Tag: fiction

The Ferryman 2

In Ancient Greece, the Ferryman was named ‘Charon’, meaning ‘he of the keen gaze.’ Writers of antiquity represented the Ferryman in multiple ways, ranging from a sordid god, to a surly old man, to a silent, hooded figure.

Lungs like Teflon that one. She’s a lifelong punter.

Nah, you started it mate, so if you can’t hack it, you shouldn’t dish it out. You’re with me for the day. I’ll show you a day in my life. Think of it as bloody celebrity apprentice.  I know I said the methadone clinic is trying to royally shaft me, but you gotta keep thinking, there’s customers there who use on the side. See that one, that guy over there, been on the ‘done for 20 years, but don’t think he doesn’t slam a bit of ‘done in his veins on the side and smoke the odd pipe.

He’ll see me right into retirement, that one.

No, you dickhead! Don’t let ‘em see us. Get behind the car. Not that they see me, mind you. I’m just here.

What? Yeah. ‘Course they drug test ‘em. But nah they don’t kick ‘em out of the program, they’re raking it in! That owner’s making the big bucks. He’s a bloody wanker, that one.

Shhh, watch. See that one going into the clinic? Yeah, the girl. Look at her. Nah, really look at her. What do you see?

Nah. You’re not looking hard enough. That’s the problem with you and the likes of everyone else. I said to her on the boat once, they don’t see you. Not really. They name you as a thing and then they see you as that thing. Don’t ever let ‘em name you and yeah, she took an old man’s advice. Can’t say I’m not proud of the lass. She’s on the lowest dose of bupe, 2mg. Methadone’s kid sister, mate!

But listen yeah, that girl, she keeps herself to herself. Gets her dose, leaves, doesn’t make small talk. She’s been to uni, got a job, she’ll see me into retirement too.

What d’ya mean how?

Nah, listen. See how thin she is? She’s stopped eating.

Nah, she’s not on the ice, but it’s the hunger that stops her from feeling now, not the gear. And listen, I’m no mug, but I’ll take all kinds of currency. Up to a point though. You should see the young lads playing video games 24-7. Tried to pay me in bitcoin or whatever nonsense that is, but I said…listen, you little shits, I been doing this job for centuries, and ain’t ever heard of this bitcoin.

Paper money comes and goes. Ever been in a country where it takes a wheelbarrow of cash just to buy some bread? Inflation mate.

You gotta have financial nouse to be around as long as I have. Nah, I says to ‘em, I’m a fair bloke. I said to ’em, don’t kid a kidder. I only accept organs and bones, your sanity, memory, worth, relationships, motivation, passion…that sort of thing. That’s true currency.

But back to that girl. Yeah, I’ve got her for life.  She’ll cruise from one addiction to another, legal or not. Bloody oath she will. And she’s got enough life in her to keep going on, but she needs a buffer to get through this whole clusterfuck of existence.

That girl, I need more punters like her. Steady enough to pay, but she’s too scared to live, too scared of getting close to anyone. Them ones, they always make the best bloody customers.

The Ferryman 1

People jeopardise their lives for the sake of making the moment livable. Nothing sways them from habit-not illness, not the sacrifice of love and relationship, not the loss of all earthly goods, not the crushing of their dignity, not the fear of dying.

The drive is relentless.

In the realm of Hungry Ghosts by Dr Gabor Mate

The Ferryman 1 (Short Story)

In Greek Mythology, for the price of a silver coin placed on the lips of the deceased, the Ferryman transported the dead along the river to the otherworld.

Yeah, yeah nah my boat’s as good as…

But the outgoings are killing me.  Could be earning more as an Uber driver…

…yeah well get this, a bloke down the road right, he quit his job in real estate and no-

Nah not shitting you he’s earning over 100k a year!

Yeah. True.

It’s hard and yeah, I reckon she’s gonna outlive me this boat…

But the upkeep-

The teeth you get nowadays, all rootless, bone like baking powder, couldn’t fix the hull. You get more leaks in the boat with teeth like that-

And the livers. Don’t talk to me about the livers.

You can’t get much of a life vest these days from a necrotic liver pickled by grog.

And then there’s the methadone clinics driving me bust with all those punters off the gear and onto the ‘done and bupe, and the young kids now don’t even smoke. Back in my day we had kids with lungs coated in tar. Good waterproofing for the sails, lungs like that.

What? True, true. There’s the poor bastards on the ice but what’ve they got as collateral? I’m taking their fried brains and splintered spirits. How do I sell something like that on? I’m losing money, I tell ya…

You know what it’s like mate. I’m like a cabby in a Covid lockdown, not that I’m complaining the work’s easy and yeah-

A job’s a job.

