is for living. How much better would your life be if you just relaxed and enjoyed it?”<br />
<br />
Allan didn’t bat an eyelid, “Approximately 73%,” he replied “I’ll give you an exact number tomorrow at breakfast if you like?”<br />
<br />
Zoe froze. I thought she was going to thump Allan, and to be honest I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. But she didn’t. She started to laugh. She laughed like I hadn’t heard her laugh in months.<br />
<br />
When she finally regained her composure she took Allan’s hand, shook it, and said. “See you at breakfast.”Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-42539745007967802832011-11-01T20:35:00.000+08:002011-11-01T20:35:00.790+08:00RecognitionJoel lined up with the other marathoners and waited for the starter’s pistol.<br />
<br />
He had trained for months for this race. For months he had been getting out bed at 5.30 in the morning.<br />
<br />
His wife had kept him going, the thought of his wife; it was the thought of the look she would give him once he’d completed the race. She would be proud of him, he knew it.<br />
<br />
Finishing that race would show her that he was still strong, he still had fight in him, he still had life in him. She would see who he really was - who he was on the inside - and she would fall in love with him again.<br />
<br />
The starter fired his pistol, and Joel ran.<br />
<br />
Joel ran with heart. He ran with passion. He ran as if his life depended on it.<br />
<br />
Joel ran the whole race as if he were running towards his waiting wife. At the end of the race he ran across the finish line and seized her in his arms.<br />
<br />
She didn’t have the look that he had hoped for.<br />
<br />
She was pleased for him, of course. She handed him a towel and a bottle of water and told him that he’d made good time.<br />
<br />
Joel took the bottle of water.<br />
<br />
He hadn’t done it for her, he realised.<br />
<br />
He’d been running for himself, running for the feeling that he could be someone to be proud of.<br />
<br />
Joel might have cried a little bit on the way home, but he was okay. In fact he was better than okay: he was alive.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-28988507653787692492011-10-17T11:15:00.002+08:002011-10-17T11:15:47.337+08:00My Mountain and MeMy mountain is calling to me. I hear it across land and across sea.<br />
<br />
My mountain is there in my dreams. I see my mountain standing on the flat plains. It is watching me. I am a young boy riding a blue bike. I am laughing as I ride around and around in circles. I am light and free. I watch the bike’s front tyre as I turn and turn and turn. And suddenly, the whole world is turning but I am still. I stop. I look at my mountain. It is still. It is heavy on the earth. We are like the sun and the moon, my mountain and me.<br />
<br />
Oh great mountain, you remember me before I remember me. You are in all my young memories.<br />
<br />
You are with me now, even though I am far from you; even though I am too far away from you.<br />
<br />
I remember you when I am anxious. My pulse may race, but your stillness is with me. The spirit of you is in my heart.<br />
<br />
I remember you too, when I feel life’s power coursing through me. I am lifted up. My head is in the sky but my feet are on the ground. You are beneath my feet.<br />
<br />
You are the mix of sky and earth that I have sought after every day of my life.<br />
<br />
I long to be near you. I long for the land of my birth at my feet and you by my side. It is through this longing that I hear you calling.<br />
<br />
I hear you. I hear you.<br />
<br />
And I will return to you. I will bring my own child. We will stand at your mighty feet and I will tell my child of you; the things you have taught me: strength and courage; sky and soil; sun and moon.<br />
<br />
I hear you calling.<br />
<br />
I will return.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-3931796510178838452011-10-10T20:25:00.002+08:002011-10-10T20:25:41.246+08:00AmbitionPaul was getting ready for a night out on the town when his phone rang.<br />
<br />
“Paul Darby,” he said in his most authoritative voice.<br />
<br />
“Paul. It’s Andrew Weston here,” the voice on the other end of the phone replied. “Sorry to call you on a Friday evening, but I have some rather bad news for you.<br />
<br />
We’re letting you go, Paul. The Executive has decided to move in different direction…”<br />
<br />
The voice continued to talk but Paul did not hear it.<br />
<br />
Paul was standing in the dark, his phone still in his hand, when Kim, his girlfriend, arrived. She looked gorgeous.<br />
<br />
“Paul,” she said, “what’s going on? Why aren’t you ready?”<br />
<br />
Paul didn’t move.<br />
<br />
“Paul?” Kim said a little less certainly.<br />
<br />
Paul slowly turned his head towards her.<br />
<br />
Has he been crying, Kim wondered, but she instantly dismissed the idea. Paul was tough. Paul was confident. Paul was motivated. Paul had ambition. He wasn’t the kind of guy to sit in the dark crying.<br />
<br />
“What is it Paul, what’s happened?”<br />
<br />
“I - I’ve had some rather bad news babe,” he answered.<br />
<br />
Paul’s voice was so uncertain, so troubled: listening to it made Kim feel uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
“I’ve been sacked,” Paul stifled a sob as he said this. “I’ve never been sacked.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, is that all,” Kim laughed. “I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it.”<br />
<br />
Paul stood over Kim and Kim could see that he was full of fire.<br />
<br />
“What do you know?” Paul yelled. “What do you know about anything? You’ve never worked a day in your life.”<br />
<br />
Kim’s back straightened.<br />
<br />
