The ant, the butterfly, the spider and the mozzie met at a literary festival...

by Ivan Sun

“I don’t read novels any more,” said the ant. “I spend my waking hours searching for food and moving it back to the nest. I read the trails left by my fellow ants, and that’s all I get to read lately. Such is life.”

The others nodded, for they heard this all too often.

The butterfly said, “I flit from flower to flower, flicking through petals of many shapes and colours to find the sweetest nectar. You could say that I read more than ever, but I wish I had the attention to read a novel! C’est la vie!”

The others nodded, for they agreed that reading ephemera was not like reading a novel.

The spider said, “I can't read novels any more. I spend all day building an intricate web, so whenever I start to read a novel, I can't help being distracted by the narrative technique. The Author is dead, but the death of the Reader is just as dire. Such is Death.”

The others nodded, although they thought the spider quite incomprehensible.

Then the mozzie said, “I don't bother to read novels any more. Instead, I hide in the shadows and study humans in the raw, waiting for the right time to strike and gorge to my heart's delight.”

A silence ensued before the others set upon the mozzie. Red splattered the ground... After the festival, they made time to read novels again. Such is life.

Fragment from the Black Swan Sutra

by Ivan Sun

Unlike the dark alchemy performed with the chrysalis, the cygnets of Lake Weerona transform themselves one day at a time, surrendering one drab feather and another until they arrive imperceptibly at their full beauty.

Such is life, that only when we shed a little of our dross with each of life's setbacks, do we finally realise our marvellous birthright…

That One Thing

by Rosemary Sorensen

There was only one thing she ever wanted. She hadn’t known it, not clearly, not really, until finally, late in life, she stumbled into the place where she found it, sort of accidentally.

Her childhood was happy enough, a topsy-turvy learning time when her curiosity occasionally flared at school and at home, but more often was tamped down by the people around her and a lack of interesting options.

In the heady years of young adulthood, she made too many mistakes to give herself much chance at discovering that one thing, or how to get it. Looking back, she tried to be kind to that messy young person she was. At least she hadn’t been unkind.

By middle-age, she’d done well enough to be able to start clearing away the debris around that thing she wanted, which, ever so gradually, was now taking shape in her mind. Right, she said to herself, now I can make this happen. Just a few more years to sort the lingering problems, the complications of a life, to set the house in order, literally and metaphorically.

She could feel a weight lifting, a sense of beginning at last. That thing she only ever wanted was well within reach now…

But years passed. And so did she.

Such is life.

Camping

by Kerri Flanigan

Camping: a pastime. Hijacked by homelessness.

A Child of the Future

by Kerri Flanigan

It was time: the school report was not going to read itself. If Aaron didn’t pass there were consequences.

‘It’s going to be OK.’

 Lloyd’s eyes blinked slowly, almost as if in pain, and he turned toward the pod. Inside our son floated in a hyper sensory liquid. Like all five-year-old’s he loved to play, and of course like all parents we indulged. Buying him the latest tech was an investment in his future.

‘Let’s get this done before he finishes his game – looks like he’s doing better this time,’ Lloyd let a smile escape.

I checked his score on the air-display: 81% reasoning, problem-solving 88%, memory 90% - he was winning the simulation as a fifteenth century Japanese warrior. But, as always, the longer he played, the more the negative attribute scores climbed. The ones that we prayed would not seal his fate.

‘Sweet boy,’ Lloyd whispered.

‘Yes, but that’s the problem. Look at his empathy.’

‘Ninety-nine percent!’ Lloyd swiped the air angrily, the air-screen disappearing. 'We're not supposed to feel, only supposed to follow!'

We knew the risk of having a child. Jesus, it was 2072 and the government had zero-tolerance for population increase. Aaron was enrolled in school when he was two; studied language, music, science, literature, and the arts. Fast-tracked education with one goal – to pass the genius test. If he did, he could stay on Earth, if not…I couldn’t bare to think about it.

I tapped the screen; in my heart I knew.

