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The Midnight Train to Disconcerted

By Yvonne Milroy

In my afterhours life I am a theatre reviewer based in Hamilton. For my website, I reduced the essence of my work down to “You: Createy, Createy. Me: Writey, Writey.” That summed it up in a pithy two-line description, i.e. you perform it, and I will write about it. Write On Arts

Q. Could there be an easier side hustle?

A. Yes, a thousand times yes.

Reviewing in the Waikato occurs in fits and starts. During the Hamilton Arts Festival in February/March, I may attend up to six performances in a week. At the end of Term One in April, the high schools throw open the hall doors on their seasons. This year, I was out consecutive Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. In July/August, many local theatre companies put on a mid-year production. Weaved throughout these busy periods are smaller productions across a multitude of theatres and venues.

In 2024 I saw 43 separate productions, but more than fifty performances in total due to seeing some shows multiple times because I have been involved in the creation of the piece. At all 43 productions I was seated with my little A5 hardcover notebook and Pilot Pen

Once the performance starts, I’m locked in, making notes about action, cast, lighting, set, costumes, hair, makeup, sound, direction, music, band, character arcs, choreography, diction, vocal technique, and more. The pages are soon filled with adjectives, thoughts, and the occasional eavesdropped comment, all scribbled as the performance unfolds. I find live performance exhilarating and leave the venue buzzing about the experience.

Image by whitestrom under Adobe Stock License

Once in a blue moon there will be something so glaringly ghastly in a performance that I will message the director or producer immediately and suggest a small but pertinent change. An example is “Rein in the stage crew – they shouldn’t be yapping so loud backstage” or “There was a buzz coming from the suspended speaker on stage right”.

But then I come home, wash my face, tie up my hair and sit down at my laptop. And write. Well, try to write. I have a rule that my reviews are published chronologically in order of seeing a performance. This means that I cannot procrastinate and work on another review first.

Writing a review can be the most torturous process ever, especially if I am writing in the early hours and it must be completed because there are more reviews lined up. On top of that, add the fact that sometimes my notes aren’t exactly legible. And then there is the decision about do I want to stand or sit? Do I want another Coke Zero? Should I be eating lollies in the middle of the night?

In 2019 my set-up started as a laptop balanced on my knees. Then I added a gloriously clunky keyboard. And a desk. After that I needed a second screen. Then a larger desk with a built-in bookcase. Finally, an electric standing desk. Six months ago I was a three-desk household, definite overkill for just me. I won’t mention the ergonomic mouse pad, headphones, or other extraneous items.

Surely, Yvonne, with all that investment to set up the ideal reviewing space, you would be able to crank out reviews?

Nope.

I believe that providing a blow-by-blow account of the storyline is simply a cheat’s way to meet a word count. Reviews should encompass the whole experience – what or who was good, covering the staging, technical aspects, creative elements, and production personnel.

Given the multitude of components that can be assessed, I tend to focus on the positive, and shoutout clever technical elements that other reviewers may not notice. The leads and creative team should get a mention too. I rarely have an opportunity to read another reviewer’s point of view before my own is published.

If the show finishes at 10pm, and I am at my desk by 10:30pm, the goal is to have the review published and for me to be in bed by midnight. Nine times out of ten, I am banging my head against a brick wall with my eyeballs hanging out of their sockets at 2am, trying to assemble the last few sentences in some random paragraph.

Once the review is ready to be posted to my website, I add photos (with credits) and ticketing links. I then create a pull quote to add to social media posts and make it go live. The last step is to email the link to the producer and let them know the review is up. I do have a feeling of satisfaction once I have completed the task, and I stand by my words. It certainly isn’t easy or quick to sum up a production in 500-700 words in the middle of the night. My motivation is that reviewing is not as difficult as baring one’s soul on stage. Now, that is the real challenge, and a good review should provide a fair and considered summary, even if it is written at 2am.  

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Back to School

Alex Heke

Image by Chokniti under Adobe Stock Lincense

“Why are you being so boring?”

This is now a common refrain in my home and one my nine-year-old doesn’t understand very well. After years of having me to herself, she must share me with my online cohort.

