He remains masked and wordless, but the expressivity of body, imagery and soundtrack suggest a newly found well-being and oneness with the body even one inhabited by alien DNA from which he had been so brutally distanced. With a participatory spirit, Mirabelle Wouters and Lee Wilson, the Artistic Directors of Branch Nebula, canvassed audience memory, asking us to write on the walls with pencils responses to the many works featured photographically and arranged in fascinating constellations. They were humans occupying space and forming images that triggered fleeting memories, and that suggested for performance ways of being present without needing justification from a rational narrative context. However, he grows a peculiar fondness for his daughter Ezinma. The great value of the digitising of the print editions is that not only the content of the magazine but also the design is preserved, as are the advertisements which in themselves from a valuable part of the historical record, and the editions are searchable. The show ends explaining the symbolism of this tale and it all makes sense, yet it feels like bit of a gloating end. This is an incredibly important publication, perhaps the only masthead in Australia that is meaningfully committed to engaging with the messy multiplicity of contemporary art, across walls, screens, stages and everywhere else, here and around the world.
Big Ass Booty Fuckers Kelly Divine Jada Stevens Adult
I run a booked room on Fridays called Powerbomb which I do once a month as well. When did you form as a group? We had all done various forms of split bills for the past two years before deciding we wanted to do Adelaide and Melbourne, so the idea was to combine forces to make the whole thing easier to manage.
We had 8 of us in an airbnb with 4 beds and 2 couches in Adelaide. If you do a gig, drink all night then share a double bed with a guy, you form a special bond. We have a roster of 7 acts who will be rotating in and out to keep the show fresh. To any punters out there, come to our show. To any comics out there, just keep getting up. Unlike other comedy nights where you get one headline act, at Birds you essentially get three headliners- all remarkably different, but equally hilarious comedians.
A surprise poet as well, Bob is a master of the comedy craft. Danny McGinlay has a bountiful energy, and knows how to play to an audience. Ethel Chop played by character comedian Andrea Powell , you honestly just have to see. Looking up at the magnificent stage, sitting at fine dining tables at Birds Basement , gives you the feeling of being on a cruise ship.
Chris Martin CM: My first stand up gig was Raw Comedy I did my 5 minute set in 3 minutes and got very few laughs. One lady loved me though, but I think she was drunk. Taylor Edwards TE: My first stand up gig was Class Clowns years ago. It was a weird mix of political humour and Sylvester Stallone making a sandwich. Now Chris is making me do the Stallone bit because he has never seen it….
We both started sketch comedy in at our monthly experimental comedy show Get It Inya that we produce with our comedy company Big Fork Theatre. We love to make people laugh. Our favourite thing to do is take a fledgling idea and without fear just give it a crack in front of a live audience. Taking a risk and it paying off is the greatest feeling ever. We never sleep, our bodies hate us and our mums are worried!
Basically if our brain makes us laugh we write it down and work on it. We try not to abandon ideas too quickly — you gotta believe in yourself and the idea! When it comes to our sketch comedy, we write and perform a whole new sketch show every month, so we have no choice but to regularly create new material.
Some people have described us as puppies on speed. We like performing big, lovable, and high energy characters and have them explore anything from mainstream topics to really absurd ideas. I think comedians are more honest than everyday people. But then again, it is a weird thing really to say weird or personal things to strangers and get a rush from their immediate approval of laughter.
We do a sketch that involves two audience members pretending to be farmers that have to fight it out over a pineapple.
The last time we performed the sketch the two volunteers were very enthusiastic and went on their own tangents, it got so loose that we both just started laughing throughout he sketch. We love it! We bust out audience interaction sketches whenever we get a chance, and fair warning there is definitely some of it in our show, but we do it from a good hearted place.
Being sketch comedians we play a lot of characters but really most of them are just heightened versions of ourselves at different stages of mania, and with funny voices. Chris is all over the Brisbane stand up scene so you can find him in one of the local comedy rooms around the city.
We both perform improv and sketch with Big Fork Theatre who have a couple of stages around town. The Brisbane scene is really pumping at the moment with really talented people and good rooms, totally worth a look. Our show is called Undercover Festival Cops: Hopefully Melbourne will be ready for it! We are so excited to come back to Melbourne, we love this city during comedy festival time.
Come make our dreams come true! Monday 10th — Thursday 13th, Tuesday 18th — Saturday 22nd April, 9: Sexy Detective Michael Griffin answered my questions…. When did you first start doing sketch comedy? Michael Griffin MG: The Sexy Detectives formed about ten years ago, out of a group of improvisors and university friends. Our first show was in a derelict shoe store in Fortitude Valley in a festival called Straight Outta Brisbane, a phrase which as always felt like a mantra for Brisbane artists and their inevitable move down south.
Standup usually comes out of some incredibly witty perspective you have in conversation to a friend and furiously type into your phone immediately afterwards , whereas sketch is about demonstrating the stupidity of a situation to make the point backwards.
The Sexy Detectives are a more finely scripted, more British-style sketch comedy. Our mates BangNation are silly and absurdist. The great thing about group comedy like sketch and improv is its like team sports, everyone working together and helping each other. Like a comedy cult! Whereas standups are like tennis players or boxers, always fighting and grunting. Most memorable definitely, favourite not so much, was about ten years ago I dislocated my foot jumping off stage halfway through an improv show.
I was carted off to hospital. The show continued, my parents watching horrified. They kept watching for the whole thing, mind. Audience interaction is great! For good or bad, doing sketch comedy allows you to not be yourself — you are playing characters quite literally. But hopefully you find some truth through the character. Or some such shit. The Sexy Detectives, the more clever and British ones, take turns with BangNation, the more silly and weird ones.
My favourite object is my telephone. I dropped it and it got a hairline crack on it. Is this what we do now or do I have an emotional issue? Is there anything else you would like to add? Sex Nation is gonna be such a party of a show. And me? This delightful play shows just how much those who are determined to do anything can achieve. Most of the players in this play have physical disabilities and they show that they are just as capable of playing a role as any of us are.
Lady Eats Apple is a work that contemplates the changes in spiritual evolution and the restrictions society can place on relationships. There follows an interlude where first hand, near death experiences are discussed and many people have provided their stories to the playwrights, allowing their innermost thoughts and beliefs to be included in a play that is more spiritual than anything around.
The recounting of experiences is played in a completely dark theatre with no sound or view from outside. The audience is isolated with their thoughts as they listen to these moving spiritual experiences. This portion is performed off-stage in the circle above the stage and whilst it is heart-wrenching, the audience is left trying to understand how this fits in with the earlier portion of the play.
This part is an eye-opener to see how strongly the able-bodied person reacts and responds to their charges and the audience iss left thinking that perhaps a better method of communication could have been used. At the end of the play, the actors return to the stage where the old god still lies collapsed, however, he has transformed into a patient with seizures and the players attempt to liaise with the ambulance personnel in bringing him back to life.
To see such players act as a team to revive someone is an interesting view on the fact that even after arguments people will come together and help one another in an emergency situation. At the end of the performance, it is still unclear as to whether they save the old god, but the fact that they all came together to at least try is a reflection on humanity as a whole and its belief that everyone should receive help where necessary.
View Julie's profile here. How do you describe Tomas Ford? Wearing business clothes and unpretentious spectacles he appears a bit like a cool version of WA labour leader, Mark McGowan. There are many highlights watching Ford in action but what shines mostly is his groovy, powerful singing! Ford combines this with stylish dancing that is perfect for the theme. This show is very action packed and combines many other emotional explorations, in the experience.
This is a perfect tool for his immersive theatrical act. This independent artist is not afraid to get the audience members to do unconventional things like drink water from a spirits bottle and pass a toy gun around, without him grabbing it. He is such a warm host for this night of frivolity that at the end he gives us all a hug.
If wonder what James Bond would be, if Australian than this show will give you a laugh about it and spin you out at the same time. Keep your eye out for more Tomas: Coming on four years now, like most people I just did RAW. Went and did my little one liners.
Before that I spent a long time playing in bands, I was always the one talking garbage in between songs. I played bass and sung in some exceptionally unsuccessful bands in the city. My biggest musical claim to fame would be being too drunk to be successful for an audition for Faker , who had short lived success.
For the most part the comedy was secondary to wanting to tell the story. Then the comedy comes from the story. I saw the show this year and I was just blown away. Absolute idols for what I do- are people like Adrienne Truscott who did Asking For It years ago, and she still does that globally. Basically I want to see blood on the stage, I want to see someone putting their heart out of stage.
I try not to play safe which makes for some interesting reactions. I try and make whatever I do emotionally honest. No-one wants to get on stage and tell a bunch of jokes and share their inner most thoughts. The audiences for those shows are in from the suburbs, or in from out of town and their there for a big night out. Everything to do with being a man is about violence in some way.
A really raw autobiography. John Robertson is back in his home town and better than ever. Robertson knows he has come a long way he does a show that highlight his spectacular crowd work. This comedian has recently been living in the UK honing his craft immensely. His high energy is mesmerising but keeps the audience attention with his amazingly strong presence.
The crowd must deal with his ADHD nature in a charming way to bring laughter consistently. Robertson literally grabs audience members drinks and skulls about five, with four from one unsuspecting late arrival. This unpredictability is all about this manic comic showcasing his craft. His natural warmth brings the crowd all together on this journey.
This just fires Robertson up to just talk off-the-cuff, though he does end with a story that highlights his quirkiness. There are occasional chirps about his background but as there is so much crowd interaction you sometimes forget where he is going. Robertson easily makes fun of his looks that are bit like Dr Who mixed with Iggy Pop. He gracefully moves around the audience like a tiger looking for its prey — where stupidity is his ammunition.