Being

by Mary Pomfret

How terrible it would be to die on your back with your legs stretching up to the heavens Joseph said. He knelt on the dusty road and turned the bee on its side. It’s nearly gone he said, but it will have a more comfortable death. I noticed, too, when he mowed the lawn he took care not to hit the bees. I would hate to hurt them, Joseph would say. He a similar attitude to ants. He used to cut his toenails out in the backyard and he would watch the worker ants carry off his nail parings. Protein for them, he would say.  He wasn’t overly fond of flies, though.  Most times he would, if he could, coach them outside through an open door or window, but if that failed, he might attack them with a folded newspaper, a last resort. But when it came to mosquitoes it was a completely different matter. He would aim the insect spray—BUZZ OFF Extra Strong—with the cold-blooded intent of an assassin. I guess we all have our limits.

Tricking

by Mary Pomfret

Henry carried the red handkerchief, which concealed a little pop-up plastic rose, in the breast pocket of his leather jacket, next to his heart. I imagine he kept it tucked away in a drawer somewhere and took it out on special occasions, when he was going to a party or a celebratory dinner. But there again, maybe he always carried it with him like a talisman, a St Christopher medal or a gun, something he might need at an unexpected moment, in a dark tunnel, on a train, in a crowd or when he was sheltering under a bridge feeling alone. I guess you never know when you might need a party trick.

Gardening

by Mary Pomfret

My friend is a snob. Not a real snob perhaps, but a garden snob most definitely. She has pulled up all her geraniums. She refuses to have them, not even in terracotta pots, not even the red ones that look so French.

‘They are so common,’ she says. ‘Vulgar little weeds. Old hat, out of style.’

‘But they are colourful and elegant in their way,’ I try to convince her.

‘Not in my garden,’ she says.

I love geraniums. They are hardy. They are survivors. I love to crush their leaves between my fingers, especially the lemon scented ones. I love the vibrancy of their colour, especially the magenta shades. I love the purity of the white variety especially.

Geraniums are drought resisters. They struggle on in harsh circumstances. They continue to flower even in the driest of summers. Geraniums are tough.

Uncle George

by Dennis Carter

As you do, I phoned my 89 year old uncle in Townsville to wish him well for Christmas and the new year.

Quick as a flash, with energy and clear voice, this fine man, a manual worker all his life in the nickel mines out west and on the railways, exclaimed in certain manner, the all-embracing immediacy and dangers of man-induced Climate Change.

Yesterday was “as hot as hell” and, “remember the steam trains and the muck they threw out”.

“We must do something now”, he said, “I’m too old, it won’t affect me, but God help the little ones”

A simple message, from a wise man.

But as he pleaded, “What can we do, and, who’s listening ?”

Decline

by Kerry Anderson

Casey’s mobile softly vibrates on the armrest.

Its Kelly.

She swipes decline.

Shuffled footsteps. Two steaming coffee mugs with biscuits on a tray appear.

‘Thanks Gran, this looks great.’

Chocolate chip cookies. Seriously?

Casey pretends to nibble one.

Beep: Ring me.

‘Do you need to answer that message love?’

‘No, it’s good, Gran.’

Casey jumps as the landline shrills in the hall.

Crack! Gran sets her coffee cup down on the side table.

‘Excuse me love, might be important.’

Just when she thought the caller would give up, Casey hears her say hello.

The ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece fills the silence.

‘Sorry Paul but Casey is here. Can I call you back love?’ Shuffled footsteps grow louder. She lets out a puffed breath as she eases back into the chair.

‘Sorry love. Your Uncle Paul says hi.’

Beep: I’m bored. Movie?

‘I don’t mind if you want to call whoever it is back love.’

Casey swallows the rest of her coffee.

‘Yeah, well I probably should get going.’

The smile on Gran’s lips fades. ‘Of course, love.’

Casey waves as she walks out the gate. Hidden by the hedge, she stops and pulls out her mobile.

Gran’s voice faintly wafts through the open window.

‘Hi Paul. Yes, it was lovely to have Casey call by, wish she could have stayed longer. Such a busy girl. And how are you love?’

Casey walks towards the bus stop.