I expected this when I chose to return to study two years ago. I knew finding time between being a mum, working part-time, and fitting in schoolwork would be a struggle. What I didn’t expect was the emotional toll it would take on me and the feeling of never having enough time to focus on any one thing.

I was twenty-one when I had my daughter. Before then, I had never really given a thought to higher education, it was something to consider in the future. I was busy having fun and travelling the world. When the future hit me in the form of a beautiful newborn, it was unexpected, to say the least. For the next few years that baby was my whole life. Before I knew it, she was eight. Independent and sassy. I had no idea who I was when she no longer needed me every single minute. Nappy changes, playdates and feedings were my whole life. Finally, I had time to do something for myself, and I didn’t know what the hell that could be. I knew I liked books. But how do you turn a love of reading into a career?

Deciding to return to school and study creative writing, was not an easy choice. I knew I would have to sacrifice time and money to do this. I managed to keep working throughout my first year. It was a struggle. I spent many late nights trying to finish assignments when my kid was finally in bed. Being made redundant at the end of 2023 was a blessing and a curse. I would have more time to focus on my 2024 study, but even less money.

Despite everything, I wouldn’t change it for the world. Finally get to study something that is just for me is a privileged experience. At eighteen I couldn’t have done this. Being responsible for my own learning was not something I was mature enough for. Partying and socialising would have taken priority over finishing any qualification. Putting myself back in the mindset of study was challenging. Overall without added life experience staying the course could not have been possible.

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The Big Three  

by Amy Fifita

Warning: This narrative includes the sensitive material of an anti-government protest, religious theory and child rape. 

Siegfried Sassoon, William Peter Blatty and Josh Cannon. Excerpts from their portfolios have inspired me for years now. I often wonder what they would think of my scrawlings and if they could see the potential in my life’s mishaps. Maybe, I could have inspired them too. 

‘I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance.’ Siegfried Sassoon.

Sassoon stood up for the First World War soldiers. All of them. The British men that he fought with and loved and their German counterparts. He ended up bringing A Soldier’s Declaration before the government with bravery (or stupidity). The act could have had him court marshaled, but he didn’t care. He didn’t let his passion for people cease. That document, and what he wrote instilled courage in me to use my writing talents to attack societal issues.

‘I have seen and endured the sufferings … I make this protest against the deception which is being practiced on them.’ Siegfried Sassoon.

Blatty’s The Exorcist had a profound effect on me too. It came down to two beautiful pages of Father Merrin’s thoughts on what love is. Those words got intimately close to who I am and how I think. He taught me how to love the world using my pen.  

Author William Peter Blatty

“… it finally is a matter of love; of accepting the possibility that God could love us…”  Blatty’s Father Merrin. 

In fact, how could anyone love us? Humans are beyond flawed, and even within our own societies we can be repelled by each other. Domestic abuse. Drugs. Career criminal children doing ram raids. Why would you love people who do or allow that? And yet, he posed the answer to the question.

“… the love which He asked was in my will and not meant to be felt as emotion at all.” Blatty’s Father Merrin.

He wrote about the root of it too.   

“… in the senseless, petty spites; the misunderstandings; the cruel and cutting word that leaps unbidden to the tongue between friends. Between lovers. Enough of these…and we have no need of Satan to manage our wars for us; these we manage for ourselves …” Blatty’s Father Merrin.

And finally, Cannon’s Silent Scream. What a book to have read when I was 14 years old. It is a brutally honest story and includes the author being raped by his father at the age of three. It even comes with a warning to the readers.

‘Rather than sugar-coat it in order to produce ‘acceptable’ reading material, I have endeavoured to depict the incidents of abuse and violence as vividly as they existed for me.’ Josh Cannon.

Now, that is some truth-inspiring shit right there. It gets worse the more you read — and then gets better. The journey from absolute hell through excruciating pain, which then ends with a treat, where Cannon makes the choice to arise from the muck, is empowering. And, oh, how I love the honesty in hostility.

‘And fuck you if you’re thinking, Honestly, how disgusting to talk about things like that. I don’t want to hear that kind of filth. Don’t fucking listen then. Piss off back to your room, put Beyoncé on the stereo and go back to your world of petty resentments, gossip and ennui. This is my story, and I’ll tell it the way it is.’ Josh Cannon.