This is achieved kindly, so Robertson is an act you should see if you love your comedy unpredictable. Barry Morgan is Out of This World is ironically down to earth. Barry Morgan is that Aussie character that you would recognise in a family barbeque. The relatable nature of Morgan is the key to his success, as he feels like a mate or a family member. The difference is that Morgan has mountains of charisma that brings the most out of an audience.
The relaxed Mandurah audience went with his charm so easily, he barely had to lift a finger! He oozes unbelievable talent with the organ he can perform without looking, while encouraging some playful volunteers to add a physical gag to his show. Morgan pushes these volunteers to their limits by even embarrassing a young lad with application of lipstick.
The biggest talent of this Adelaide showman is his crowd work. The reason this show is called Barry Morgan is Out of This World is to highlight his love for space-based music. It very hard to put this act into a box and it appears that is how Morgan wants it.
This joyful performance will get you laughing with glee whether you know this Safari Suit wearer or not. He will make you want to shout him a beer or his favourite Pimms with becks. From tranquil gardens of geese and ducks to the hustle and bustle of street life in a city, A O Lang Pho explores the cultural differences through dance and acrobats and is a spectacular introduction to the changes such a culture meets head on in its progress toward modern living.
The ensemble display brilliant acrobatics and dancing along with humour and downright gritty truisms. In a symbolic high rise apartment building, life continues in a frenetic fashion that is caught by the actions of the troupe as they re-enact the modern urban life that is becoming more and more common throughout Vietnam and other Asian countries.
The audience fills the theatre with resounding applause at the end of the event and the players come out to entrance us twice more with further dance and acrobatic manoeuvres. This display is able to convey the differences between the Vietnamese village way of life and the modern, urban city way of life in a light-hearted, yet nostalgic manner.
Throughout the performance Vietnamese music and song are foremost with the familiar, monastic rhythms a grand accompaniment to the village scenes whilst ultra rock music blares out from the very same instruments as the familiar, tranquil notes. Opus No. I went into the show with high expectations, but nothing could have prepared me for the spectacular performance I was about to witness.
Together, the two acts explore some of the darkest times in 20 th century European history, particularly the Jewish Holocaust and the oppressive regime of the former Soviet Union. Without relying heavily on narrative like some theatre, Opus No. X-ray images held by the actors transform into photographs and moving pictures projected onto the back wall, representing all those who were lost.
The actors pick up pieces of newspaper, reading aloud names and anecdotes, and piecing together the tragedy that surrounds them. It is a stunning piece of theatre, which utilises visual metaphors and symbolism to explore tragedy. The second half of Opus No. A enormous puppet, which functions as a symbol representing Mother Russia, becomes one of the central characters of the second act.
Expertly maneuvered by at least six actors at a time, she begins as a nurturing figure to a young Shostakovich, but soon dons an SS cap and turns into a murderous, controlling dictator who crushes his artistic creativity and freedom. Image, sound, music and objects work together on an epic scale to produce a dynamic and visceral work that deals with the complex themes of genocide, censorship, oppression and loss.
It is a visually spectacular performance and an extremely effective piece of art that continues to play upon my mind and memory. She has worked as a copyeditor for the non-for-profit magazine Colosoul, and has just completed an internship with the publishing company Margaret River Press. View Ali's profile here.
If the voice is sounding in your left ear, please turn your headphones around. The first taste of The Encounter , it seems, is a hearing test. Administered through Sennheiser headsets — one per seat — as humble as they prove remarkably apt at enveloping the wearer in worlds he or she did not choose, nor expect, to explore.
It is with this tool that solo performer Richard Katz hauls his audience back and forth between fiction and reality, past and present, theatre and Amazon rainforest. A routine wilderness shoot in the Amazon turns into a tribal abduction and series of near-death experiences that the audience will not only hear, but nearly see, taste and touch.
The experience is very unlike a play in that it hinges on sound more than sight. But so unprecedented is the audio production, so excellent the voice acting, and so ingenious the use of set, that this performance is projected into the imagination with an immediacy far surpassing that of a distant stage.
A water bottle sloshing next to the mannequin head becomes the Amazon River. A tapestry of taps and hoots is looped to become the sounds of the rainforest. It is difficult to communicate just how effective this production is. The audience jumps in shock, sighs with relief, and huddles against each other from the onslaught of the wilderness. They chuckle at the sound of a child running about their feet.
They emerge out the other side challenged with the deep seated struggles between self-concept and reality, freedom and security, nature and man. The play would be well-recommended to any audience, save those unready to explore a new frontier of theatre. View Brandon's profile here.
A projector screen towards the back of the stage allowed for subtitles and also served as a great storytelling medium. Using historical documents, photographs and recorded footage, the screen provided an engaging backdrop to the characters narration. Some of the stories were heartbreaking in their tragedy, others got laughs from the audience, but all actors on stage had experienced some kind of loss from the political upheaval.
The harmony in which the actors worked left not a moment of boredom as each of their stories were interwoven with others until you were left with a rich tapestry of Chilean lives. The overall experience was educational as well as emotional, with so much history told by those who had been directly affected by it.
I left the theatre with a newfound appreciation for docu-drama productions and will be closely watching for any future works by Lola Arias. Join Joy for 45 minutes of gym stories and truths, as she does aerobic exercise! This is high energy physical comedy. The show is very cleverly written and acted with the intensity of a hard-core gym session.
You will see a grape eating skipping rope session, and a musical comedy number performed on a gym ball. Stewart Walker SW: I mentioned that I had a bucket list wish to do a show at the comedy festival and that led to Adam calling my bluff on national TV! I thought I was just going to watch his show being recorded but little did I know I was going to become part of the show.
They booked a room at the Town Hall and even had a mobile billboard driving around town with a 3 metre tall picture of my face on it! You can check it out on YouTube at https: I then had 6 weeks to put together a 30 minute show. The audience had a great time and so did I, so I kept on doing comedy gigs and here I am 5 years later. As a performer I get a real buzz from creating something that amuses me and then sharing it with other people and seeing if they like it too.
Yeah I still have a day job. So an average day for me is fitting in writing and performing around my day job. Last year I did a warm up gig before the comedy festival at work too. Recently I was listening to Gold while driving and the song Centerfold was on. I had this flash of insight about the song being old-fashioned because these days people watch porn online, and that gave me an idea for making some jokes around how some classic hits might be different if they were written today.
I was lucky enough to have Rusty from the Scaredies as the headliner in my comedy festival show last year. With non-musical comedy my favourite would have to be Frank Woodley. Apart from his great standup I love his physical comedy and clowning — 2 things I have absolutely no talent for!
Frank is a comedy genius and also did some great musical comedy with Colin Lane back in their Lano and Woodley days. On the local scene my favourite is Geelong comedian Jake Budge. I do a mix of originals and parodies, and my parodies are mostly of classic hit type songs. In I did a solo comedy festival show that was all parodies of Beatles songs.
You might think this is a copout answer but everyone is damaged in some way and that damage affects different people differently. Trust me, there are plenty of damaged people working in IT! In my Beatles parody show I get all the audience joining in with some air drumming when I do my Come Together parody, Melbourne Weather.
Most of my gigs are at various comedy nights around Melbourne and country Victoria. But I did some gigs in Shanghai and Hong Kong last year too, which was pretty cool. The show is on for one night only on Saturday 1 April with 90 minute performances at 7pm and 9pm. The feature acts are cabaret star Claire Healy in the 7pm show and multi-award winner Geraldine Quinn in the 9pm show.
People should come and see the show if they love musical comedy and variety. We have other instruments and some amazing female musical comedy talent thanks to Claire and Geraldine. In China last year I bought a collapsible travel guitar that I use when doing gigs where I need to fly.
And it sounds amazingly good. Love it! Special Information: Perri Cassie PC: I did, it went pretty well, so I just kept doing it. That was three years ago. I had a lot of people come to my show last year based on the fact that they had read those statuses. I sell cameras, which is okay. I used to do photography a lot, I used to freelance. A lot of it is based on true events.
I always find it hard to comment on. Someone did a comedy blog at a gig I was at and they wrote that I was very understated… which I think is a compliment? I had a bit of a bad break-up and then I started to focus on comedy quite hard — my whole style changed. I did a set that I had done three days earlier, where I timed it and it went for 4 and a half minutes, and I did it at Comics Lounge and it went for 7 and a half minutes because the laughter carried it out for another two minutes.
One of the other highlights would be the final show of my Comedy Festival run last year, the last show was oversold, it was a really good vibe, we closed the show with a great skit, and I felt like an actual comedian for the first time. Yeah, that was defintely one of my favourite moments,.
The way I feel that about how I write jokes is — I feel that I tune out a lot in life, I spend a lot of time on my phone, a lot of time on the internet thinking about a lot of things. I have worked very very hard on it. La Petite Merde is sketch comedy at its best.
This show has a weird energy due to the immersive nature of the performance. Williams always endeavours to keep the crowd on her side with material that some may see as contentious. Williams embraces the crowd with cheekiness, getting some member to embarrass themselves on stage, while treating her as a goddess. She explores her childhood disappointment in not becoming a police officer because of her lack of height, giving a funny take on the hypothetical situation of her being one.
To add to the level of difficulty she uses crowd suggestions in an improvisation comedy segment. If you want to see something different from straight monologue stand-up, this show will deliver this and so much more. Art of Bedfighting is a whimsical and indie show that explores the intricacies of being alone and how we can fight within ourselves if left alone too long.
Alia Vryens comes home to an empty house, takes off her cardigan, shoes, and bra, and gets comfortable for a night in. Set to the original music of Colin Craig on piano, Vryens dances with her empty clothes on a clothes hanger and you instantly fall in love with her. Vryens not only creates wonderful performance art pieces, she sings original songs. Her voice is clear, yet wispy at the same time.
