Hi everyone, again!
J
ust wondering if anyone knows of any good short story comps in Queensland, Australia??
And on that, ote, I'll post up a story I wrote at teh end of last semester at uni.
Would love to go know your opnions, criticism, advice, comments of any form would be greatly appreciated!
Peace and kind regards
Running Blind
Life is like a journey for me, an endless pursuit of something, or someone, running headlong into the future, but trying, in the same instant, to delve into the past.
“You don’t know who you are, you know that?” Her voice rang mockingly in my ears, bringing stinging tears to my eyes. “You’re not going up there on one of your charitable crusades to save them, you’re going up there to save yourself, Jane.”
Perhaps she was right, I mused as I trudged wearily along the road, perhaps, just this once, she was right . . .
I ran blindly through the swamp now, gasping from my exertion, stumbling through the knee-deep mud, scrambling up steep embankments, running, forever running. And this, was all in the name of what, exactly? I berated myself silently. Art? For salvation? What?
“Vrummmmmmm . . . vrummmmmm . . .” I could here the car rushing, skidding and lumbering along behind me . . . not far away now . . . he wasn't going to apprehend me though, I was free! I had come along way to achieve this freedom, and I was not going to give it up now. However, despite my resolve, I still felt a tinge of fear which I tried to dull by taking a swig from the hip flask at my side. Ah, I sighed softly, my lips parted in a momentary contentment. The Whisky had a strong bite to it; it would keep me sane for now, at least. I was an artist, I needed solitude, not societal pressures, they did not understand that, it seemed. Art was my release and alcohol was my solace . . . well, mostly, anyway. Either that or my antagonist, but most of all, the two of them combined were my escape, escape from memories, shame and pain . . .
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” He’d asked, gripping my wrists harshly with one hand, while tilting my chin upwards with the other. His grip was strong, hard and ruthless as iron and it made me flinch involuntarily. “Will you?” He demanded, his voice growing softer still, soft and pleading, but still with that underlying menace that overrode everything else.
“Of course not,” I promised feebly. “I won’t tell anyone . . .” And I had not. Night after night this violation had continued, till it had become part of life, part of my daily routine, horrible as it was. At least then, I was loved. It was the realisation of how warped that way of thinking was that had first drawn me to escape into the haze of alcohol and the mysticism of art. They were my only friends, my escape, my confidants - at least, they would not let my dark secret out into the light . . . they would not betray me . . . as I had betrayed myself, again . . . as I took another swig of the whisky, clutching my canvas tightly under the other arm, still running, always running . . .
“You wanna buy a painting?” He’d asked me, looking up at me from the depths of an old Akubra hat. He was young, early twenties, Aboriginal, an extremely talented artist, and his eyes were filled with hope.
“How much do you want?” I’d asked him, smiling good-naturedly. I was a tourist; after all . . . someone had to support them . . .
“Two hundred dollars,” he said, shrugging non-comittally, glancing intently at me for a moment before looking away, out of either shame or perhaps respect, I was unsure which.
I glanced him over again, noting the sadness in his eyes, the hope and desperation. And then I glanced at the painting. It was a landscape, depicting harsh, yet starkly beautiful country, a sunset blazing over the rugged Mc’Donald ranges, the haze of smoke from cooking fires at some remote outstation, and in the distance, an eagle soaring up to the heavens, caught on an updraft of wind.
“That’s my country,” he told me, pride animating his features for a moment, bringing a shining light to his eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him honestly.
“Cool,” he said, looking away again. And then, after a moment’s silence, he asked tentatively, “So . . . you interested?”
“Yeah, here,” I complied hesitantly, handing him the money.
He took it from me and smiled appreciatively, handing me the painting in return. “Thanks ay, sister . . . hope you like it..”
“I do,” I assured him, smiling again. Would this guy be the next Albert Ngamatjira? I mused as I turned away.
“Hey sis, what ya drawing?”
I turned around in surprise to see the same guy I’d brought the stunning landscape from a week before, standing behind me. My first reaction was to ask, “How the hell did you find me out here?”
To which he replied smugly, “I told ya it’s my country here.”
“Oh, really!” I responded harshly, caught off guard by his self-assurance.
He smiled, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Yeah, really.”
“Well . . .” he began after a moment. “What you drawing?”
“Have a look and see.”