I enjoyed the thought that many people wouldn’t find that ‘kind of filth’ inspiring. It taught me that the truth often is the hardest to confront but fuck, say it or write it anyway. I have done so in some of my writing.  

These authors drove me to become a writer and to script my words for bravery, love and truth and I am incredibly grateful for that.

  • Sassoon, S. (June 15, 1917). A Soldier’s Declaration. https://net.lib.byu.edu/english/wwi/influence/ssprotest.html
  • Blatty, W, P.(1971). The Exorcist. Blond & Briggs. p382-383
  • Cannon, J. (2008). Silent Scream. John Murray (Publishers). page vii
  • Cannon, J. (2008). Silent Scream. John Murray (Publishers). p36
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Rupi Kaur

Zarnia Oldham

Rupi Kaur reminds me of a fairy from a Disney movie. Small in stature, but large in personality. 

I began reading poems by Rupi on the internet. One day when I was feeling particularly low, I googled words to make me feel better, and up popped one of Kaur’s poems-

The day you have everything

I hope you remember 

When you had nothing

A picture of a person sitting in a boat perfectly positioned at the bottom of the page. It was simple, it honoured my feelings I had at the time (the typical life is hard and unfair kind of feelings), and it helped me to feel less alone. Milk and Honey was a book I had to get my hands on, so I searched up the book title and ordered it online. I kept that book close to me for many years, ready any time I needed a particular poem. The fire that came from the injustices she felt being a woman. The quiver I could hear every time she talked about being nervous in relationships and the beams of joy that flowed along a page when she wrote about friendship. 

I remember instantly typing her name into Google and her book Milk and Honey was at the top of my search. Having never heard of her before I assumed she was a poet from the past. Some great artist who had left a beautiful legacy. I was shocked to see she was 18 years old and releasing her first book. Her honesty is not something I had acquired by such a young age. 

I would say I am loyal to a fault. This, however, is not true when it comes to authors. Yes, I am still loyal, but I wouldn’t say it is a fault. I have three of Kaur’s books in my collection now and love each the same as the one before. Her evolution as an author is beautiful to witness. She has matured, her writing is still as powerful, but comes from a more diplomatic place. Her view of the world has softened. The Sun and Her Flowers, Kaur’s second book, carries words of wisdom rather than wonder or naivety. A favourite piece from The Sun and Her Flowers shows this perfectly- 

What is stronger

Than the human heart

Which shatters over and over 

And still lives

The page is balanced out by a black and white picture of a human heart that has flowers sprouting from the top of it. Another effective sketch.  

If I got the chance to ask her something, it would be based around her honesty that comes through in her writing and how she finds the courage to write about topics so close to the heart. I imagine it isn’t an easy or simple question to answer.

I was an incredibly shy child and teenager; I wrote a lot, but I would never have let a soul see it. My heart rate spikes at the thought of publishing some of my earlier writing (and some of my current too!). The honesty and rawness found in the pages of Kaur’s poems, is something I admire.

Kaur was born in India but grew up in Canada after migrating with her parents from India as an infant. Her father left India for Canada before the rest of the family to establish their life there. She carries these significant times in her life into her work, regardless of her being too small to remember some. I imagine this to be where a lot of her courage comes from. Her parents being brave enough to immigrate to a new country. The courage of her mother to bring Rupi and her siblings across oceans to meet their father in Canada. The courage they had upon arriving and living in a society they knew nothing about; and the generational traumas that can create. 

Rupi believes in the force that comes from only a few words, that can touch so many. So much so, Kaur often has live shows and tours running. She has been to New Zealand recently, and her event sold out before her arrival. Her voice is soft and kind, yet proud and strong. Her words are the battle of her life, that she recites to her audience while wearing a silk gown. I have always believed if we show up how we mean to be seen, we’re already halfway to convincing everyone else. Kaur executes this perfectly.  She is not just a poet, but a performer too. I was lucky enough to see her perform. Seeing her live lived up to my expectations, especially after spending many hours watching older shows of hers on YouTube. 

