The young lady at the reception desk of the hotel was a little disconcerted by the young man in front of her.  It wasn’t that he had a particularly formidable appearance, in fact, he was rather nondescript.  It was just that he had this strange presence about him.  A calm detached manner that, somehow, reminded her of her mortality.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t seem to be able to find your name in our book.”

“Try under ‘W’.”

“Oh, I see.  Room 4301.  Sorry about that.”

He smiled, patiently, “It’s a common mistake.  By the way, what’s with all the decorations?  It doesn’t seem the usual decor for a hotel lobby.”

“Oh, it’s so exciting, sir.  The President is staying here tonight after the big rally.”

“I suppose he’ll be in the penthouse.  Nothing but the best, eh?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, but she was a little shaken by the look in his eyes as he asked that last question.  It was gone when she looked again, and she forgot about it.

She watched him walk towards the elevator.  He wasn’t particularly tall, a little under six foot, but he radiated a feeling of power and strength.  He moved with a sense of grace and poise that was quite intriguing.  Probably a dancer, she thought to herself, then forgot about it as she served the next person.

He wasn’t a dancer, he was a hunter.  And the prey of his lifetime was going to be here tonight.  The sense of purpose and anticipation he felt was belied by the outward calm of his appearance.  After entering his room, he ordered a small meal from room service, and went to the shower.

The meal arrived at his door soon after his shower, and he tipped the waiter generously.  He took the food out onto the balcony, and ate it while looking out over the city.  He could see the signs of celebration that accompanied the Presidential rally in the park, and smiled thoughtfully to himself.  A good rifle and a sight could have done it, but not this one, it needed to be more personal.

After his meal, he unpacked his meagre equipment, checking it thoroughly, and laid it out ready.  He then did a few brief exercises, before setting himself down to meditate.

The sounds of the President entering the hotel were unmistakable.  The hunter smiled to himself, and began a long series of stretches and strengthening exercises.  He prepared himself like this for a couple of hours before entering the bedroom to dress and equip himself.

His clothing consisted of a tight lycra catsuit and climbing shoes.  He smiled at the cliché he saw in the mirror, then completed the ensemble.  After stowing a couple of small knives and a length of silk rope in his belt, he strapped climbing spikes to his hands and feet.  He tested his flexibility once more and breathed deeply.  He was ready.

Turning off his lights he stepped out onto the balcony.  He looked up and saw penthouse suite only a few floors above him, and he started to climb.  Slowly and carefully he inched his way up the wall of the hotel towards the balcony above him.  He didn’t think about his destination, he would take care of whatever greeted him when he got there.  He concentrated only on his ascent, and on keeping himself as close to the wall as possible.

As he reached the underside of the balcony he paused.  Bracing himself, he looked over the lower edge of the balcony and saw that it was empty.  Levering himself slowly onto the balcony, he sat for a minute to relax.  After removing the climbing spikes and placing them gently on the floor, he moved to the glass doors to look inside.

Through a crack in the blinds he could see most of the room.  He was in luck.  It was a small sitting room, and, counting his prey, there were only four people in it.  The President was watching a news report of his rally and laughing with his bodyguards.  They were all relaxed; two of the guards were seated.  The hunter calmed himself with a few deep breaths and knocked on the door.

The knocking was met with a sense of confusion from the occupants of the room.  The two seated guards sat up straighter, but did not rise.

“Probably just a pigeon, or something,” said the President, as the third guard moved to the balcony doors.

The hunter braced himself as the doors opened.  When the guard had stepped completely onto the balcony, a little out of sight from the room, the hunter pounced.  Grabbing the guard, the hunter twisted his neck sharply, smiling at the tell-tale snapping sound.  He lowered the guard to the floor, quietly, and removed his gun as questioning sounds started from the room.  Diving through the doors, he rose up and shot the two guards before they had drawn their weapons, and moved quickly to the President.  Without hesitation, the hunter rapped the President across the head with the butt of the gun, and watched as he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor.

Searching the suite, the hunter satisfied himself that there were no other people to interrupt him, and he moved to the elevator.  Knowing the shots would have been heard he pushed the button on the elevator, and placed a chair between the doors when they opened, before returning to his prey.

A slap across his face awoke the President, and he found himself sitting on the balcony in his underwear with his hands tied.  It was cold out there, and he was shivering violently.

The hunter crouched in front of the President and smiled.  “Hello, Mr. President.  So good to meet you at last.”

“Do I know you?”

“I can’t really answer that question, Mr. President, only you can.  You knew of me, many years ago, but I daresay that I’ve rather slipped your mind since then.  My mother remembers you, though.  But, then, the Danton’s always did have good memories.”

“D… Danton?”

“Yes, you remember, Tracey Danton.”