He took the sketchpad from me, perusing it in silence.
I wanted to ask him what he thought of my work, hoping that he’d like it. I was bemused by this reaction, this vehement hope. Why did I care so much what he thought?
“It’s good, ay. I like the way you depict things . . . so real . . . I hate the sugar-coatedness of society. They don’t face the truth, preferring to bury their heads in the sand instead.”
I considered his response. My drawing showed a young girl, clad only in her underwear, eyes filled with tears, fixed on an older man who stood over her, holding her by the shoulders while he raped her unmercifully, while a crowd of people hurried by, averting their eyes, littering the ground with their unwanted reffuse as they went, with no regard for the violation taking place before them – the violation of the girl, and the violation of the land . . .
The two of us spent a lot of time together after that, painting, talking and exchanging ideas – we connected, bouncing ideas off each other, fueled by our common interest and the isolation of the country, the kind of isolation that drives you to seek closeness with others. We grew to love each other.
Now, though, he was not with me. He was attending a meeting with the Northern Territory Art Commission to discuss the copying of one of his works. He did not know the danger I was in. He had not seen my father’s old Holden Ute drive up, had not seen him rush into my house, disturbing me from my sleep to hold a knife over me, threatening to kill me. He had not seen our violent confrontation, or my headlong flight into the swamp, blinded by fear, panic and terror . . .
Vrrrmmm . . . vrrrrmmm . . . “I’m coming after you, you slut! Bitch! Whore!” His slurred insults carried to me on the wind, while the car revved menacingly behind me, coming ever closer . . .
“You‘re not getting away from me, bitch! I’m not taking that risk! I love you, we’re meant for each other . . . you won’t be telling anyone about this . . . I won’t let you! I’ll kill you before I let you . . .”
He was gaining on me now. I ran harder, gasping for breath as I went, taking care not to let go of my canvas or my hip flask . . . I was not going to lose them . . . they, and my man were all I had. . all I had that set me free from the pain that arse hole behind me had caused . . . pain, shame, fear . . . all of it! He’d caused it: with his hands, his mouth, his boots, his threats . . . his violence. He had made my life hell for ten years . . . but I was free now, and he was not going to take my freedom away from me, not now, not ever. And as his car came to a holt behind me, the fear left me, to be replaced by anger.
“What are you doing here, bastard?” I demanded, turning to face him.
“I’m just here to do what I was sent to do . . . kill you . . .”
“You weren’t sent here to kill me,” I challenged.
“Of course I was! Did you think that I’d let you live? Let you live so that you could tell someone? I knew you would, eventually. You little bitch! Slutty bitch! I know you loved it, when I used to fuck you. You loved it! Didn’t you, slut?” He yelled, gripping my shoulders, shaking me ruthlessly.
“I’m no slut,” I gritted out through clenched teeth, no longer afraid.
“Shut up when I’m –“
I cut him off mid-sentence. Fueled by my anger, I lunged forward. He reached for me, forcing me down on top of him with his iron grip, wrestling me to the ground, where we rolled and grappled for a time.
“I hate you, bastard!” I cried, finally maneuvering myself so that I was on top of him, straddling him with my hands on his arms, pinning them. “You’ve made my life hell. I came here to escape my past, namely, you. I’ve gained my self esteem and my freedom, and you’re not taking them away from me, not now, not ever.”
“We’ll see about that, bitch!” He retaliated, trying to rise up, but he was unable to. It was amazing, I mused, the strength fear could give you.
We struggled in silence for a while, each of us trying to get the upper hand - power, control; until the screaming of sirens shattered the stillness.
“Freeze! Police.”
“What the fuck?” My father cried, immediately rising to his feat and backing away from me, assuming an easy, casual stance, not meeting my eyes.
“Stand right there, Mr Johnson, you’re under arrest. I’m charging you with molestation. It has been reported that you molested your daughter, one Ms Jane Johnson, during the period between nineteen eighty-three and nineteen ninety-three.”
“What the . . .?”
“You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say may be held against you as evidence in a court of law.”
“I love her . . . I never meant any harm!” He cried hysterically, struggling with the burly constable handcuffing him. The man did not respond, but his face showed disgust and contempt, as he and the Sargent escorted my father away. I stood motionless, watching the police car drive away. I was finally truly free, karma had ran it’s coarse.