The whole world’s just about broke, but what’s a man like me gonna do. It’s killing me. The boat’s near falling apart, and it just don’t pay-

What?

Nah. Listen-

Don’t even go there, mate.

Listen.

Listen the way I see it, the world’s fucked, you gonna have your fat cats and then you’re gonna have your sheep, all dead inside chasing their next fucking mortgage, fucking shit hot car and then there’s my customers-

The ones who see how it really is. Them ones, the ones who see this whole mess of a world we’ve all made. And nah, just listen.

They need me. And they need me to take ‘em away for awhile…for a bit of relief, a bit of love…

Nah it’s a bloody community service mate, fuckin’ oath.  I’m tellin ya. No one has a go at the poor bloke at the bottle-o selling goon bags to the deros, you don’t see anyone havin a go at the bird selling eckies at a rave yeah but yeah right, blame yours truly…

I’m not copping it. Not from you.

I just ferry ‘em along the river, give ’em a taste, take them back until they can’t pay me no more and yeah everyone’s gotta be paid. Can’t get something for nothin’. I just take ’em there, give them some relief.

Don’t have a go at me you prick. I just take ‘em for the ride.

Because sometimes a person just has to dance.

This is an excerpt from the novel that I am currently writing:

“A person had to dance. Sometimes they just had to. And the more broken, the more torn they were, the need was even stronger. And a person could dance in more ways than one. They found rhythm in all that was inadequate and defective. If they couldn’t move their body, they could move sections of their body. Forefingers and thumbs could roll Champion Ruby tobacco or Northern Light bud into a spliff; fingertips could flick a Bic lighter to melt a teaspoon of brown. Oh and nostrils, they could snort powder, or the harsher crystals. Yes, these were inadequate ways of moving, but they were moving, nonetheless. A person needed to move because when they moved, they remembered they were flesh and sinew and viscera. A person needed to dance to remind themselves that some part, some minutia of their being was free.

-Sometimes a person has to dance, Moses stated quietly, winking at Amina. He slipped in an old cassette mix. Nina Simone’s Sinnerman, remixed. And he began to move, clumsily, shoulders hunched, his body jerking in the falling sleet.

– That’s not dancing, she said. We have real dancing, back home. African dancing. The men will dance all night to show us they are worthy.

-Well then, Miss Amina, that might just be what we’ll do, I reckon.

From The Sin Eaters, Myfanwy Williams

I once met a West African drummer who said that dance was the best remedy for depression. After earning a Masters in Psychology, I believe that this humble musician might just be right. Perhaps I have an obsession with buoyancy, with being able to defy the physical laws of this orbiting rock enslaved to gravity. Dancing and running (which is essentially unimaginative dancing) are the closest to flying that I can imagine.

Why this wing-envy? I don’t know. It’s hard being human. We are odd creatures, humans. Big brained mammals with machinery in the skull that we are unable to properly master. The same brains that we use to compose music, write code and sequence a genome are the same brains that can destroy us with rumination, resentment and fear.

What is the solution? My solution is to power down this machinery and dance. I have tried Latin, Bollywood, Hip Hop and African. A shout out to Kukuwa Fitness- an awesome mother daughter duo who run African dance fitness classes online (361) KUKUWA® AFRICAN DANCE LIVE – MOOD BOOST 15 MINS – YouTube. Thank you amazing women for helping me fly a little each day. Quite possibly, I look absolutely ridiculous. But really, the ice caps are melting and pestilence is quite the celebrity these days. Looking ridiculous is the least of my worries.

Recently I came across a viral video from China. A rural couple turned to dancing after the husband fell into depression. I invite you to watch the video because what the world needs right now is a little more joy. (361) Chinese village couple’s ‘rural-style shuffle dance’ goes viral online – YouTube

About Word Upon Word

Margaret Atwood once said “Word after a word after a word is power.”

Perhaps I do err on the side of megalomania. My tortoiseshell cat certainly does. What is endearing in a soft furry sociopath is hardly endearing in a human, however. A quietly spoken five-foot two Eurasian woman is not the stuff of tin-pot dictators. I know, I know. You might be thinking, power need not be destructive. But it is rather covid-y in my neck of the woods and a tad cold, so any freedom fighting must be done quietly, lest I break lockdown orders.

So, I write instead. This is a site that showcases my writing because…well…because marketing, really. Oh, and I write about matters that are never to be uttered in polite company. Trauma, politics, the absurdity of humanity…and cats. The internet loves cats. I love cats.

On this site you will find links to a novel that a publisher once told me was well written, but unmarketable, a collection of short stories and my rolling blog.

You’ll also find the odd poem. I will keep poetry to a minimum. Unpublished, unsolicited poetry is usually a cry for help and I like to keep my psychoses private.