Gran’s voice fades.

Drag-on

by Sean Dower

On a snowy mountain, lay Korvynne, the blue dragon, and Arkeam, the white dragon, who look on in astonishment at Howard, the red dragon, and at what lay over his body.

“By the dragons above, what monstrosity do you bear on your scales?” Korvynne scowls.

“It’s not monstrous Korvynne, it’s called a cloak. It was made for me!” Howard responds gleefully.

“A…gift, as it seems, from the heeyoommaanssss of Howard’s hunting grounds.” Arkeam scoffs.

“They have a town name you know, and I’ve received this wonderful garment as appreciation from them.”

“They applaud you for your tyranny?”

“I don’t terrorise anyone. I use my claws to plough their lands, and they’ve stitched together various bovine hides to make this coat as thanks. I like feeling like a human sometimes, and this helps me feel more comfortable with how I feel.”

“A…A HEEEEEYOOOMMAAAAAAN? You are INSANE! You disrespect our traditions! You make a mockery of our dragon heritage!” Korvynne bellowed with rage.

“You should be ashamed! I look at you and I see something lower than a human!” shouts Arkeam.

“You’re both hypocrites!” Howard shouts back.

“Hypocrites?” Arkeam asks.

“Our old traditions also said only red dragons belong to the dragon heritage. And look at you both: blue and white, shaming me for blasphemy!”

“Well, uh, we…uh.” the others whimpered backing away.

“Maybe the traditions need changing sometimes.”

“M-Maybe.” Said Korvynne.

“You could even try on my coat sometime. It’s nice and warm.”

“Well, ‘tis a bit chilly up here.”

Easter Surprise

by Angela Morrissey

‘OK children!’ Miss Sasson started. ‘Today we’re making Easter baskets.’

She surveyed her Grade Four class and went on. ‘We’ll put them on the tables and see if after lunch the Easter Bunny comes and brings us some eggs.’

There was a low hum as the students went about their work right up until lunchtime. Once they’d finished they ran out to play. Miss Sasson put some mini eggs in each basket. After lunch the children came back in and their eyes widened as they saw the eggs.

‘Miss Sasson huffed on them and it wasn’t the Easter Bunny – it was her!’ one boy exclaimed.

The children started to scream.

‘Look!’ one girl said. ‘The carrots on the plate have been eaten! The Easter Bunny was here!’

Suddenly, one student laughed, so did another, and the children’s laughter spread more and more. Miss Sasson smiled. Her plan had worked! Kids will always be kids! Such is life!

Life’s Hope

by Damaris Tutt

Sunshine gleams through my windows, rainbows dancing across the room.

I wince at the intrusion of light, as my curtains flutter in the wind.

I sit up.

“Why is this sun gleaming in my eyes,” I say, looking at the windows and curtains with a grimace.

I slowly get up, raise myself off the marshmallow-feeling mattress that I really don’t want to leave. I open my curtains, no clouds. The grass is greener than green in my sleeping top. I smile as beautiful birds fly across the sky. Trees dance with the wind. Such is the life I am able to take in, the landscape around me gloriously greeting me  from my deep slumber.

I walk outside to the beautiful place in which I live, breathing in the fresh air., I close my eyes, relishing in this feeling: the feeling of freedom, the feeling of joy. As I stand there, I look over to the gloomy skies, dark and heavy air surrounding the distant hills. Seeing the city in such a dreary state, I think, Such life, as I live in the clear crystal blue sky.

Such is Life

by Ros Trimble

The old man sat in his worn comfy armchair, staring at the empty street outside his window. Cars and people had all gone, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. The old street lights hummed as a crow slipped silently into the night sky. He sighed and shook his head.

"Such is life," he muttered.

He had seen so much in his life. Love and loss, joy and sorrow - all the ups and downs of life. But now, it seemed, he was left with nothing.

He felt a tear roll slowly down his wrinkled cheek, sinking deep into its crevices and he quickly wiped it away. He was still strong, still determined. He had come too far to give up now.