I do hope Rupi will release many more poetry books. I imagine growing older as her poetry continues to mature. Her words hold a special place in my heart, and on my book shelf.

All images are from a public domain and are available to all.

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An Ode to Brian Bilston

By Brooke McCann

Any facts about Brian Bilston or Brian Bilston’s work, have been obtained from the public arena and are available to all.

My Writing Hero

Brian Bilston is a self-proclaimed poet, philosopher and failure… yes, you read that correctly, failure.

This description of himself reveals his humility, and hints at his humour. Bilston often touches on the insecurity of writers—struggles I can relate to as I tiptoe around my inner critic, trying to evade self-doubt. Despite his diffidence, he manages to produce poems that resonate with many— his articulated silliness and brilliant wordplay bringing joy to his rapidly growing number of readers.  

I’ll admit, aside from the odd verse that has spoken to my soul, poetry’s never really been my thing. Happenstance (or algorithm) led me to Brian while scrolling through social media. His words POPPED, and like a magpie I was drawn to their sparkle.

Okay, I have to be honest; Brian is not ACTUALLY my writing hero… his name is Paul. 

When Paul Millicheap set up his Twitter account, he chose to write under a pseudonym. Little did he know he would accidentally become the platform’s unofficial poet laureate. Paul says he wanted to “play around with words and have some fun. I’m not sure how it’s all come to this.”  He builds upon this Brian character in Diary of a Somebody, a fictional novel about a man who decides to write a poem a day.

In our existing world, Brian (or Paul) is a modern-day poet who harnesses current affairs, recipes, or sometimes random floating thoughts into works of written art. He calls them “the humdrum stuff of everyday life”.

He is not stingy with his poems, and despite being published Brian shares them freely. He is currently embarking on a tour of England and Scotland reading his works and signing books. I would very much love to be in his audience; however I find myself on the wrong side of the planet.

What better way to blog about my writing hero than attempt to put words into his own inspiring form.

Apologies for the following precious minutes you’ll never get back… now is your chance to stop reading and move onto more important things—perhaps peruse some real BB poems which can be found here:  https://brianbilston.com/category/some-poems/

Image by Africa Studio under Adobe Stock License

An Ode to Brian Bilston

Scrolling through the doom and gloom,
past pictures I’d rather not consume,
wedged in between the general shite, 
his poems are the perfect bite.

I find myself snorting with rapt amusement,
or studiously nodding in heartfelt agreement.
Like a lyrical genius solving poetry’s equation,
he calculates a formula for each of his creations.

Where else would I learn that a two-metre distance
could easily be measured in another instance?
Like “thirty-three pairs of dragonfly wings”
or “about 10.5 packets of custard creams”.
His humour can be somewhat tongue in cheek,
making everything rhyme must be no small feat.
Lyric or haiku, he writes with the flow,
even Ye Olde English - he’ll give it a go.
Each word is placed with utmost precision,
commas and dead space creating incisions.
Some poems are shaped like a Christmas tree,
A glass of wine,     or
    falling
               leaves.
They’re not always funny or mad transpositions,
some are more serious like Composition.
Selected Proverbs is written in fun,
but not so his poem America is a Gun.
I wonder how his ideas evolve?
If he stares at a screen until they unfold...
If words spring to mind in the greengrocer queue,
or perhaps a motorway public loo.

Maybe he has a recording app,
like the ones lawyers use, or bureaucrats.
Perhaps he jots them down midchat,
or whilst reciting to his cat.

His poem To Do List sheds some light,
I relate to his words with pure delight.
We’re both making tea and procrastinating,
cleaning out drawers and equivocating.
He possibly bit a policeman once. 
For this behaviour I do not judge,
possibly doesn’t mean DID... it’s not clinching.
Rumours and hearsay he’s playfully spinning.

For Brian Bilston is rather elusive,
his puppet master Paul definitely reclusive.
I’d unknowingly pass him in the street,
his cat is the face of his book promotions.
I know...  I’m sorry the last line’s amiss,
but give me a break, I’m new to this!
If you’re lucky enough to catch Brian on stage,
you may see the “Poetry Banksy’s” face.