“Listen buddy,” she retorted, “as far as I can recall, you’ve never worked that hard either. You were always ambitious, but you got everything you ever wanted. Perhaps it’s time you woke up to yourself. The world doesn’t run on cocktails and charisma, you know.”<br />
<br />
Paul clenched and unclenched his fists.<br />
<br />
“Kim,” he said coldly, “I think I’m going to have to let you go. I’ve decided to move in a different direction.”<br />
<br />
Kim had never seen Paul so conflicted before. She was filled with pity at the sight of this man of confidence brought low. She wanted to reach out to him, but she realised that there was something strangely farsighted about his words: Paul needed to move in a different direction.<br />
<br />
And Kim knew that she would not follow him.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-62597630835255148222011-10-03T20:41:00.002+08:002011-10-03T20:41:57.491+08:00InsurmountableIt was 4AM. Something had woken me. Further sleep eluded me.<br />
<br />
Outside, Australian Magpies sang their angular night song. Those black and white birds; those day and night birds: they’ll be tired in the morning, I thought.<br />
<br />
My mind was restless. My mind moved across the surface of the earth looking for trouble. My mind swooped down on innocent victims: how easy other people’s lives are, I thought; how simple their problems.<br />
<br />
Outside, the wind sighed in agreement. Eee-sss-eee, it said.<br />
<br />
My problems are real problems, I thought; my problems are not trivial; my problems are insurmountable.<br />
<br />
For some time, an hour perhaps, I tossed and turned and thought about my insurmountable problems. The more I thought about my problems the more restless I became.<br />
<br />
Outside, night was turning to day. A kookaburra - that early riser - interrupted my cycle of thoughts with his unsympathetic laugh.<br />
<br />
A new thought entered my mind: insurmountable problems start wars.<br />
<br />
I am at war, I realised; I am at war with the problems I can’t make peace with.<br />
<br />
Outside, wind moved through trees making music learned from sea and sand. And, as I listened, my problems dissolved into the music and floated away.<br />
<br />
I slept.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-71254373766512796862011-09-26T15:24:00.000+08:002011-09-26T15:24:58.702+08:00Side TrackedI have been side-tracked.<br />
<br />
You have seen me.<br />
<br />
I was watching my feet as I walked. You stood and watched me.<br />
<br />
You could see the tension in my shoulders. You could tell that my hands were fists even though they were buried deep-down in my coat pockets.<br />
<br />
You wondered what the weight was that I carried on my shoulders. You wondered if the realisation of my own mortality was bearing down on me. You wondered if something I had hoped for, longed for, had passed me by.<br />
<br />
You wondered if I had become side tracked; lost my way; spent too many years thinking about living and not enough time being a part of life.<br />
<br />
There was something familiar about the way I walked, you decided. The word ‘downtrodden’ entered your mind.<br />
<br />
This word, downtrodden, made you think of your own life. You had had dreams once, dreams of a career and of being creative. When you were young you had felt as if you were in a mighty ocean of opportunities.<br />
<br />
What happened to your dreams, you wondered. You looked at me walking past, you looked inside yourself as you stood there, and you found that your ocean of opportunity had been replaced by a sea of longing.<br />
<br />
You have been side-tracked.<br />
<br />
I have seen you.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19172547.post-62574884338075868712011-09-21T18:20:00.002+08:002011-09-21T18:20:46.420+08:00Connor Buys CoffeeConnor didn’t know anything about her, didn’t even know her name, but he knew this: she was the one for him. The first time he saw her it was if he’d been punched in the solar plexus: he was in love.<br />
<br />
It had been a Tuesday.<br />
<br />
He had seen her through the window of _La Petite Café_ as he walked past. She was standing behind the counter, but even from that distance Connor could feel her warmth; felt himself being drawn to her; and he knew that he was lost, lost, lost.<br />
<br />
Connor thought of little else for the rest of the day. He drew a love-heart with an arrow through it and sat staring blankly at it.<br />
<br />
She was perfect, he decided.<br />
<br />
After that, Connor would find any excuse to walk past _La Petite Café_. She was always there, always smiling: a softness in a hard world.<br />
<br />
She is gentle, Connor thought, she is kind and open; she is a balm for a weary soul.<br />
<br />
These thoughts began to change Connor. The more he thought about her, the more he changed. Slowly, over many months, he became kinder and more tolerant. He didn’t realise it at the time, but his longing was transforming him.<br />
<br />
One morning, as he was walking past the café, Connor made up his mind: he was going to go to talk to her. He slowly opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. The smell of coffee, and the sound of lively chatter, filled the air.<br />
<br />
And there she was, but not as he’d expected: not as he had hoped. She was a life-sized cardboard cut-out; an advertisment for ‘Coffee Oké’.<br />
<br />
Connor groaned.<br />
<br />
“Are you alright there?” a waitress asked in a concerned tone.<br />
<br />
“I…” said Connor and then stopped.<br />
<br />
“I’ve seen you walking past,” the waitress continued. “I hoped you’d come in one day. Can I get you a coffee?”<br />
<br />
And then she smiled at him, and Connor found himself smiling back.<br />
<br />
“What’s your name?” he asked.Matthew Daltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704001586258964634noreply@blogger.com0