He rose from his armchair and went to his writing bureau. He took out a pen and paper and began to write. He wrote of his life, the struggles and triumphs, the pain and the joy. He wrote until his hand was sore, his eyes were heavy and he was emotionally drained.

When he finished, he looked at the pages and smiled. His life had been long and hard, but he'd made it through. He was proud of what he had accomplished, and he was ready to face the future.

Such is life, he thought.

Such is summer

by Judy Rossignuolo

The air was mercifully cooler beneath the covered balcony. Multitudes of potted plants jostled for space around a glass table. Different shades of green intermingled with creams, browns and pinks as a warm breeze tangled long slender foliage. The rhythmical swaying of leaves on gumtrees beyond the balcony was mesmerising. Birdsong hovered in the crevices of the shrubbery, filling gaps in the monotony of a distant lawn mower. Like snatches of a melody, sweet fragrances drifted in the air, intangible and elusive.  New Holland honeyeaters made brief appearances, drawn by a smorgasbord of trapped insects. Together at the water fountain, magpies, wattlebirds and lorikeets had called a truce, dipping constantly into the cool fresh water. From somewhere nearby came that distinct sound of children playing in a pool. But beyond this paradise the heat was relentless. The unique smell of eucalyptus, a hallmark of an Australian summer, was pervasive. Lawns shrivelled, shrubs drooped and foolhardy dogs lay panting on verandas.  Only the brave or the foolish ventured out. Harriet came here craving distraction, and briefly this paradise diverted her. For a fleeting moment the cranky old lady was hushed. Her hair wasn’t clinging damply to her neck, her joints no longer ached, and the armour of her age cracked and fell at her feet. 

Italian Life

by Judy Rossignuolo

Beneath the sagging green awning of the ristorante, Emily’s coffee slowly cooled. Usually she loved sitting here, observing this busy market inches from her table. All around the campo the merchants voices rang out, extoling the virtues of the produce. Singing their prices, the sound became a melody. Il coro del mercato. The aroma of freshly squeezed juices blended with brewed coffee, garish flowers and genuine homemade salami’s. Spellbound by rows of luscious pastries and cannoli, a queue was forming at la pasticceria. Tables of cheap knock off t-shirts sat brazenly alongside colourful Amalfi pottery. The vibrancy of the location frequently lifted her mood, filling her with a promise of good things to come. But not today. Gino had warned her again that this market wasn’t safe for borsaiole, that it was a dangerous place for pickpockets. This old campo had a history of violence towards visitors. Giordano Bruno whose statue sat in the centre of the square marking the spot where he was burned alive, was evidence that even nobility were not immune from its cruelty. Rising from her table, Emily regretted this would be her last visit here. Weaving through the stalls on her way out, she barely touched the loud tourist with the Gucci handbag.

A Desperate Life

by Judy Rossignuolo

Midnight. Midnight embodies all she has lost and everything she wants back. Midnight sharpens her vulnerability, highlights the bleakness, and threatens to smother her. Jenny parks under a tree at the edge of an oval. In the rapidly cooling car, she tucks blanket around herself. Street lighting illuminates the edges of the oval, casting an impenetrable pool of darkness at its centre. If someone was there she would never know.

Perhaps she dozed. There’s tapping, a woman is the other side of her car, knocking on the door.

“Can I get in the car with you?”

Jenny hesitates, looking around, but no one is lurking. A slight nod, and the women gets in, bringing with her a wave of icy air and the stink of stale cigarettes. She hands the shivering woman a blanket.

“Name’s Kerry. My third night. Boyfriend kicked me out. Mum’s in aged care. Friends are bloody useless, not as much as a couch between ‘em. I saw your car.” She spoke in a rush, her words running together.

“I didn’t know someone was inside. Honestly, I was just hoping to get out of the cold.”

Kerry appeared to be a similar age, mid-fifties. Sheer desolation and the ravages of sleepless nights are etched on her face, a mirror to her own.

“Maybe we should stick together. It’d be safer.”

Could this work? Utterly fed up with cold, lonely terrifying nights, of always having to fend for herself, the idea appealed.