A surprised look came over the President, but he rallied.  “I don’t know a Tracey Danton.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. President, your memory isn’t that bad.  You were a senator.  She worked on your campaign.  You took quite a fancy to her, didn’t you?  Pity about your wife, but that didn’t seem to worry you at the time, did it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

To fast for the President to brace himself, the hunter punched him in the face, breaking his nose.

“One of my earliest memories is of those thugs you hired to convince my mother to drop her paternity suit doing just that to her.  Quite convincing, isn’t it?”  The hunter punctuated this by breaking his jaw.

He watched the President spit blood and cry out in pain.  “Hard to talk?  My mother still stutters.  What’s that you’re trying to say?  I’m sorry; I can’t understand what you’re saying.  No more lies for me to hear if you can’t talk properly.  Pardon?  No, I don’t hate you.  I’m just a tool.  I’m beyond hate.  I’m the instrument of your destruction.  You should feel privileged, most people only dream about being the author of their own endings.  You created yours.  I am your ending.”

The sound of a helicopter caught the hunter’s attention and he smiled.  He lifted the President to his feet.  He stood with him at the rail of the balcony and looked the President in the eye as the spotlight hit them.

“Time to go, Dad.”

The sharpshooter shot the hunter in the chest as he pushed the President, and with his last act of life, he followed the President on his journey to the pavement.

“All we found in the room was the clothes he was wearing when he arrived, and an empty bag.  No I.D. or anything else, Sir.  We have no idea who this guy was, or why he did it.”

The investigating agent looked down at the register again.  “Maybe forensics will find something, but I doubt it.  I don’t think this person exists anywhere we know about.  And I doubt this name will help.”

The other agent looked down at the registry book and shook his head.  There on the page was the only identity they had for the hunter.

Room 4301:  Wrathchild.

Michael could tell that something was bothering Karin.  She seemed distracted, and a little sad.  He stood in the kitchen enjoying the smell of the coffee brewing on the stove, and hoped that she would open up soon.  She was his closest friend, and he didn’t like seeing her like this.  The coffee was soon ready and as he carried it out to the lounge he wondered if he would have to try to coax it out of her.  He didn’t.

“I wish I was pretty.”

“Who says you’re not?”

“Look at me honestly. This is not what most people would call a pretty face.”

He put the mugs down on the coffee table and walked over to stand next to her.  She was standing staring up at a painting on his wall.  It was of a semi-naked woman draped in a purple robe.  Her eyes were like fire and her black wavy hair flowed away from her hair like silk.

“Is that why you haven’t tried to sleep with me, because I’m not stunningly gorgeous like your other women.”

His face was serious as he contemplated her words. “I don’t talk to the others like I talk to you.  I don’t have the closeness with them that I do with you.”

“Oh, gee!  The pretty ones are conquests, the ugly ones are friends.”

“That was unfair.  To me and to yourself.”

“Truth hurts.”

“What’s got you so upset?  The women I sleep with are not objects to me, I have feelings for all of them, but it’s on a very superficial level.  It’s not much more than a casual physical sharing.  What you and I have means much more to me than any of that.  As for not trying to sleep with you, physical appearances have no bearing on that.  I never said that it hadn’t occurred to me, I just haven’t tried.  What you mean to me now, as a friend, is far more important to me than anything else.”

“Men always say that to the ugly ones.”

He smiled, gently, but it didn’t reach his eyes.  He reached out to her and took both her hands in his own.  “Talk to me, Karin.  What’s really going on?”

She released her hands from his and wrapped her arms around herself.  She looked up at the painting.  “She’s beautiful.”

“It’s a painting.”

“That’s beside the point.  All my life men have walked past me for women like her.  When I’m out with friends I have actually seen guys toss a coin to see which one gets stuck with me.  The only men that have tried to sleep with me are the ones who assume they can’t do better and a girl like me must be desperate.”

He moved to put his arm around her, to console her, but she jerked away from him.  “And now you, who would jump into bed with anyone who even looks interested, and talks about how close he feels to me, probably doesn’t even think of me as a woman, let alone want to sleep with me.”

“Look at the painting, Karin.  Do you really think it’s beautiful?”

“Of course.”

“It’s just a painting.  An object fashioned by the hands of a man.”

“Your hands Michael.  Would you want me if I looked like that?”

“Don’t be so argumentative, listen to what I’m trying to tell you.  It is an image, created by man.  A copy of life, a shadow of the beauty that we see around us.  The creations of man do not contain true beauty, only life can give that.”

“You’re changing the subject!”

“No, just taking my time to make my point.  Face me Karin.”

She turned and he approached her.  Looking deeply into her eyes he placed one hand gently on her chest just below her throat.

“There is a heart that beats within this chest.”

He moved his hand to place his fingertips gently on her lips.

“And the breath of life passes though these lips”

He moved his hand to gently stroke the side of her face, bringing it back to hold it under her chin, his eyes never leaving hers.  “It is these which give beauty, not man’s twisted perceptions of the physical.  It is life which gives beauty, not opinions.”