He reads prose in places like Bexhill-on-Sea,
British towns near his prized football team.
Brian, if you read this, come on down under,
to explore New Zealand and spend the summer.
You can stay at my house: in the wee spare room,
pretty sure you’ll fit... I’ll just take out the broom.
You can pat my cat and eat custard creams,
not in a creepy way, I’m no stalker by any means.

In fact, I have a husband who thinks you’re funny too,
he forwards me your poems to elevate my mood.
He understands your words are written in my language,
a cup of tea and Brian B are splendid for his marriage.

And even though I’ve read them, I devour them again,
an early morning repartee to wake my dozy brain.
For who else has the wit to pen heartbreak into cheese,
Brie Encounter would bring any woman to her knees.

So, Brian, I mean Paul... or is that you, Clarke Kent? 
My lyrical text is waning and it’s starting to lose sense.
Reading your playful poems is utterly enthralling,
but writing one myself has proven absolutely gruelling.

I think you’d be proud; I’ve mostly stayed in my seat,
though the dishwasher hinges are now ultra clean.
And the houseplants have been rather overwatered,
and the washing’s now stacked, folded and laundered.

My lines are prattling on, growing longer and looonger,
soon the verses will stretch on, into far yonder.
I truly effusively, wanted to let you know,
how inspiring you are to me - my writing hero.

Bilston, B. (2021, January 26). Brian Bilston, the mystery man of poetry, answers our questions. Panmacmillon.com. https://www.panmacmillan.com/blogs/literary/brian-bilston-interview

Bilston, B. (2023). Home. Brianbilston.com. (https://brianbilston.com/

Bilston, B. (2023). Posts [Twitter page]. Twitter. https://twitter.com/brian_bilston

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John Green Reviewed

Alice Fairley

When I was fifteen I had a crush on a girl at school. She had curly blonde hair and blue eyes and I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. 

This girl, Alana*, was smart. She was in the top class with all the other smart people, while I mingled with the lowly, middling students who would go on to take statistics in Year 13 but not calculus. So, she was beautiful, and she was smart, and she was also kind. Naturally my adolescent heart could not resist the pull of this holy trinity. 

Alana had a rare gift: the ability to be both cool and nerdy. I too wanted to be cool. Not like the “It” crowd of Justin Bieber fanatics or the athletic rowers of my year group, but like the intellectual girls who would go on to be prefects and later, probably, prime minister. 

To be clear, I didn’t actually want to be a prefect—or prime minister for that matter—but I did want to be seen as someone who could be.

One day, at lunch—the only opportunity I had to bask in the presence of these future prime ministers—I heard Alana and her friend discussing an author they admired. I sat up and listened. His name was John Green and he’d written some books, but perhaps more importantly he had a YouTube channel where he and his brother, Hank Green, talked about nerdy things to millions of other people who thought those nerdy things were pretty cool.

Soon after that, I convinced my mum to buy me a copy of his first novel, Looking for Alaska. This book rattled me in a way not many books had done before. Even now I can hear the final line in my head, as if John Green himself is speaking it to me: “Thomas Edison’s last words were, ‘It’s very beautiful over there.’ I don’t know where there is, but I believe it’s somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful.” This was my first taste of John Green’s magic. In a book where the protagonist is obsessed with the last words of the dying, Green delivers a set of final words so poignant I still recall them years after turning the last page. 

Alana was impressed when I turned up to school and casually mentioned that I had read not only Looking for Alaska, but all of John Green’s other books too. Yet I was no poser. By then I was a fully-fledged fan, or ‘Nerdfighter’—the title given by the Green brothers to their loyal followers. I watched their vlogs religiously, participated in their annual charity YouTube takeover, ‘Project for Awesome’, and eagerly awaited the release of John Green’s upcoming book, Will Grayson, Will Grayson, co-written with David Levithan. 

[Photo by me] My well-read copy of Will Grayson, Will Grayson.  This book asks the hard-hitting question—can you pick your friends nose? The answer may surprise you.

Our shared love for ‘Nerdfighteria’ gave Alana and me something to talk about, but as with all of my high school crushes, my feelings—stifled by my fear of being outed and my significant insecurities—eventually fizzled and died.

My fondness for John Green did not. 