 “OK.”

For the first time in days, both women smiled.

A Fragment of Time

by Karen Lee Mills

What is your story? There is a beginning, middle and end in each of our life stories.

Writing is part of my life.  Time has well and truly moved on from picture stories found in prehistoric caves or stories written on scrolls and parchment. Today we can write and within seconds it viewed on social media for all the world to read.

Sometimes we get to catch a microscopic view into another person’s life, a few weeks ago I was privileged to witness a heart-warming scene. 

Sitting in a café at the Bendigo Market Place, I noticed a teenager approaching an elderly gentleman and presenting him with a single flower.  They conversed for a few minutes, before the teenager moved on, presumably to give out the remainder two flowers in her hand to other strangers.

I observed this scene from a distance.  The giving of that flower had a rippling effect. The elderly gentleman no doubt felt moved and valued and I was overjoyed to witness this beautiful scene of a teenager respecting and honouring the elderly.  A simple act of kindness, inspirational.

Another microscopic view into another person’s life, is the story of Arthur Stace.  Arthur is famous for writing one word, “Eternity”.  You can read more about Arthur Stace’s life at the National Museum of Australia in Canberra.  I have never met Arthur Stace but his life story lives in my heart.

We only have a fragment of time, make your life story count for eternity. 

Gnawing

by Hannah Gundry

‘You’ve been grinding your teeth again,’ The dentist muffles from behind his mask. My rabbit from when I was a teenager springs to mind, viciously gnawing his teeth on his block of wood. A rabbits’ teeth never stop growing.

The rooms smells like latex gloves and the spicy mouthwash used for the rinse at the end.

‘I suggest we make you a mouth guard to prevent the damage in the night,’ The dentist announces while clacking the keyboard behind me. I picture my Mum hobbling around the house wearing her mouthguard wrapped tightly in her green velvet dressing gown. The mouthguard clanked around her mouth as she tried to talk. She was also a grinder.

At the desk I bury through my handbag to find my card. The young girl quickly blinks her lashes, perhaps signaling discomfort or impatience. I’m not sure what the trend with these big lashes are. She looks like she’s got conjunctivitis because her eyes are red and droopy from the weight of the set. Myxomatosis springs to my mind.

‘Do you have private health insurance?’ She chews her gum. I want to tell her that at school we bring the bin over to students in class as a signal to spit it in.

‘Nah. Such is life,’ I mumble, not knowing why I said that. The girl screws her nose a little at me, she must think I’m odd. I feel my cheeks redden. I know I will not be returning for my next appointment. 

Such is Life - Christmas

by Hannah Gundry

Everyone around the table has glazed eyes from the red wine. My mum’s lips and teeth are starting to turn a shade of purple. The Christmas tablecloths that Nan had ironed now have splotches of red wine at various intervals, seeping into the wood underneath.

I am sitting between two tables joined together at different heights to ensure the table is long enough for everyone to fit. The children are down one end making concoctions with their drinks that they will try to entice their aunties to drink. A water cocktail with a splash of mint sauce, a few sprinkles of pepper and some breadcrumbs.

This year there are more people than ever as more cousins have brought partners or newly hatched offspring. People snort with laughter, babies scream, and tears are spilled as stories from this year and the years before are rehashed and relayed. My newly vegetarian cousin looks longingly at the crackle on the plate next to hers.

My strange uncle reveals his new tattoo to the family while chocking down mouthfuls of roast lamb smothered in gravy. He starts untucking his shift as he scrapes back his chair and wobbles to stand. He reveals his newest artwork, next to his other works and tufts of greying hair. This is the uncle that believes he is more sophisticated than the other siblings in his family.

My brother bursts out laughing, unable to contain his joy. ‘That’s what Ben Cousins has inked on his gut!’ 

The Scales

by Sue Oaks

Judy’s clothes felt tight, and she gazed at the ad in the magazine, of the lovely ‘after shot’ of a woman who used to be fat. With her husband’s encouragement, she headed off to the meeting and signed up, coming home with a scary number of kilograms written in the front of her book and a goal of losing about twenty of them. The fridge and pantry were rearranged, weeks went by of low-fat this and that and she felt proud of her efforts as her clothes started to feel looser.