The happy ups are sweet — growing a flower from reluctant soil, drinking large amounts of wine, and building a fort out of bedclothes that covers the whole audience. Yet, the downs are tear-enducing — setting the table for two, only to remember the palpable aloneness she feels, trying to be mature and failing to do the basic of adult duties — make a cup of tea. Her frustrations are real — she has trouble administering self-love in a beautiful moment that will make you LOL.
Art of Bedfighting is about depression, break-ups, coping, self acceptance, and love. If you ever struggle to adult, this is the show that will give you all the feels. Seriously, get yourself down to the Noodle Palace and sing your heart out! The band do what is promised — play from start to finish. The band really make it fun. There is an absolute reverence for this seminal album, but also a playfulness that takes the piss just a little!
Of course, being an indie choir, the focus is on the indie film — with only cult mainstream works being represented. Menagerie formed in as a group of music loving, left-of-centre, life-embracing individuals under the watchful eye of Zookeeper Kate Page. This is not your high-school choir! Decked out in various costumes from the films that will be represented, Menagerie presents the show in four acts.
MC Tristan Fidler takes on the mantle of narrator, in a comfy seat, as he breaks down why each song choice is made by this original-sounding choir. Cat FM is a fictional radio station created by comedic performers Chris Turner and Alice Winn , who both love cats so much that they want a radio show for cats, made by cats. This original show sounds like an amazing idea for any cat lover like myself to make into a show, yet it does have its challenges.
Like most shows centred on one theme, it can be limiting humour-wise. There is then an over reliance on feline based puns, which is not perfect or purfect even! They even channel their offstage romance beautifully in the show, displaying a sweet kiss at the end. Before starting the show, the two give cat stickers out to the audience.
This little touch adds to the warmth in the crowd. Both Turner and Winn wear cat ears on their heads but no other cat costume is displayed in this whimsical performance. This very short set warms the crowd well enough for the show to begin and this happened with enthusiasm, when he introduces Winn to the stage. They then sit on a radio station setup, to get the mad sketch show to begin.
Full of surreal sketches that take you on a journey, Cat FM is out there fun for to all! In her solo stand-up show, Victorian comedian, Nguyen strips herself bare and exposes all of her soul to her audience. Yep, the ABC political show. She questions why she was even considered as a candidate in the first place, but we find out it is because of her incredible work with refugees.
So, this is Nguyen: She is so proud of her Uber rating of 4. Her mother always wanted her to be a doctor — sorry Mum, stand-up comedy called! Nguyen is a natural comic, but her fish-out-of-water stories are where she shines. From always being typecast as a prostitute in tv and movies, to fudging her way through Vietnamese commentary during a footy match, Nguyen has a knack for the awkward.
They say that comedy is funniest when you stick to what you know, and Nguyen sure knows how to portray her mother — I almost felt like she had joined the stage. Stripping herself back and becoming vulnerable, this heartfelt comedian has nothing to hide as she is beautifully funny — a truly lovely human being.
Because it is written in the guide. Page is a maverick — he opens with a surreal piece that is funny but completely unrelated to the show. This is a fun show — it has a rough and ready feel to it with the posters, cardboard walkie-talkies, discount shop props, and paint-style projection images. These little extras take his comedy from grinning to laugh-out-loud.
Page is the cheeky master of the alternative — he involves his audience including one lucky crowd-member being treated to a foam party , and his reluctant girlfriend and this enhances everything he does. Joey Page is definitely one to keep your eye out for — a genuine master of his craft.
It is very difficult to describe an Andrew Stanley gig. So what is it that keeps drawing people back? Like most comedy acts in a festival, Stanley has a support act. He acknowledges that we came for steak Stanley and are offered toast first Macarthur Boyd. His brand of hipster comedy is great and I think that many people will gladly order toast off the menu next time.
Stanley laughs backstage at the antics of Macarthur Boyd and then bounds onto the stage. He introduces himself to the crowd, and then introduces the crowd to each other. Stanley works out who else is from Ireland, who is from Australia and then a little further. Every answer is fodder for Stanley, as he concocts hilarious backstories for each of the people he singles out.
It all culminates with a couple being put to the test onstage — how well do they really know each other? At the end of the show, Macarthur Boyd returns with the highlights of the evening — in flip book form! Go more than once — it is never the same! The West Australian Speigeltent becomes a portal to Funky-Town as you experience the glitz, the glamour, the sequins, and the disco balls of that magically sparkly era — complete with an authentic 70s star.
Around him are circus performers galore — acrobat Mirko Kockenberger gives us the first taste of circus with a charming-yet-death-defying balancing act on stacked suitcases. Dressed as a bell-hop, he exudes cheeky charm and elicits more than one gasp from the crowd.
Craig Reid steals the show with his rendition of a daggy hula-hoop routine that becomes spectacular. His tongue-in-cheek exercise outfit alluding to the early days of the 80s creates a roguish persona that follows him throughout the show. Hines and Oliver are the main singers, with backing vocals by the wonderfully talented Kayla Attad and Rachelle Mansour. The young Oliver cannot escape the inexorable pull of disco, and under mentor figure Hines, they blaze a trail of glitz and glamour.
Hines is treated with an absolute reverence by her fellow cast-members. She stays still for most of her performances, a fragile being with a voice that is so clear and flawless that her lack of movement can be forgiven. Hines has a look of unadulterated pride when she hears the younger performers sing, and you know that she is a true teacher and mentor to this crew.
There are some weird moments that seem to send up the era a little, but mostly VELVET embraces the camp, queer and cool features that define the disco era of the 70s. View Aimee's profile here. In Perth, the Causeway is a man-made bridge over the Swan River. In this show, English comedian, Daniel Nils Roberts talks about another causeway — one that is natural and sometimes submerged in water.
When the audience sits down they see Nils Roberts munching on a packet of Dorito corn chips, wearing a Sombrero and a fake moustache. Before the show even starts he is offering some to members in the front row! Nils Roberts promptly hangs the sombrero up when the show starts, allowing the absurdity to assure us that there were no racist undertones.
This comedian quickly chooses an audience member to assist him later in his tale, in a very quirky manner. Once Nils Roberts gets started, we get to understand his reasoning for the show by relating the battle to a period in his childhood. This was interesting concept but I felt it did not get explored enough.
It often felt like different comedic ideas were shoe-horned in, with explanations rushed. The punchlines were often a bit unclear, leaving the audience thinking this young man is very clever, but a bit dry. The show ends explaining the symbolism of this tale and it all makes sense, yet it feels like bit of a gloating end.
Daniel Nils Roberts: The Causeway is for those wanting to go on a surreal yet educational experience. A wave of anticipation fills the Speigeltent as glitter-clad Cougar Morrison frantically runs through the crowd with packets of biscuits and crackers. When asked to show her range, Kelly launches into the same aria but in French — well, just by singing about French food!
Morrison and Kelly are phenomenal individual acts, but teamed up they are a force to be reckoned with. Yes, the show seems to be a tag-team of songs but they are amazing songs. When these two get together, magic happens — their exercise scene is inspired, they party like no other couple and promote body positivity, all while gyrating and glamming it the hell up!
Know much about that epic Sci-Fi movie series that seems to never end, Star Wars? They usher you to your seat, where one side you are part of the dark side The Empire and the other the light The Rebellion of the force. There appears to be a mixed crowd where some have gone due to forcing from a Star Wars nerd friend or partner. However, when Matt Storer walks on stage as Princess Leia complete with two bun hair-do the crowd relax: Storer explains this but there is also a disclaimer — he will not pander too much to the novices!
Next, Storer brings his two comedian contestants rotating each show. Then the exciting competition begins, with the audience quite fittingly knowing more than the contestants. The show ends with the dark side and light side being balanced, leaving a crowd happy to see a fair show, with lots of space-themed laughs.
So, who will win? Are you on the dark side or the light side? LadyNerd 2: How does this work? Well, it starts out fairly standard: Accompanied by pianist, Mark Chamberlain , the song extols the virtues of using correct grammar, identifying tv and comic book characters, and playing video games. The show is devilishly clever: Daley and Chamberlain play cyborg robots who are guiding the audience on a mission to find artifacts from an Earth experiencing the fallout from a Nuclear Explosion.
Each artifact was significant to several of the original LadyNerds — the brilliant women who helped change the world. This show is as much an homage to these inspirational women as it is a game. From mathematicians to pioneering journalists, all of the women represented were brilliant minds.
This highlights just how nuanced the show is. Few have equaled, much less, enhanced the classic text in their interpretations and even less have fully comprehended or surmised the true multifaceted realities that lie beneath its nightmarish aesthetic. A tale well known to so very many… yet a tale known well to only a few. This is so very much more than good versus evil, or man versus monster — David Davies is one of these rare individuals that percieves the pure, intrinsic nature of the piece.
This show is all the things the nightmarish narrative should be. Add in the shadowy silhouettes that emerge as the lights go down and Dr Jekyll has the audience exactly where he wants them. Minimalist in staging and aesthetics, Davies is a consummate professional, creating a variety of vividly conjured scenes and characters aplenty with merely a subtle nuance, or seamless shift in vocal tone.
Ready to hand symbols of the portrayed Victorian era are used sparingly, yet you find yourself focusing on each small gesture or motion intently. Adept at his craft the one man show is seamless and flows naturally for the audience to follow along. Shrewd in his selection of thematic elements, Davies emphasises the profound psychological implications that come with base human nature and tendencies.
Davies completely embodies this whole emotional incomprehensible divided countenance. So intent on his wonderings into whether or not the conflicting characteristic of man could be separated , he never stopped to wonder if he should separate them. Hey there kids! Are you often tired of the dull dreary day-to-day routines?
Is your world filled with scolding. Do you find it almost impossible to keep your persnickety parents entertained? The quick-witted quintent, Racing Minds have put the fate of the show in the hands and minds of its hungry untamed under-agers. Every performance is a completely spontaneous, improvised at lightening fast speed and totally on the spot unscripted adventure.