Perhaps what I appreciated so much about John Green at the time, and still do to this day, is how he built his career on the idea that it’s okay to like what you like, and analogously, be who you are. In a video from 2009 John Green said, in his rather manic delivery style of the time, “Nerds are allowed to love stuff, like, jump-up-and-down-in-your-chair-can’t-control-yourself love it. When people call people nerds, mostly what they’re saying is, ‘You like stuff,’ which is not a good insult at all, like, ‘You are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness’.”

For me—a girl who was never going to be prefect, nor prime minister—this was a message I probably needed to hear. I did not consider myself to be beautiful or cool or particularly smart, but I was excited about the miracle of human consciousness. 

I still am. 

These days I have no qualms calling myself a nerd. I am also kind and beautiful and cool and smart. I think I have always been those things. I still don’t want to be prime minister, and I don’t care if anybody thinks I could be.

I don’t watch John and Hank Green’s YouTube channel anymore. For a period of time in my mid-twenties I rarely thought about John Green at all. Until one day I discovered his latest book, The Anthropocene Reviewed. In his essay on the Bonneville Salt Flats, Green wrote: “One of the strange things about adulthood is that you are your current self, but you are also all the selves you used to be, the ones you grew out of but can’t ever quite get rid of.”

That’s how I feel whenever I read John Green. I imagine myself as a girl at the lunch table with Alana, barely brave enough to speak, vibrating with that peculiar adolescent mix of terror and joy. 

I am very fond of that younger me, and I am very fond of John Green.

Recently I have been listening to John and Hank Green’s podcast, Dear Hank and John.** On the podcast they answer listener questions ranging from, “Do fish get thirsty?” to “How do I avoid grieving the living?” These days, John Green speaks in a measured drawl, much slower than the rapid babble of his early YouTube videos, but the silliness and enthusiasm of his younger self still shines through. 

In the spirit of The Anthropocene Reviewed, I must give John Green a rating out of five stars. I feel it would not be constructive to give any person the highest number of stars, which would suggest a level of flawlessness I am not convinced any human being is capable of. I think John Green would agree that he is far from perfect. All the same, I am very grateful for the existence of John Green’s human consciousness. 

For that reason I give John Green four stars. 

*Not her real name.

**I want to give a mention to Hank Green, whom I also love. Like his brother he is a writer, and he has produced two excellent and thought-provoking books—An Absolutely Remarkable Thing and A Beautifully Foolish Endeavour.

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The Unexplained Visitor

Karla Martin

Image by neirfy under Adobe Stock License

Image By neirfy under Adobe Stock Lisence.

This story is entirely fictional. Any facts included about Roald Dahl, or his work, have been obtained from the public arena and are available to all

A fireplace sparked in the corner of the vast library, shooting red and gold stars onto the stonework surround. Seated beside it were two enormous, bright-yellow lounge chairs. Someone sat dozing in one. Their breathing was rhythmic, apart from the little snort at the end of each intake. Feeling brave, I stepped closer. The smell of coffee and wood oil released a flurry of memories. I noticed my muscles relaxing.

My grandparents had owned the estate and passed it on to my mother. I was twenty when Mother died, leaving the estate to me. This room was my favourite. I felt safe amongst all the stories and their adventures, and as a child I was often found curled up asleep with a book, my body cradled in one of the super-stuffed chairs.

‘I know you’re there.’ A deep voice echoed around the library, and I stopped moving, holding my breath. ‘Well, are you going to come forward?’ The hands that belonged to the big voice were slender and rested on the arms of the oversized seat. Intrigued by the elegant-looking digits, I moved closer and stood beside the other yellow chair. I couldn’t believe who was sitting in my old library. The familiar face staring back at me was impossible.

‘Am I dreaming?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.’ Is it really you?’

I had seen the man’s profile in so many of my favourite stories; there was no mistaking his identity.

‘Mr Dahl, what are you doing in my library?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, raising his hands to inspect them, turning each one slowly. ‘The last thing I remember was sitting in my office drafting my next novel, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, the sequel to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—have you heard of it?’

‘Have I heard of it?’ I spluttered. ‘It’s only my all-time favourite. I have the ‘Great Glass Elevator, too. I especially love the part…’ I stopped, realising that it could mess with history.