One day, she answered the phone to hear news that left her reeling. Her much-loved friend had died unexpectedly of a heart attack. As she came to terms with the shock, she reached for a piece of cake that her husband had left on the bench, and it helped her feel better. There were lots of visits to her family and friends, a funeral to attend, and life got too busy to go to weight- loss meetings.

After things had settled down, Judy went into the bathroom one day and stood on the scales. She looked at the number, and then looked again, horrified. She was five kilograms heavier than when she’d first started to diet! But then she thought of her friend, who had been on diets her whole life too, and she realised that the numbers on this device were really worth nothing.  

She picked up the scales and put them away, for good. 

Hero To Zero

by Tom Reid

“Hero to zero.” Craig thought. That is what he saw himself as. He held a delicate photo frame in his hands. Photo of his war mates it was.  The war was so many years ago, but the terror still felt so real. He was sitting comfortably in his armchair. In the war, he was rescuing his mates who were helpless. He was on the highest of highs in terms of success. He was awarded a bravery medal and other various medallions representing his brave service in the army.   Hero to zero. Now here he was, sitting in an Aged Care home. Just counting down the days until he could get off this Earth. “You simply cannot stay home; with the state you are in.” Said Dr Mansell. Sitting in his professional looking desk at the doctor’s clinic. “Why not?” Barked Craig. “Your illness is vicious. Your body will slowly begin shutting down over a period because of it. You will be put in a Aged Care Home. This is what Sue would have wanted.” Said Dr Mansell. Tears welled in Craig’s eyes. “She would hate me like this. But how could things have gotten this bad? I used to be the hero that guy that everyone respected, had everything going for him. But now my life has been tossed upside down by this vicious disease?” Said Craig. Craig sat back in his chair and thought “Such is life.” His body started shutting down. He took his last breaths. 

Butterfly

by Daniela Bradley

I first see it out of the corner of my eye. An unusual colour combination, not something I've come across before. I swing around to take a closer look: red, black, white. It's fluttering away - quick, follow behind!

Such beauty, such grace. The colours saturated, the pattern simple; unique, yet stunning. Oh, please land so I can study you properly. As if responding to my wish, it draws close to the wall, clings to a brick and lands. I step closer in anticipation.

Then I spot its feathery antennae.

"Oh" I say, disappointed. "It's a moth."

I turn and walk away.

Mum

by Daniela Bradley

I put a flower near the window where she used to sit.

I don’t know her phone number, or her address, and I can’t ask Dad. ‘Don’t mention her name,’ he snarls whenever I accidentally do. ‘She is dead as far as I am concerned!’

But she is not.

She is alive. She is my mum. And today is her birthday. 

Blue Dove

by Natasha Joyce

He took my hand in his and in it he placed a delicate blue and white teacup. I turned it slowly in my palm and avoided his eye. “It was for the sugar”, I said. “The last from Mother’s willow set”. The rim was chipped. Thirty minutes ago, it had been perfect and whole. I lightly traced a fingertip along the fresh edge, stroking the fine cracks that branched down into blue trees.

He continued standing silently before me. If I allowed my focus to widen beyond the cup and past my hand, I might properly see the soaked bonnet my brother gripped in his own. I instead studied three tiny figures moving round the cup’s surface. The trio shuffled over an arched bridge where my thumb pressed into the exposed porcelain. I sharply pulled it back and he gasped.

I still did not raise my eyes as he crouched before me and placed the sodden cloth at my feet. He smoothed it out and I saw the whitework stitching I had finished only a few weeks past. His voice broke as he finally asked, “Is it hers?”

My blood slowly trickled over a little blue dove, so that dark tributaries of red merged to flood the cup's well. “She was fetching me some sugar” I said and bent to lift her bonnet from the mud. I held it to my chest and looked past him to the men gathered by the waterhole. "She’s only been gone a few minutes."