To describe the show in detail would be to the detriment of its overall kaotic charm, but I will tell you that to expect: The kids are well and truly in the position of authority and the show can be whatever they want it to be. So just give in to the inevitable knowledge that you have no hope of controlling the untameable laughter and excitement. Fame, success, stardom — Charlie can see it all now: Opening night show is nearly upon us , the curtains will rise, places, everyone, places!
Wait …where exactly is everybody? The show must go on … but how? Improvisational, impromptu, spontaneous collaborations of melody and adventure blend cleverly with an array of wild characters and an almost nomadic feeling narrative. An Extraordinary Tale is exactly that — extraordinary. So how do you make a larger than life musical extravaganza without the masses of cast members, sets and props housed in a gigantic venue, or even a lengthy enough duration in which to accomplish any of the aforementioned feats?
Who are the Women of Soul? Chelsea Wilson, Randa Khamis and Stella Angelico are absolute trailblazers in the industry — women producing and writing their own music. Women of Soul sees original music from all three of these soulful songstresses and also the big hits from the women you know and love — Etta James, Aretha Franklin, and Diana Ross.
Her powerful voice fills every corner of the tent, soaring over the cabaret seats out into the orchard beyond. Wilson has a clear love of her craft and speaks in awe of her fellow women of soul. Her songs are just angry enough to have an edge, but her pain has been channeled into a very controlled and confident medium.
Wilson is one to watch, for sure. Next up is the legendary Perth girl, Randa Khamis. This pocket rocket has the moves! She bursts onto the stage in a swishy, sexy, gold-tassled dress and heels and just slays. Angelico is a powerhouse. Every note is smoky and rich, her passion pulses through her body as she stamps out the rhythm in her heels. Her voice is so big, it eclipses all others.
Amy Hetherington is Terminally Positive is show about happiness. It is understandable that comedians want their audience to be happy but often we hear about the old story of the sad clown. This is not the case for Darwin comic — Amy Hetherington , as she is a glass half full kind of girl. She even mentions the light side of hecklers, in her currently five years as a stand-up comedian.
Her definite strength in comedy is her crowd work, where all her audience volunteers work diligently for her act — in being so relaxed they are funny themselves! Hetherington interacts with some like they are family well, some were! Her laid-back honesty is a breath of fresh air in a world of narcissistic entertainers. When you first see a bunch of balloons floating on her stage, you automatically absorb her feeling of lightness.
Hetherington opens by pretending to be a self-help guru and this audience happily accepts that she is joking and the show is just about her optimism. This natural presenter has a sunny disposition that you can tell just by looking at her. However, she does break this down by spreading the love — in having a part where she gets a couple to give answers to a series of questions and see if they match.
Hetherington controls the outcome by having answers by use of the same bunch of picture cards. This was successfully achieved and was a highlight of this kind-hearted show. Amy Hetherington is Terminally Positive is night out for those who want their fun less cynical. Sporting her signature red dress, powerful shoulder pads, 80s make-up and bright green socks, Gloria gets you going in ways you never dreamed possible.
You will be rewarded handsomely for your interaction — the games are fun, tongue in cheek, and a little raunchy! Gloria is a wonderful character — her sweet English charm is wonderfully accommodating. Surveying the audience with her electric blue eye-shadowed eyes, Gloria explains that the G-Spot is a game show like no other.
She brings on several famous icons of the 80s and 90s, starting with the amazing Vanilla Slice! This guy is hilarious, he interacts with the crowd and sends up the tackiness of the 90s. A quick costume change and a round of pass the parcel later everything gets passed around in the G-Spot!
Gloria has a lot of guests in her G-Spot! Of course, keeping us all excited is Gloria — this is a wonderful character, cultivated perfectly. There are prizes just for finding it! Are you a night owl? Not ready for your Fringe-Binge to end? Ryan is a great host, she gets everyone clapping and singing along and makes sure the audience knows just how loose the night is going to get.
Leave your inhibitions at the front door, because Ryan gets you drinking and joining in with the best of them. Ryan has a knack for picking the most repressed looking person, who ends up the most badass of all! Hyde — the final statement of Dr Jekyll describes the events that led to the struggle between the good Dr Jekyll and his evil alter ego — Mr Hyde.
The year is and Dr Jekyll has discovered a formula that separates the good self from the evil self. The problem is that the evil Mr Hyde wants to take over the body of Jekyll forever so that he can indulge his monstrous pleasures. Take the one hour journey with Dr Jekyll as he describes the events that led to his discovery as well as his struggle to keep control of Mr Hyde.
Will you be a witness to his final statement? Or will Mr Hyde prove too strong and take over forever? A for the Perth Fringe Festival K and Germany. He was an ensemble member of Bell Shakespeare from — The last two years, however, have seen him touring Germany constantly as well as teaching English at the University of Applied Sciences in Koblenz.
He has penned The Karismatic Effekt and Stagefright which has also played in major cities around Germany. He is delighted to be returning the Perth where his parents live and where he has so many great memories performing in the past. After the consumption of his concoction, he is noticeably and involuntarily more and more Hyde, the guise of violent temperedness and diabolicalness.
The proximity of actor and audience in this compact space made it especially spine tingling in places with audible gasps and reflexive shudders at some points. After a sold out and critically acclaimed Melbourne Comedy Festival season, emerging star Brianna Williams returns with her trademark blend of sketch, improv and audience participation as she searches for the most unattainable state of all: This is the question that comedian and improviser Brianna Williams hopes to answer in her second solo sketch show — Le Petite Merde.
With almost a decade of performance experience under her belt — from improv comedy to stand-up to musical theatre — Williams has delighted thousands of people in Sydney, Melbourne, New York and even Rottnest Island. Or her? Seeing what seemed to be about twenty improvisation performers introduced on a big screen gave me reasons for concern.
Like many things in life, less is more and especially with comedy! However, you can strike gold with the numbers game — this night felt more like they were mining for comedic gemstones. It was, therefore an epic showcase of varying skills and a mixture of games, some more memorable than others. There are not many famous theatre sports troupes in the world and this may be because making improvised humour look easy is actually quite a hard feat.
The hosts for this night were the head honchos of this comedy group — Alexander Circosta and Sonny Yang. Their introduction was very casual and this led to the crowd feeling quite shy to participate. To cover a decent amount of improv, the show goes for an hour and a half — with a half time break of approximately ten minutes. This night it felt like the half time break was needed because the team improved tenfold after it.
The main highlight of this show was seeing special guests and seasoned improvisers Esther Longhurst , Chris Bedding and Tom Skelton nail musical scene-based comedy. All they required from the audience was a name of the town that the small group will turn into drama. Once they got going the audience atmosphere lifted and wild happenings ensued.
There was an unpredictable ending to this sketch — a masterful end to an interesting smorgasbord of comedy. How do you review a show about a reviewer? Listening to comedian Sonny Yang critique a whole bunch of shows from the start of the festival guide, made me feel I was going into my head space — with Yang taking over it!
With this dead-pan comic sitting on a massive arm chair, it was a bit like therapy. Luckily, I was in safe hands — for Yang is a master at keeping things funny. He has improvisational skills that can handle mixed audience reactions, gaining extra laughs for his monotone. The night is set up by Yan stating his use of an AUSLAN interpreter, yet later I realised this performer was just part of the satirical nature of the show.
Yang, wearing a business shirt, tie and spectacles has the appearance of an accountant but this adds to the surprises as his use of language is biting and punchy. However, Yang knows he is somebody who would get beaten up in a fight and he plays this up — in a hilarious scene with his AUSLAN interpreter.
This could sound confusing if you take him too seriously, as Yang is the king of parody. This comedic theatre critic covered a huge variety of shows and nobody was safe. This imaginative show is a festival highlight for those who like their comedy with a bit of cheek. Going to a TAFE classroom to watch a comedy show, why would you not have a smug face?
I guess that is the irony that Perth comedian, Jez Watts is all about. This self-aware comic knows his limitations as a festival act, and plays to his strengths. Watts takes us back to his Australian Army days — understanding that this revelation will surprise us, as he spends the first part of the show describing his love for recreational drugs.
Watts is all about living life to the full and that is why it is hard to categorise who he is. One thing is clear and that is that Watts loves comedy. His love for up-and-coming comedians on the Perth scene sees him giving the opportunity to open for Smug Face each night. Opening this night is a young man by the name of Nic Monisse.
He is quick to make fun of this and settles into his routine, after a quick sip of water, of course! Even when Watts is ready, there is a manic energy about him — looking to feed off the crowd. This keenness to work with the audience adds to his charm. Gillian Cosgriff is keen to admit it early — she is a procrastinator.
Cosgriff sits behind her keyboard and warms the crowd with her honesty. This show has a lofty ambition — create eight songs in eight weeks but Cosgriff likes to challenge herself. She is very close to turning thirty and she worries about not achieving enough. Her kindness and gratitude radiates through the room even as she admits she has a favourite audience member.
The audience embrace her frank admission as she uses her and her friends to volunteer information for her song finale. With a white board and black texta she gets the names of all the volunteers and laughter erupts when she hears the name Bronson, as it was the character from her favourite TV show — Round the Twist!
Cosgriff allows for extra comedic material when she asks the volunteers to describe her favourite audience member. Cosgriff maximises laughter from the responses in a way that is respectful to her friend. As a touring Melbourne comic, she tells of her surprise of when on her first festival in Perth this audience member brought thirty of her friends!
Cosgriff rides the wave of serendipity in making beautiful music out of this weird situation. Cosgriff is a wonderfully talented musician that keeps us smiling throughout. However, many of these new songs created as part of her artistic journey lack the punchy humour that the audience are looking for. She is still an amazing producer of a festival show that is well deserved of the big stage.