Now it was his turn. ‘What? How? Ahh. Now I’m really at a loss.’

I sat down and leaned forward, lightly touching those famous fingers, and tried to calm us both. ‘Just another adventure, aye, ol’ boy? How bout I get us a nice pot of tea and some sandwiches, then we can try and figure this mystery out together. What do you think?’ Even though I enjoyed coffee I knew Mr Dahl was English and would prefer tea.

My writing hero nodded slowly.

The china teacups clattered on the tray as I placed it upon the side table between the two big chairs. Pouring the tea, I saw his shoulders lower a smidge.

‘There you are. Nothing fixes problems like a cup of Earl Grey. Sandwich?’ I asked, offering the plate.

Shaking his head, he gingerly took the brew and sipped. ‘Right then,’ he said, his eyes clearing a little after each sip. ‘I think we need to ask ourselves the “why.” As in, why am I here?’

‘I was reading an article about you just the other day,’ I told him between sandwich bites. ‘It had described your books—ah no, sorry, your characters—as being inappropriate and suggested they were sending the wrong messages to young children. I remember thinking at the time how I wished you were alive to defend yourself or at least have your say. I wonder if my wish had something to do with your sudden appearance?’

‘Inappropriate characters? Why, whatever do they mean? What characters are you talking about?’

‘Oh, hmm, take the Oompa Loompas, for example. Their payment in cacao beans appears to represent slave labour… to some,’ I added quickly, because I could see his brow start to darken with wrinkles.

‘Slave labour,’ he choked out, spilling some of the Earl Grey over his white button-up shirt. ‘Well, I never. Not once did I ever believe them to be slaves.’ His expression was dismayed. ‘What else have they said about my beautiful characters?’

A little wary now, I whisper the references to Augustus Gloop being labelled as ‘greedy and enormously fat’ and the Oompa Loompas as small men, not small people. I wasn’t going to mention what had been said about James and the Giant Peach.

The teacup in his hand started shaking, so much so I thought it was going to topple from its perch on the saucer. Getting up slowly so not to startle him further, I took the now empty cup from him and said, ‘Not everyone thinks this way.’ He lifted his eyes, showing the whites. I carried on despite his look. ‘Being a writer myself, I know full well how precious our stories and characters can be.’

‘They were supposed to be fun and mischievous not detrimental,’ he uttered to the floor, shaking his head. ‘But that doesn’t answer how I got here.’

‘It may have been the night of the second blue moon in August. I remember because I had just finished reading The Great Glass Elevator for the fourth time—it’s so full of glorious adventure—and was sitting down to dinner when the news came on. The broadcast was clearly one-sided because you had been dead for so long, and I thought it was unfair that they could say such defamatory things about your work when you couldn’t speak for yourself.’ I sucked my breath in and looked over at my uninvited guest. His cheeks were wet with tears and those magical hands were wringing together, creating a maze of pink and white knuckles.

‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I cried. ‘I had no intention of harming your feelings. It was just a stupid wish. I’m so, so sorry.’ I collapsed into the safety of the chair and held my head in my hands.

The grandfather clock in the hallway donged. It wasn’t midnight, but that clock just kept ringing. My writing hero and I looked at each other as the great sound echoed through the house. The deflated sag in his shoulders left me feeling hopeless. On the last stroke there was a crack from the fire and more stars sparked, causing me to change focus. When I turned back, my unexplained visitor had vanished. I looked into my teacup, wondering what the hell I had put in it.

References.

Anderson, H. (2023, May 23rd). The dark side of Roald Dahl. BBChttps://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20160912-the-dark-side-of-roald-dahl

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A Slice of Life

Sharing my adventures using my voice without filters

Photo by tristanbnz from iStock
Image by tristanbnzh with iStock License

Autumn 2006,

                              Ngaruawahia, New Zealand.

Standing with you on the footpath, in the middle of the bridge to town, was peaceful. The sun’s rays were bouncing shadows off the cars and the trucks. The shadows were like pingpong balls, being smacked from one side to the other.

“Click, click, click.”