Love

by Elouise Wilby

It's the stuff out of fairy tales that we read as children

But the stuff our dads warn us about when we grow up

It's the stuff the everyone dreams of

But we all know it drives some mad

The best thing that could ever happen to us, we are told

Yet it is never explained to us

The details that is

Because love has never been solved

It is a mystery different for every person

Some live for it

Some die for it

Others spend their whole lives avoiding it

And others never get to experience it

The ones that had a chance with the happily ever after kind of love

Will tell you it is the best thing that ever happened to them

But the ones who made it through with nothing but a broken heart

The ones who have survived without it

They will forever warn you against it.

So our struggle is who we listen to and how we chose to live

Both stories are filled with experienced

And both sides know what can happen

We don’t want our hearts broken

Yet we can’t possibly miss out on the greatest thing in the world

But that is the way of love, and such are the ways of life

Button

by Danielle Dark 

Two little eyes stare up at me from a small round face, I’m lost in thought.  I remember all the tiny details.  Sitting in the waiting room for our first appointment, excitedly thumbing through a book of names.  Hearing your heartbeat for the first time, watching as you wriggled around on the monitor.  The excited squeal your big sister let out when we showed her your photos.  She was so proud, she told everyone, the neighbours, strangers, anyone who would listen.  

It’s inevitable that our trip down memory lane takes us back to our third ultrasound.  This time your heartbeat is quiet, your wriggle is still.  The technician is quiet, I am still.  I know, she knows but neither of us say it.  She excuses herself to call for a doctor who delivers the news we both knew.  You have passed away.  

I walk home, my face splotchy and stained with tears.  I ride the elevator up with our neighbour, I manage a thin straight-line smile, my head hurts from holding everything in.  When I get in the front door I slump to the floor and howl.  Such heartache Is Life without you my beautiful Baby Button. 

I’m momentarily drowning again.  I bend over and collect the baby blue button from the dirt where it lay.  As I cradled the small button in my increasingly clammy hands, I remind myself to breath.  

We take great comfort in finding little buttons, knowing that you are still with us. 

Such is Life

by Sharon Greenaway

"Yeah, and hurry up," Max Winchford snapped as he hung up the phone. Max knew what to do in situations like this. He'd survived enough bush fires through the years, starting with the Black Friday fires of ‘39. But instead of being hardened by this, the roar of the fire and what it meant was a sound he could never forget.

And now, as he sat in his weatherboard cottage, he suddenly felt very afraid. He felt so very vulnerable. Why the bloody hell didn't I move to Sarah’s last year? I’d be safe now. He remembers his daughter pleading with him. "But you're 85 Dad; you should be closer to us."

He should've moved last year. He'd had a damn good life on the farm. Because this farm is your life you old fool, he answers himself.

How the hell was he going to defend himself against the ravages of any fire, large or small? The last one to come through had been 20 years ago, and his beloved wife Irene had been fighting alongside him. Max thought of what Irene would say. "You always could do anything you put your mind to, so get off your backside and show ‘em.”

And suddenly he remembered. He wasn’t alone any more. He had Tom.

By God, you're right. I'm being a silly old buggar. With that he shuffled out through the kitchen door, slamming it with a determination he thought he'd lost.

Pall Mall

by Meg Sattler

Trot, trot. What’s that? Cat! Cat! Okay, I’m coming. No need to pull. Wee. Whose wee is that? I’ll wee on top of it. Better that it’s my wee. Trot, trot. Sniff. Pie! Wait. It’s on the ground. I can reach it. It’s close. Got it! Yes. Feet. I don’t like those feet. Not one bit. Better go faster. Okay. I like these feet. Sniff. Oh, they’re yours. Do you have to keep pulling, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I love you so much. Chip! Another chip! Wait. So. Many. Chips. Slow down! Got one. Tail! It’s moving. New feet. Smell like a farm. Magnificent. What’s that noise? Tick tick tick. So loud. Whoa! Big car. Too close. Okay, I’m coming. Road is hot. It’s too hot. Ouch! I’m coming. Trot, trot. Tick tick tick. Big post. Whose wee is that? I’ll wee on top of it. Better that it’s my wee. Hold on. Slow down. Grass. Park. Yes! Slow down! The park is here. It’s there. It’s back there. Oh god it’s gone. There it goes. Yes? Oh. That hello was not for me. I know that perfume. Stinks. Hi! You’re hugging her. Hug me. So many chairs. A café. Worst. No, I don’t want to sit. Don’t tie me there. Water, yes thank you. Yes, I am a good girl. Treat! Okay. Let’s go now. What? Lie down? Absolutely not. Sorry? Well, I think you’re misbehaving. Sniff. Wait. Oh my. Is that eggs benedict? Tail!