Show creator and performer, Brett Blake has the bogan look with his mullet and unpretentious clothing but there is more to this young comedian than meets the eye. There is a willingness to explore his emotions and in style that still connects with the tough-guy bogan image — admitting his strong feeling of hate for a broad range of social issues like racism but conversely also theatre dancing.
The ultimate bogan snack! Early on, Blake establishes that he just likes to tell it like it is — with his larrikin nature he guesses a relationship dynamic in the crowd. This cheekiness warms everyone, Blake also has an ability to turn situations on to himself. Growing up in the Perth Eastern suburb of Forrestfield, he has plenty of experience of the bogan culture.
Blake now lives in Melbourne and quickly let us know his observations. This show is about getting out of your comfort zone, and Blake achieves this in spades — especially with his story about going to Bali for a meditation retreat! His low attention span makes him a duck out of water in this life experiment of his.
The Ellington Jazz Club is not new to the festival, in fact they have a full programme of works and shows on during Fringe, yet none of those shows are quite as fitting as this one. The club is transported back in time to — New Years Eve, in fact, and the cabaret-style seats and seemingly smoke-filled room has a real speakeasy vibe that really helps add to the mood.
Shaw nails the accent and the look, her face is perfect for the vintage hair and make-up. None of the women have overly powerful voices, however, and are frequently overpowered by the rather prominent Briggs, who dominates the stage. Things get confusing when, of course, star singer Millie Halliday is murdered — but who did it?
An unorthodox police raid sees everyone a suspect, and a singer it turns out. Everything from Gypsy, Annie, Anything Goes and in particular, Chicago is shoehorned into the show, sometimes at the expense of a believable plot-line. The show has the feeling of a high school production where the students pick songs from their favourite musicals and put them into a show.
How To Co-Host A Murder is a little bit of fun for a night out, especially if you like show-tunes and audience participation! Broadbent is cheerful and optimistic, yet slays with her sharp observational wit. Her post-break-up move to the trendy part of town provides much of the fodder for her songs, from Hipster wankers quaffing artisan bread while tightening their top-knots, to Googling all the STDs after a late-night hook up, just in case!
There are some wonderfully touching moments — Broadbent is an exceptionally giving comedian — as she sings about her beautiful little sister, and reveals just how much the break-up with her ex really hurt her. A smile rises on his face, as if to say good luck to a friend. His one thought in that brief moment, before he merges into the afternoon flow is—Still the law matters.
Order matters—Confucius lives. Order is the measure of all things. A siskin of the finch family known to be bred and trained easily. A folklore god. As it tells, Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang Dynasty Tang Ming Huang , during an illness, dreamed of a monster ghost seizing and devouring a smaller ghost.
Upon inquiry, the monster declared that his name was Zhong Kui, and he had not passed the imperial civil service examinations for the honor of a warden title, and therefore, following his death, vowed that he would vanquish evil under heaven. Upon awakening, Ming Huang ordered his artist to record the image of Zhong Kui.
It became a tradition, first during the Duanwu Festival, and then the Lunar New Year Eve in the Wudai Dynasty, to hang paintings of Zhong Kui in order to conquer demons and vanquish evil spirits. The Lexicon Book, Shanghai, ] —shee-chue: Chinese magpie that signifies happiness. There is no time to be young.
Then the snap of her talons, open like switchblades. Her duty is not to her children, but to nature—she is a servant, splitting the air into roiling shards. Your best view of the sunset comes filtered through interstate silhouettes, barreling past not a hundred yards off.
Tani Arness Achsah Judges 1: We bare our skin, go naked, translucent into each day and the stars follow us. Women waited in the desert to gather rain, held it, cool beneath the sand, closed their eyes and rested against the gray shadows of underground. Achsah knew how to take the forked branch of a tree and walk slowly over the earth.
She knew how to feel the pull of water twitching at the Y-shaped branch; she held her palms facing down and the earth spoke to her. She raised the branch into the air and the magical spirits answered her. Some of us forget to love the gods of our mothers, the oak trees and pulsing waters— When we ask it is given,. Tani Arness the trail of tiny purple wildflowers leading us back to the hidden springs of our own voices singing.
Her husband wanted the earth below his feet but Achsah wanted the water. Naomi Benaron Monsoon Wash the bones, bring the body, leave the heart behind. We took the truck and waded through the lashed streets and because I knew you could not hear beyond the roar I said, when did we become two alone?
Wash the bones? In the reflected glow of headlights from an oncoming car your eyes belonged to the tiger and your teeth to sharp white stones. You stood dripping in the rain and shouted at the dark. I said. I heard: Jody Bolz False Summit How does a love end? Anyone could tell the sharp line above us was the crest itself— no snow, no scree, but a limit we could see as we scrambled up the slope, the close clouds caught in thin and thinning air.
When did it happen? One minute we were climbing, next minute we looked up. Jody Bolz and the world had changed: Chilled, now, aching, we turn in patchy sunlight and stumble out of morning like two people in a landscape. Last Dress Dazed by fluorescent lights, I amble past the shirt rack, stop to look at sweaters folded in a stack, and turn toward the fitting room.
Hers was slashed and soaked. What could she have thought, putting on that pretty dress? Or did she think at all? Jody Bolz listening to instructions only she could hear. But what if she did choose, stood at the closet and reached for it knowing this would be her last dress, last shape her son would see— embroidered bodice—cap sleeve— as she raised the knife?
Bruce Bond The Invention of Fire I cannot count the years it lay buried in veins of flint beneath the Sangre de Cristos, safe from us, as we in turn were safe from it, so that we might understand so little about it, how lightning strikes from both our skies, above us and below.
And beyond that, the hidden nature of things bound us to them, to each other even, like boys huddled about a fire, seeing these bright gestures among the trees as one more threshold that fluttered in the wind, the air full of smoke, talk, stars to sleep by, men with hooks who slashed the night down the sternum to reveal and conceal at once this gift, this heart we cannot touch.
Sleeper As a boy, I took a night train over the border, above acres of tenements and town squares locked in the black box of winter. Go home, said the quiet streets just beyond the scrawl of graffiti and electric wire that held us, bound for West Berlin. Everywhere the unspoken contract with a past no boy could understand, let alone me, there, behind the passenger window, my bleached face gone dim as the dark fell through.
Late came early in the heart of the regime, or so I imagined as I slept, best I could, the train shuddering like a waterfall around me. In time the noise whitened to an emptiness that drowned the inner ear, a veil over the voices which in turn veiled the silence of the season. There, in my sleep, I could not sleep, and so stepped into the city, looking for a lamp in the glaze of some chained window, a curtain to rustle, a code to crack.
Which is when I caught my own eye 26 u Crab Orchard Review. Bruce Bond in the glass, collar turned against the wind, and asked, who am I to trust the person that I see. December made the stars harder, their secrecy more ruthless. What I would not give to sleep a deeper sleep, and so I lay in the snow, weary as an hourglass, feeling less and less, as all the while a locomotive in the distance plunged farther to the north, to the chamber of engines where a boxcar from Warsaw went still, latched in horror, and the smell of chimneys drifted though the door.
Aliens Why here, in the sleepy fields of nowhere, their starships rolling out their landing gear, silent through the crickets, where the whites of beds open scared, washed in searchlight. The seraphim have disappeared into fears that made them, that lock their gate. Are you still there, I ask, my ruby, my wine, blood of stars that pulse on the horizon. Ice When my father died, I inherited his ring, its eye looking back at all I did and did not do.
If only I could fill it, and so belong, though I never could, nor could he those final days he wasted to the bone the ring would slip from. And though the circle broke for no one, neither did the zero that gripped him the way my mother did, my father in his Navy whites, his bewildered body returned from a sea of things they never spoke of.
Marriage is made of such things, and understands what goes unsaid creates a space that waits for one to break the ice. Sometimes my father hardly let me speak, neck-deep in words, save when he lost them in the end, when he looked up and waited, his garbled sounds repeated by me as questions, and he gestured simply, as fathers do, yes or no, yes or no.
Heaped and bulging and white like piles of fresh mozzarella, they lined storefronts, corralled low-lying houses, and all but walled off the Sunny Time Thrift Store, where it sat squat and vulnerable at the advancing edge of Slate Creek. She had nothing in the whole world but her children, her collection of matryoshka dolls the ones Jimmy had threatened to smash just two days after the wedding , and the house, four walls and a roof sitting on American soil, her name on the title.
It would be terrible, and that was enough. Masha paid for her things and left, the stares of the two crones behind the register piercing her back. By the time she picked Charlie and Clara up from daycare, made dinner, and started a load of laundry, it was past six and dark like a tumor.
The rain thrumped the roof in tympanic waves, and on TV the weatherman was serious and furrowed before his shifting, multicolored maps. The rain would continue for at least two more days, and with warm afternoons expected to melt snow in the mountains, 30 u Crab Orchard Review. Adrian Dorris streams and rivers were on flood watch.
What did Jimmy always say? She could look out her kitchen window and see everything the man had just told her. Charlie, playing with a truck on the floor, the blue cast of the TV flickering on his small face, stopped and looked up at her. Can we make a raft and sail down the creek? For the creek. She likes America and takes good care of me and my sister.
Clara is just but a baby and her bigger brother Charlie good care of her takes. He is good boy. And to bed he goes when it is time. It is time. Go brush teeth. She needed to see the water, assess it, and watch its roiling surface in the diffused, roseate light coming off Leavitt.
It was coming harder than earlier, and the wind bent it into Crab Orchard Review. Adrian Dorris canted sheets and forced them to the ground like curtains torn free in a rampage. And it was cold. Not Moscow cold—Masha remembered the perpetual numbness in her toes and the plumes of breath that hovered over the busier streets—but she was unaccustomed to the moisture, the constant wet that found every last pocket of warmth and drowned it.
