Short story writing and creative fiction, essays and non-fiction stories.

Twenty-four hours of travel.

She is across the world and for him, it isn’t love.

Standing on the steps of a small restaurant, on a crowded street in Chinatown.

Watching the car drive away.

If it were her in that car, she would trace the raindrops on the window with the tip of her index finger.

Following their path.

No. If it were her in that car, she wouldn’t have left.

She began crying before he said goodbye and now, now she’s sobbing uncontrollably.

Really, she’s still just a little girl. Eighteen years old is not a woman.

She is a child, alone and across the world.

For him. It isn’t love. For him it isn’t love.

She hasn’t cried like this since she lost a loved one.

Oh. She sees,

Dead means gone.

Shaking, cold and wet, crying. This moment defines alone.

Her entire body is crying. Each organ is bawling.

Her bones are aching, the marrow in them shaking. Her heart is pounding, so fast, her ribs could be breaking.

It’s pouring now, she thinks the sky is crying for her too.

She’s caught a cab, between gasps for air, she tells him the address of her hotel.

Hugging the seat, shifting her body.

She cannot sit still, she cannot stifle her cries.

He says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t have daughters.

Arrived, so far across town, she reaches out her shaking hand, grip slipping.

He holds up his hand and shakes his head, their eyes finally meet.

His eyes finally speak.

When it rains in Australia this time of year, it’s magic.

His heart aches.

Because. For her, the rain isn’t so.

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From around a dense bramble choked bend, a lone swan emerged from dawn’s mist, dipping its head between reeds. ‘Where’s your mate?’ Fern asked. ‘Don’t swans stay with their partners until one of them dies?’ Tears stung at her own question. Behind her, from inside her car, the strains of the Flower Duet floated out to blend with amber hues and stagnant scents of early autumn. When they’d first met, James had encouraged her to listen to classical music. Took her to concerts. She, in turn, had introduced him to jazz.

A cloud passed over the wavering sun, obliterating murky reflections at the canal’s edge but enhanced four grey chimneys that stood belching out industrial smoke beyond waste ground. The swan floated closer. Damp and chilled, Fern shivered. Drew a musty blanket up around her shoulders. ‘On the river’s current.’ Fern’s voice sounded croaky as she accompanied the duet from her car’s CD. ‘One hand reaches, reaches for the bank.’ She extended fingers towards the bird. ‘Ah, calling us together.’ She closed her eyes as the pure notes of two sopranos faded.
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She arrived on the eve of the carnival, weaving her way amongst the crowds of flushed faces.

She hovered for the briefest of moments, casting a dark curious eye across the cacophony of sugar coated confectionary, before stopping slowly to pin a small hand-penned notice to the trunk of the grand copper birch that stood, naked of its leaves in the centre of the small town.

For Sale

One pair of shoes, heel trodden, curled up and wrinkled like owners face.
Condition of shoes put down to weight of expectation and over use.
Any price accepted, and can deliver. However near, however far away.

The writing was looped and faded grey, as though it had been written some time ago, and kept, folded until now in the pocket of her heavy brown coat.
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She’s smiling so hard her eyes are squinting.

Because I’m going, because I’m going, because I’m going!
She’s on her tippy toes now.

Where are you going?

She’s going where the sky is a blue that can only be described as Barcelona blue. She will drink coffee in plazas at wobbly tables with her hair down and curly and careless because Barcelona is her unconditional and has been since she was lost and found there within her heart when she was nineteen. At the wobbly tables, she will be writing letters and thoughts, and holding the thin air in her lungs longer, breathing Barcelona. A Spanish boy with a sharp jaw line and messy black hair will ask her for un cigarillo and light it and then ask her where she is from. She will tell him the world and smile, and by her Spanish he will guess she is Venezuelan and she will shake her head and smile some more. When he leaves, she will be by herself again but not alone. She will be surrounded by characters in her book, old women talking about the weather and children chasing pigeons and a lazy waiter asking her if she needs algo mas.
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“Harry Johnson. Harry Wang. Just Wang. You know, wang. The little soldier. Willie. Captain Winkie, One eyed monster. Of course, Cock. That’s obvious, but he gives me the—whuddayuh call it, the genealogy of it. Says, ‘Roosters is known for getting up in the morning.’ Wink wink, he does, like I’m in on some big fucking secret with him. What else? Morning Wood, that’s another one. Summer Sausage. The wild bologna pony. The head that thinks for me. My little pony.”

“Never heard a that one.”

“Yeah, well. There you go. Guy’s a dick thesaurus.”

Scalisi fumbled through his suit pocket and came up with a small notebook. He downed the rest of his now watery scotch on rocks, signaled the bartender with a gesture that was second nature. He found the page he needed.
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