1,000 Versions of You

by Patrick Thompson

Eva stood in front of the mirror, feeling overwhelmed by the multitude of decisions that lay ahead. She had always strived to be the best version of herself, but lately, it seemed like there were countless versions of her that could take shape.

As she gazed at her reflection, she couldn't help but wonder if every person she met had their own idea of who she was. Did they see her as she saw herself, or did they have their own unique perspective of her?

The thought was both freeing and terrifying. It meant that there were endless possibilities for who she could become, but it also meant that she could never truly control how others perceived her.

Eva realized that the idea of a singular "best version" of herself was an illusion. Instead, she could embrace the countless variations that existed within her, knowing that each one had its own unique value.

As she left the room, Eva felt a sense of liberation. She no longer felt trapped by the idea of perfection, but rather, she was free to explore the many different versions of herself that could exist in the world.

She was no longer limited by the constraints of a single identity, but rather, she could be whoever she wanted to be.

**1,000 Version of You was written with the assistance of ChatGPT

Such Is Life, Girlfriend

by Melinda Charlesworth

I’ve wanted to be Jenny’s friend since the day we met in grade 2. Now my girl’s getting married!

I didn’t think she was going to ask me but she did, just last week so I missed the Hen’s Night but not the dinner. I got there early to help her get ready like she wanted. Just me, not the others, so I felt really special.

I’m wearing the peach coloured taffeta with a sweet-heart neckline that cost me two weeks’ wages. I did the girls’ hair after lunch. I did mine before I came over to save time. Sal’s the Maid of Honour, she’s handing out delicate gold necklaces for each bridesmaid. She’s already wearing hers, I can see the letters on the pendant. BFF. Best. Friends. Forever. So sweet!

Gail squeals and hugs Jenny. “I’m a BFF!”

“Of course you are, how could you even wonder?”

Jools is his sister, she’s here to stay. “BFF” she nods, “Love it!”

“So cute of you to dress up like us. You should have something too. Here.” Jen sticks me as she shoves the pin through my bodice. I look down at the flower stuck on my chest. The girls line up and Sal holds out a packet of bobby pins and hairspray. “Fix up Jen’s hair, would you?”

“Thanks,” Jenny says. She follows the other girls down the aisle and I watch the door shut behind them. At least I can still hear the organ.

Such Is Life

by Max Harrop

My family made themselves home in the lifeless valley, watched over by the palaces of their ancient forefathers who ruled shrinking empires. My family had always tried to make the best of their lives, making something habitable out of the inhospitable wasteland that their ancestors ruled like a garden of plenty.

Disaster had always been commonplace in our valley, our lonely valley home. Sandstorms struck our homes in the middle of summer it clogged our wells, smothered our wheat fields, and choked many of my family filling their lungs with red dust.

It took many months for us to reclaim what was lost to us. We mourned them and tallied those we had lost. We worked tirelessly to rebuild our homes and fields, with whatever we could get our hands on. It was simply our way of life living on a knife’s edge.

The only certain factor that remained in our lives was death, sorrow at every corner. We were no match for the harshness of our valley, but we refused to give up in the face of great tragedy.

We knew that death and sorrow would continue to destroy our lives, but also knew that we had each other and our community to rely on. It was simply the life that we lived.

Watched by the palaces of our ancestors, we stood tall and defiant against the cards that were stacked against us. We were determined to build a new life, no matter how much life threw at us.