As if to remind her, a trickle found a hole or weak seam in the slicker and made its way to the skin of her neck. She lowered her head and picked up the pace. But so far, the sooksin had stayed put. Masha did all she could to avoid him. The trees and the grasses and the wildflowers that hugged the banks were left to their own verdant devices.
If there was one thing she liked about this town, it was this creek, a place where dragonflies zoomed through the air, birds recited epic dialogues, and the sun filtered through the canopy in dappled blots of lemony color. Along the social trails worn into the banks, they would hunt for rocks, throw sticks into the current, and watch for the occasional kingfisher or pileated woodpecker.
Now, those trails were gone, and any stick or log, for that matter thrown into the current would be carried downstream with punishing alacrity. In the weak light, Masha could see the makings of froth-tinged rapids. The lowest trees now stood in water, the current breaking around 32 u Crab Orchard Review. Adrian Dorris their trunks.
It had advanced on the four or five houses lining the creek, and, looking up- and downstream, Masha determined that all her creekside neighbors except Rastle had taken precautions with sandbags. He was probably too drunk to notice or care that his house was on the verge of flooding, that a plane of rushing gray water was closing in on him. Should she get sandbags?
Who would help her stack them? In the spirit of doing something, anything but standing in the rain and watching sodden debris whip by, she took a step toward home. It was then that the beam of a flashlight fell on her, the harsh glare igniting her rain slicker like a traffic sign. The ember of a cigarette was all she could see of his face. The light followed her. Masha stopped, raised the pale moon of her face into the glare.
I was checking the flood. Ran to Medford for supplies. It was cold, and her children were alone. How many sandbags you think you can fit in the hatchback of your Saturn there? Jimmy would want you to get some help. In the face of challenge and potential property damage, had Rastle happened upon the chance to behave like a man?
I appreciate. An extra hundred dollars would mean the phone would stay on and Clara could get her second round of vaccines. But now, husband gone, bills unpaid, and a widening band of water frothing just outside her door, she reconsidered. Perhaps one or two dollars a week might be worth it, if only for the thrill of hoping.
He was trying to exploit her, dangling assistance and money in front of her like she was some kind of cheap and desperate whore. And even though the circumstances of her marriage to Jimmy had been unusual at best nothing like the matrimonial dreams of her childhood: And for a mad rain-soaked moment, she wanted to explain it all to Rastle, make him understand how a girl from Moscow might end up here, in flood-periled Leavitt, how a dark turn of family fortune would send her to an agency, and how a suggestive photo and a padded bio could end up on the Internet and catch the covetous eye of a man half a world away.
Adrian Dorris neighbor and treat her with the respect she deserved, needed. It was Friday, and that was something to be thankful for. In every other way, though, it was identical to all days previous: They only spoke to Masha when absolutely required, in an English so broken and hesitant that it made her feel eloquent by comparison.
The effect was a lonely one: Masha worked alone, took breaks alone, and ate her lunches of canned borscht and baby carrots alone. Masha guessed him to be no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, and she considered him handsome despite ears that stood out and hair that seemed to vanish overnight. Perhaps it was the way he spoke perfect Spanish with the other women, softening his instructions with plenty of por favors and lo sientos.
Or maybe it was the zeal he had for this threadbare excuse of a motel, his dreams of transforming it into a hunting lodge complete with guides and gun lockers. Since then, Matthew continued to be friendly, if not flirtatious, but he never strayed into the realm of explicit overture. And on this rainy Friday, he stayed true to form and kept their exchange focused on the weather.
He told her the creek would crest by morning. She told him she was going to Conner for sand bags. They shared a wry laugh when the rain let up for a span of Crab Orchard Review. Adrian Dorris seven or eight seconds then returned with even greater force. Just as Rastle had said, a team of employees and volunteers were filling sandbags and loading them onto trucks and trailers, piling them into mini-vans.
As she approached the house, she noticed Rastle had backed his truck onto his lawn. The tailgate was down and a pile of sandbags spilled out of the bed. When he heard her car, he looked up and offered a meek wave and wan smile. But once he got a better look and realized that she belonged to the house next door, his expression changed, going from courteous to lecherous in a dim flicker of cognition.
She went stony, tried to look undesirable and sexless. From the cowl of his rain jacket, the man continued to watch her as she pulled into her drive, his lickerish grin disrupted only by his own muscular gum-chewing. Behind him, the creek swept on, white-fringed riffles marking its new entropy. Masha unloaded the kids. She clutched Clara to her chest, drew Charlie close to her, and tried to keep them both dry under her umbrella.
They trotted up the drive, and Charlie let out a squeal of glee when a sheet of rain angled into him. When they reached the dry protection of her porch, she made the mistake of looking back. He stood in front of his truck, wearing a cowboy hat and camouflage raingear. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, a beer bottle lost in the meat of his hand.
Offer still stands. Adrian Dorris restraint. He laughed until his chinless, gum-chomping buddy—was this Ricky? That night, it did nothing but rain and blow. At some dark, whooshing hour, Charlie came into her room, fearful that one of the pines would snap and drop directly onto his bed.
A day would come, she understood, when she would just quit thinking of him, and only when her son would knit his brow in anger or bite his lower lip just like Jimmy used to, would she even remember her husband. Trying to decide if that was good or bad and whether she should feel guilty or relieved, Masha winked out of consciousness.
The peal of a siren woke them all in a startled tangle of arms and legs and bedding. Clara began to cry. Charlie rubbed his eyes and looked toward the window, glowing with the strained, crepuscular light of an overcast dawn. The siren crescendoed, then faded as the police cruiser or fire truck or whatever it was blasted its way down their street, a mobile alarm for the entire town.
Morning had failed to break the weather. Rain continued to hammer down. Wind pursued its challenge to the trees. Downstairs, Masha stood on tiptoes and peered out the front door window, eager to avoid both the rain and Rastle. The creek had surged during the night; its gray waters lapped at the wall of sandbags he and the other man had erected around the perimeter of the house.
His truck was gone and the patch of lawn where it had been parked was now flooded, the surface swirling with debris and chopping with flashes of froth. Behind her, the television repeated its series of flood warnings—those living in low-lying areas or near rivers or creeks were to seek higher ground, not to take chances with volatile waters. And for someone with a place to go, that sounded like fine advice.
She could have been Crab Orchard Review. Adrian Dorris ill just as easily as she could have cried, but Clara began to wail again, and Masha went to the living room to be with her children. He was a smart boy, and for being just four he surprised Masha with how much he understood.
Her platitudes about the flood had only taken him so far. Masha nodded, first thinking of her own parents. Charlie and Clara would never know them, and that was acceptable. After all, she would hate for them to see what her father had become, a man so desperate and threatened that he would give up his only daughter to live, drink, and amble through a casino another day.
At the funeral, she could see it writ large on Mr. The story had moved and permutated with a social efficiency on par with the grandest oral traditions. And by the time the mortician had glued and stitched Jimmy back into something presentable, it was not only an accepted fact that Masha—six months pregnant at the time—had been drinking at the party, but that in the heat of a moonlit argument, she had instructed Jimmy to go home, even though he was drunk to the point of stumbling.
Truth was that Jimmy had cajoled her into going to the party up on Mt. She was large with child, tired, and just wanted to sleep, but Jimmy insisted, and either out of weakness or the desire to share in his enthusiasm, she finally agreed. By the time they reached the party—volatile with booze, pot, and meth—she was in no mood, and as Jimmy drank, got high, and became increasingly aggressive towards her and others, she lost it.
Yes, they argued. No, she did not drink that night. And yes, 38 u Crab Orchard Review. He hit her then, his fist falling on her like a stone cast from the farthest reaches of the star-speckled night. And then he left, cantered away and out of her life forever. The police report estimated his speed to be between seventy and eighty when he lost control and launched his truck off a roadcut.
Jimmy was cold by the time rescue crews hacked their way through the chaparral that held his crumpled truck like a hard-won prize. She looked down at her son. We will be okay. By ten, it was nearly sixty degrees, and the temperature continued to rise from there. The sun broke through for a period, painting each gravid raindrop with a bead of pearly luminescence.
But no sooner than the hopes of an entire county had risen, the clouds trundled back in and flattened the sky into a featureless plane of gray. The rain went on, unabated. Masha kept the television on all morning, in part to catch any new development or warning, but mostly to keep Charlie placated and occupied with Saturday morning cartoons.
But the weatherman had nothing to say about her small town, saving his time and technology for the larger burgs of Medford, Klamath Falls, Roseburg. There were images of a car trapped on a flooded bridge, the current moving through its sprung and open door. There were ruined houses and submerged mobile homes, landslides that had shut down the interstate.
And as of this morning, the floods had claimed their first victim, a homeless man swept from his campsite at the edge of Bear Creek, near Ashland. She tried to pretend all was well, normal, just another rainy January weekend. Another foot and the waters would breach his fortification; another two and the creek would be at her house. If He would look down Crab Orchard Review.
Adrian Dorris for a moment and consider the spectrum of her life, He would take care of her; she would merit His love and grace and assistance. She opened her eyes. And like static in a weak transmission, the rain scratched taunting lines into everything.
He and the other man had a second load of sandbags. The weight pressed the wheel wells close to the tires. Rastle backed up as near to the house as the water would allow, and soon the two men were unloading, working at a frantic pace, carrying sandbags two at time through knee-deep water in hopes of shoring up their previous and inadequate work. Rastle stood in the bed of his truck, hair soaked, raingear glistening, and surveyed their efforts.
He shook his head and spat as if to clear his mouth of something bitter and unwanted. The water was higher, no doubt. Many of the new sandbags were already stained with mud and foam. Masha heard Rastle launch a series of profanities into the churning sky—feeble artillery from a broken army. A dark part of her wanted to enjoy seeing Rastle like this, beaten, taken down a notch by forces far beyond his control and understanding.