That’s the noise the bridge makes every time something rolls over the joint where the concrete and steel plate meet.When I was growing up, crossing this exact same bridge, that sound used to scare me. Right now, though, I wasn’t afraid. If anything; the familiarity calmed me.

“Click, click, click.”

 Another car passed over the bridge. It’s at this very moment that I turned my head slightly to the left, and noticed you staring at me. I smiled a crooked smile and shoved your shoulder.

“What are you looking at, Green Eyes?” I said with so much sass, or was it anxiety?

To be honest, I am not quite sure what it was, but I do remember my heart beating in my throat. It was in that very moment that you grabbed my hand and kissed the back of it. It wasn’t a yucky, sloppy boy kiss, I remember, it was soft, it was slow. It was love.

“Click, click, clunk.”

The rubbish truck ran over the plate and we instantly grabbed our noses with our fingers.

“Damn. That shit smells so bad,” you said between gritted teeth.

My mind was confused. My face was super hot, and I assumed extremely red. I giggled, and in my mind I was angry at the weird way my giggle sounded. We locked eyes, and started laughing in deep, and contagious grunts.

“Sorry,” you said with such love. I shrugged and shook my head.

I, Ashley Dianne, was silenced. For the first time since meeting you, Green Eyes. And I noticed my hands were shaking and sweaty. My throat was so dry I thought I’d swallowed sand, while my heart was beating so loudly in my head I couldn’t see in front of me.

“I need a drink,” were the only words that escaped. You being you, Green Eyes, handed me a cold bottle of pump. I smiled and guzzled that back like my life depended on it.

“That’s much better,” I said after polishing off the entirety of its contents.

You smiled at me, but this smile wasn’t like any other you had shared with me before; this one seemed to reach the depths, as if your soul wanted to greet mine.

To cut the awkward silence and the meaninful glances I suggested we head to the point, just beyond the rotunda.  And instantly the spring in my step came stumbling back. We made our way to the end of the bridge, but before I could reach the footpath on the otherside, you cut me off and redirected me to the unmarked marked pathway, on the left hand side of the bridge.  You bounce over the barrier and offer me a hand to help steady me as I make the same move. I hesistate when I reach for your hand. 

“Are you okay, Hiki?” It was spoken so sweetly, so full of desire.

In that very moment, I was so afraid of you, afraid of you kissing my hand and what that meant to you, to me. I was anxious, and scared that our friendship was over before it began.

“Hiki, what’s going on in that pretty, curly-haired head of yours?”

I stared into your sharp green eyes.  I was frozen in that spot of dirt, in the garden on the left side of the bridge to town.  

“Click, click, click.”

The sound of a car rollingover that steel plate snapped me back into my body. Out of frustration at my thoughts, I grabbed your hand with both of mine with such force, it sent us slipping and sliding down the side of the hill. Laughing at the bottom, grateful that we didn’t fall, we didn’t let go of each other.

“Hiki, what’s wrong?” Your eyes grew turbulent with fear.

I turned to look away but you stepped closer to me, and you caressed my face so that I was looking straight into your loving eyes. Mine began to cloud. With the solid ground between us, my knees became weak so I let your hands go. You reached out for me and I let you hold me, close. In this embrace I noticed how your left eye had more blue flakes in it than your right eye, and how blonde and curly your hair was. You looked so handsome.

While I was thinking all of these beautiful things my knees regained their strength, and my heartbeat began to slow down. I could feel puddles of sweat forming in the palms of my hands. I wondered if your hands had puddles too.  My groin came to life for the very first time, and man, was it weird, wet and wonderful.

Shit, I want to kiss him – my first and only thought I had before you said my name.

“Hiki. . .”

I planted a forceful kiss on your cherry-flavoured, chapsticked lips.

I exhaled and pulled away. I touched my raw lips with embarrassed finger-tips. Turned to leave. But you grabbed me, and kissed me. A kiss so huge and soft. I wanted to stay there. Your hands caressed my face and we stared at each other. We kissed, again, and again, and again. When we came up for air, it was like the weight of the world had finally lifted off of our shoulders. We giggled, and smiled.

Hiki and Green Eyes walked hand in hand to the point beyond the rotunda to catch the sunset.

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