And if she had been watching from a greater remove—some place higher, safer—his misfortune might have filled her with a delightfully decadent kind of glee. After all, being his widowed neighbor these past six months had been the insult added to injury.
And yet, the danger they now shared prevented her from laughing at him. From the television, she overheard the weatherman discussing snowmelt and the torrent of new water it was dumping into streams and rivers throughout the region, 40 u Crab Orchard Review. Adrian Dorris triggering flash floods that could overwhelm bridges and inundate homes in just a matter of minutes.
She thought of the place where Jimmy died, high above her and covered now in a blanket of snow. Masha went upstairs. She eased Clara out of her crib. Perhaps it was the soporific sounds of rain and wind. Masha clutched her daughter to her chest, nudged herself close to her son, and closed her eyes, listening for water, waiting for God. The sound was insistent and metronomic, but beneath the noisome weather, it felt distant, like the rumble and clack of a train heard from the far side of town.
She assumed it was her house coming apart, that the current had pulled free a length of siding or flashing and that one end clung stubbornly to the framing while the free end thrashed in mechanical rhythm. It was hard to relax now, with that sound, but Masha took a deep breath and tried to focus on the white noise of wind and rain.
She opened her eyes, strained now to listen. It was, she realized with a hitched breath, not the percussion of imminent doom but rather the front door, someone at it. The door quaked in its jamb, and Masha assumed it must be Rastle, seeking refuge in her house.
Adrian Dorris and more. She padded to the door, knelt beneath the window, out of sight. Help you I cannot. We have to get you out of here. Her boss. And even before she flung the door open and willed herself to keep a mad embrace to herself, she saw his pate gleaming with rainwater, his dripping ears, his reticent smile.
She felt relief—perhaps even a microburst of joy—blossom inside her, and when she tried to thank him for coming, he waved a silencing palm. But no, he was pointing, using his whole body to show Masha her car, now just half a car: The creek was at her porch.
Debris piled against the foundation. He likes the fresh air, never tires of these surroundings: On days like this, Chet thinks that Mark is right: The driver, tall and ruddy-faced, fair-haired, gets out and waves at Chet. Chet waves back, trying to read the license plates. Nobody from around here would be caught dead in a car with such bald tires.
In tourist season, Chet sees kayaks nestled atop custom roof-racks, big trailers laden down with boats that probably cost more than Chet makes per year. Especially not this early in the spring, when there are ice chunks in the Middle Fork in certain spots. Another day, Chet might just let him stand there, flummoxed, until he read the sign taped to the handle or else got back in his car and drove away, but Chet is feeling generous this morning.
Most of them ignore Chet altogether, or they stare right through him, searching for something a bit more photogenic, like a four-point buck—a chipmunk, even. This guy waved. Chet slides the latch shut on the bear-proof dumpster and walks over, wiping his hands off on his jeans. Dana Fitz Gale adjacent sticker Love your mother earth.
He and Mark will probably laugh about that sticker later on. Chet sees that the canoe, atop the car, is made of several different kinds of wood. Then the passenger side door swings open and a woman gets out, hugging herself and muttering about the cold. She opens the back door and Chet hears the snap of car-seat buckles. The dark-haired one is older, five or six, maybe. He skirts behind the car, in front of Chet, gives him a somber look.
Over the next few days, the journalists will have a lot to say about this boy and how he never seems to smile in photographs. He takes off running towards the store, holding his arms out sideways, making airplane sounds. Chet watches until the woman and the boys all disappear into the store, then he moves closer to the car. He runs his fingertips along the curving side of the canoe, feeling the silken smoothness of the wood, and wonders which of the two boys his own son will resemble most: Chet makes a fist and raps the boat, once, then again.
The sound that answers him is deep and rich, reverberating in the mountain air. Chet has been working at the store three years. He started when he was in high school and went full-time after graduation. From their graduating class of seven, Chet and his girlfriend are the only ones remaining.
Chet likes movies about stranded mountain climbers, trapped miners, airplane crash survivors. His social studies teacher once loaned him a book about the Shackleton expedition and 44 u Crab Orchard Review. Dana Fitz Gale he read the whole thing, front to back. Especially since Mark got hired, full-time. Before the store, Mark worked at a casino up in Whitefish, but the town was full of assholes so he left.
He sealed himself inside the small, refrigerated shed behind the store, a shed their boss built for his other business: When he came out, his lips were almost blue and he had icy sparkles in his hair and eyebrows, like the ghost of Shackleton. Inside the store, Chet finds Mark leaning on the counter, flipping through a Rolling Stone.
Mark is leaning on the counter, flipping through a Rolling Stone. The man from Illinois holds up a thin spoon lure for Mark to see. This one any good? Hard to tell. Chet often invites Mark to go down to the fishing access with him and cast some flies after work, but Mark always has some excuse.
Chet wonders, sometimes, if his friend is scared of water. Chet walks over to the tackle section, finds a box of midweight spoons. I use flies, mostly. But these lures should do the trick. He walks back past the coolers full of bait and cold drinks, past the cardboard cutout of the woman in the hula skirt holding a beer, past racks of dream-catchers made in Taiwan, and hand-tooled leather cell-phone holsters.
Chet picks up a holster, wipes Crab Orchard Review. Dana Fitz Gale the dust off on his sleeve, and puts it back. He should have kept his mouth shut, he knows that. Woke this morning to a whole field of snow geese taking off. All around us, it was this white ocean of wings, beating.
The boys have never been out west before. Tess wanted to fly but I said no, you get to see things on a road-trip, you know what I mean? I want my kids to remember this forever. Mark has, plenty of times. Brian crouches on his heels and lifts a basket full of caddis flies from a low shelf. From time to time, their clients bring in poached game, assured that there will be no questions asked.
His mom sells handmade earrings on the internet and cleans vacation cabins. Someday, Chet hopes to have a cabin of his own. Just a little place where he can take his boy and Sandy on the weekends, nothing fancy. They were too busy working, for one thing, and his dad said: Then the door flies open and the younger boy comes running out, with his mom and brother trailing, at a slower pace.
This was back when Mark first started, and he interrupted: Just pick a tree. The three-year-old runs over to the cardboard cutout of the woman with the beer, starts pulling on its hula skirt, making the whole thing sway. She looks tired. Brian turns around, holding a pair of child-sized, plastic fishing poles.
They have racecars on the handle. Chet wonders if this is how he and Sandy will behave once they are married. Already they are fighting about money. Neither does Chet, but what choice do they have? Each morning, after Chet opens the store, he scans the classifieds, looking for someplace cheap to live—a rented trailer, maybe, near some forest service land, a place with lots of room for a young boy to run, but there is nothing.
Sandy works at the fish hatchery. She likes her job, but barely makes enough to make up for the gas it takes to get Crab Orchard Review. Dana Fitz Gale there—forty miles, round trip. I want that racecar pole. Nobody answers him. Brian hangs the fishing poles back on the rack and Cole bursts into noisy tears. Tess scoops him up.
She carries him out of the store, his Viking hat askew, and his wails grow louder and then softer, as the door closes behind them. He scoops a handful of square caramels up in one hand and lets them rain back down into the box. Chet fumbles in his pocket, looking for loose change. Some real good fishing on that stretch. No one they know would ever go canoeing now. Not when the rivers are so high and cold.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, Chet sees the dark-haired boy slip a caramel into his jacket pocket. Stop, thief. Chet wants to laugh, watching the boy stand motionless, 48 u Crab Orchard Review. Dana Fitz Gale like that. Chet remembers being his age, he remembers stealing things. You never know if you can trust these maps, know what I mean?
Jasper, come on. Outside, Brian is putting gas into the car, his free hand resting on the side of the canoe. The others are already in the car. She must not know about the fishing poles, yet. Then Chet thinks of something that has not occurred to him, till now.
For years to come, he will recall that pencil at odd times. It took at least two minutes for Brian to finish filling up the tank, another thirty seconds to drive down the frontage road, and even then—after the car was on the highway—it was not too late. Chet could have followed them in his own car; he knew where they were going.
At the very least, he could have called someone—the sheriff, maybe, Fish and Game. With his X-Acto knife, Chet makes an inch-long notch on each side of a square of balsawood and hands the square to Hannah Rose, his only child. It turns out ultrasounds are sometimes wrong. No one is watching. Grunt, the dog, is sleeping underneath the wood-burl coffee table.
Hannah tilts her square of wood and dots some beads of glue along one edge. He stands to stretch, looks through the sliding glass door at the deck he built behind their manufactured home. In California. The hillside is a tangled mesh of tracks —deer, rabbit, fox, raccoon. While he waits for it to heat, he contemplates the pictures on the fridge.
Each time he sees it, he thinks how strange it is that he once thought he would prefer a son. The bedroom door opens and Sandy comes out in her bathrobe, 50 u Crab Orchard Review. Dana Fitz Gale mug in hand. She goes over to the coffee maker, pours herself the dregs. Chet frowns. The hatchery would probably pay for Chet to take some classes, too, now that he works there full-time, with his wife.
Right now, his daughter has to practice on an electronic keyboard, which is not the same. Remember Lyndon Mackie? Heart attack. You know him. The game warden who pulled that kid out of the river. You remember? He remembers. Every day. Apparently, the family of that boy is going to fly out for the funeral. All the way from Ohio, or wherever. I bet some people around here will show up at the funeral, just to see what they look like in real life.
His wife is not aware that he met Tess and Brian and their two kids in person, in the store. After the accident, he wanted to tell her, or someone, just to get it off his chest, but Chet was too afraid. He thought if Sandy knew what happened, she would never speak to him again. Remember all those letters people wrote?
And someday, he will. A photo Tess had taken, right before the launch: Dana Fitz Gale all wearing lifejackets, all holding paddles with the blades up, towards the sunny sky. You can see it in his eyes. And there were lots of other letters to the editor, many of them saying that Brian and Tess should be locked up for negligence. One woman, writing from someplace in West Virginia, said Tess was a disgrace to motherhood.
You done with this? Mackie had pulled the boy ashore and started CPR. Cole was gone. He had no pulse at all. How would it be if he saw Tess and Brian now, he wonders? Would they recognize him, after all this time? What would they say? And would it make a difference if he told them that he knew the real reason their older son looked worried in that photograph?
Jasper the thief. Chet wonders how he looks now, in his teens. And Cole, the little one. He must be at least twelve years old by now. Because he lived—that was the part nobody could believe. The reason that the story made the national news and Lyndon Mackie got to make appearances on morning talk-shows.
Almost two hours without vital signs—two hours, during which time the child is helicoptered to one hospital, and then another, with an oxygen mask covering his face the paramedics see no point to this— the boy is clearly gone—but protocol is protocol. Two hours, two hospitals, a tube inserted down the throat to bathe his organs in warm saline, while 52 u Crab Orchard Review.
Dana Fitz Gale physicians argue. Three of them say Cole is dead. The fourth, an intern, disagrees. And the noisy machine goes on suctioning and pumping while Brian and Tess are in the next room, saying nothing to each other—he is sitting with his face between his knees and she is pacing back and forth along the far wall, until the chaplain comes into the room and tries to touch her shoulder and she screams and claps her hands over her ears and screams and screams some more.
And the second-oldest doctor tells the intern, in a soft voice: We did everything we could. In the midst of all this, at the precise moment when the temperature reading on the monitor blips up to ninetysix degrees, the boy opens his eyes. Alive, and—this is stranger still—unchanged. No damage to his brain, his heart, no frostbite, even.
No lasting consequences, save a tendency towards nightmares where he wakes up swimming, struggling to breathe. And she goes back in the bedroom, shuts the door. I drew a line. After the accident, the television networks brought on experts to explain a thing called the Mammalian Dive Reflex: He spent too many hours, on the internet, reading about vestigial survival mechanisms and the sometimes unpredictable effects of rapid-onset hypothermia in children, trying to understand how human brains retain abilities developed back when mammals all had fins instead of legs.
Eventually, he had to give it up. There are some things, Chet has decided, that cannot be explained by science alone. Next I have to glue the felt inside. Anyway, you never finished telling me about this new kid. From Great Falls. My old school had a library.
Big deal. We could take her snowmobiling, maybe. Are you kidding? Gone are the days when his small daughter thought he was the smartest man alive. This is the price he has to pay. He wants his child to know about the threads—invisible, like fishing line—that connect her to the world and every person in it. Lynne Martin Bowman Field in Late Summer Even as she measures the empty field with her fingertips spread, his footprints, once pitted in clay, are disappearing, already his name has fallen away, over barbed wire, to the ragweed, beyond the last tufts of cotton left in the furrows, to clouds swerving beyond the cortex, the sound of his breathing shallower, rain clotting into every memory, every thought.
As if she could do something, could have done, near the end of the field, the edge where goldfinches light on nodding sunflowers, where the unseen parts of days shudder like the small yellow and black wings. Black walnut, hickory, oak shadow the gate; the creek over the rise, its vein a pulse tucked deep in skin. An early moon disregards the rain, the trailing clouds, the past.
Each small stroke like fireflies, a bright forgetting. What Trees Remember Rising at the back of the house on a blue day, a russet flame of oak stands so bright it could be speaking. But there are no translations, the evening comes too soon, turns dark. What I have in me that runs to the shadows cannot speak.
Whether unseen or just forgotten, a black loam sprouts the blind white tips, almost green. Even the full sun slips and seeks its hiding place. My mother was afraid to die, so she died in stages, found consolation in forgetfulness. Fading, she did not know what she was losing, but I did. I want to hear those days again, the plainspoken embrace of dinners ready on the wooden table, of clean sheets pegged to the line, of shirts made, mended, washed, and ironed again and again.
This litany now abandoned branches, leaves gone to ground, the sky still and wider than before. When did summer start to end and fall brace the maple even in spring with dead branches and dark leaves. When did I first think that you would die, that I would be without you the rest of my life. There the high mountains heave odd shadows: And to the church the living call.
Betrothed by death to a boyish king. The grave do summon all. A woman studies with her body. For one plush prince four rockers will rock, but the bud, unopened, drops. Her honeyed months to come are gone. His Majesty dines alone. Michael Chitwood Those Summers There was a track not twenty yards from the pool.
When the trains came by, coal trains mostly, though there were always some boxcars, the cement sides of the pool vibrated and the diving board hummed. The cla-tuck, cla-tuck, cla-tuck of the cars thundered the same meaningless command, repeating it like an angry father. The pretty young moms and the younger sitters shone, oiled like well-lubed parts, and lounged in webbed chairs or propped on towels, talking even in the clang and rage of tonnage.
But underwater it was quiet, sudden dived-in silence. The train was not there. It was still, ears stopped with the choleric blue. But the body would not obey; it craved the climb to air; the sun spangled diamond shattered surface. The loud world rushed back in with the freight of women and girls, the glistening racket. I think of you resting in a hotel room in Anchorage, the last stop before you went off the grid.
You tried to find the charm there, but wrote to tell me there was none. Last week we sliced open the mattress and pulled out milk cartons and newspapers. When the tide washed out, the beach glass cut our feet. We lathered our wounds in the orange tap.
When we scraped the walls, we found war. One week more. My home is over there. The trees on Memorial Drive must be yellow by now, you, back on the map, the grass, probably frozen in the morning when you leave for work. After three months I no longer hear the roosters at night.
Our bodies adapt to cold showers, the smoke of pyrethrum coils. I learned to write poems with a flashlight when the electricity died. Donna Lewis Cowan Snow Flakes scramble from the mist—white streaming like a new constellation— and as quickly their paths end, found and defined by their collision. It is something to be measurable, to add up—each click into place a vanishing into ritual, flakes unlacing into thaw, night grinding this faceted rind smooth to support our weight, or not.
We are slow through this foreign gravity, even our voices softened by interference, its white noise. It is tenderness, this overflow— there was room for more all along. And we had tired of edges, the elms blank in compatible rows where now they merge, their iced buckling like monuments steadied in marble, taking up space.
Donna Lewis Cowan they had given up. For a mere eternity have I stared out the window down at perfect circles of brown, each with a point in the middle, as if made with a metal compass and pencil. I am now in the minor trance that seems to begin at cruising altitude but was waiting even as tension gathered inside the plane, inside the body just before take-off, the motor revving, the plane then released from itself like a horse from the starting gate and beginning to move, following the yellow lines of the runway that stops then being a road and tips up into the sky like a bumpy, invisible ramp.
Somewhere in the future of a hospital bed my father is slipping away. Shopkeepers close, clang down their metal gates, snap off fluorescents, count fins and sawbucks in the dim blue light of buzzing vapor. A fierce gold light muscles down. In my hand, a silver butterfly.
In my ears a labyrinth of secrets: I am full of rags and old iron, so much snow. The Ghosts of Chicago In the oily machine-metal light of evening where a thin char of garbage swirls, wafery and winged, they return. Raconteurs all, leaning drunken and long over fences, they jaw loud as the black-jacket rooftop crowd.
When they huddle in gangways for smokes, the humid air reeks of naptha and flint. When summer nights fill up with lake-stink, they go back to Back-of-the-Yards, up to their knees in that mayhem again, their foreign mouths, lovely mouths twisted with third-shift monotony, their scarred fingers blue with the cold. They know the world turns on blood, bone, and mojo.
They know where the babies are, swaddled in whispers, disguised as new sisters. Susan Elbe knelt down in cinder-glitter and wept. The river that flows in them flows always backwards. Straphangers for almost one-hundred years, in winter they ride the trains to stay warm.
Swayed into blaze-throated mornings, they line up in alleys to dicker with peddlers whose hands reek of turnips and earth. They smell of tobacco and winter. Killers and clerks, welders and cooks, they know water. Susan Elbe and witness, tools and desire. One hard life. Slender as the tiny nameless hipbone, a chip of moon hangs high. Cold gloves her hands. Coat collar up, head down, she picks up her pace, spike heels tapping an irregular staccato on the sidewalk, a heavier left foot.
Night begins stepping back inside a fence of brick. The sky stutters toward gray. Against it, she seems small, to weigh less than a stalk of rice. Across the aisle, a boy. Those surly boys she played with, then fell in love with, lost now in the mud and fire. She thinks death must smell and screech like braking oily metal.
And then she-" "Stop! However I could pretty much hang up my interviewer hat and die happy after I was given the opportunity to talk to my all-time inspiration, Laurie Anderson, in the lead up to her appearances at the Adelaide Festival. And deployment of the army is more to appease those who nurse that mentality. Purebloods have all of the advantages in Wizarding Britain, and some of the 'less than pure' folks are getting pretty sick of it. Subverted as the scars are in constant flux, healing and getting cancerrific and healing again. He is aware of them, friendly ones he presumes.
All Wrapped Up:
She knew how to feel the pull of water twitching at the Y-shaped branch; she held her palms facing down and the earth spoke to her. Fortunately, we were in safe hands as talented pianist Jamie Burgess fed off the audience and created the mood on stage. My husband told me later that the bleeding had stopped by the time he got to the emergency room, but so much in me remained raw. AKA, the joke.
Around A. He cheekily interacts with his dance assistants creating lots of sense of fun throughout. What was the relationship between her and the narrator and how is it different now that she has been told? Not slash, rating for violence in later chapters.