“Semantics!” She replied, but her conviction was faltering, and she made no move to step away from him.

He smiled gently, “Doubt not that I have a desire for you within me.  My desire for you is more than that for any of the casual partners that I have.  I do think of you as a woman, and more.  Many is the time I have wanted to touch you, to hold you, to lie with you.  But my feelings for you go much deeper than that.  To enter into a physical union with you would change what we now have, and it is not within me to offer you the commitment and fidelity you deserve.  Without it, what we shared would be cheapened, and our friendship, a bond that means more to me than any other, would be weakened.  I cannot allow that for the sake of assuaging my physical desire.  I care for you too much to do that to you.”

She opened her mouth to reply in some way, but a slight shake of his head and a finger placed gently on her lips stopped her.

“Take what I have to give, and do not ask for more.  You know that your pain does not come from me.  And you know that it is not me you want.”

She agreed with a gentle smile and a slight nod of her head.

He held her face in both hands and looked again deep into her eyes.  “And doubt not that you are beautiful.  You are a child of the earth, and you are my friend.”  He kissed her gently on the forehead.  “And I love you.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and they held the embrace for a long while.

Eventually they released each other and stepped back.  He put on a serious face and scolded her. “My coffee better not be cold!”

She gasped with righteous indignation. “You bastard!” she shouted and hit him on the arm, before they both laughed and sat down to drink the coffee that neither one cared had gone cold.

You come home from work and I am waiting for you.  As you enter the door I hand you a single, unadorned, blood-red rose.

“True beauty does not profit by comparison, nor require decoration.  They say you should bring sweets to the sweet, I bring beauty to you.”

Directing you away from the smells of cooking in the kitchen, I lead you into the bathroom, where you undress and lower yourself into a steaming hot bath, scented with your favourite oils.  From the bottle chilling in the ice bucket next to the bath, I fill a long hollow-stemmed flute with Moet a’Chandon vintage brut champagne and hand it to you.  You sip it delicately, relaxing down into the bath with a subtle smile of contentment.

“Happy Birthday, my love” is all I say as I hand you a small package.  You remove the wrapping to find a book of metaphysical poetry, from which I read to you a select number of the more romantic pieces from pages I have marked previously with small strips of silk.

Emerging from your bath, I help you to dry, before wrapping you in your favourite white towelling robe, watching the sweet smile on your face as you give yourself over to the comfort and warmth of its voluminous folds.

Sitting you at the candlelit dining table, I refill your glass, and serve you a light dish of tortellini, coated in my own delicately spiced sauce, and topped with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.  Conversation is minimal as we eat our meal, being more of a method of punctuating the knowing looks that we are giving each other, than having any real substance.

Following the meal, I lead you into the lounge, and sit you on a white cotton sheet in front of the open fire.  You look up at me questioningly as you hear the sounds of whale song and the ocean coming quietly from the stereo and I emerge from the bedroom carrying towels and a bottle of oil.  Your eyes light up as you realise that the pampering is to continue, and I lay you down on the sheet and cover you with the towels.  Uncovering only as much of you as necessary at a time, I give you a complete and soothing full body massage, with oil scented with lavender, sandalwood, and jasmine.  After completing each stage, I rub you down firmly with a towel to remove excess oil, before covering you and moving on.  Finishing the massage, that has encompassed all of you from toes to fingertips, and including your face and scalp, I, again, wrap you in your robe.

You watch as I move to the stereo, and smile as you hear the deep and haunting vocals of Nina Simone emerging softly, but powerfully, from the speakers.  Entwined in each other’s arms by the light of the fire, we sip champagne and feed each other from the plate of strawberries that I have dipped in rich dark chocolate.

Happy Birthday, my Love.

The smell of salt and the sound of the water lapping at the concrete wall of Point Gellibrand are calming.  The waning sunlight is a dappled reflection on the tidal water, making a chiaroscuro of the rocks not very deep below the surface.

Somewhere out there, beyond the rocks, a two ounce hunk of lead sits on the sand beneath the restless water.  Anchored to it, two large pieces of frozen pilchard thaw, impaled on paired No. 2 suicide hooks; their barbs chemically sharpened.  I’m using a paternoster rig, the first I learned to make from the beginner’s book of fishing I bought from the post office.

My love enjoys that name, paternoster.  She finds it amusing to ask repeatedly “so is that a paternoster?”, as I sit on our porch preparing rigs, my bits and pieces pulled from my brand new tackle box with a torch in the handle, and a light inside.  I tell her it means “father’s nose”, which amuses her more, and that I use it to sniff out the fish; but I know that it translates as our father in Christian prayers, and is also a type of lift.  I like my version better.

Others out here on the point search the distance for movement in the water, or the attentions of birds to a particular area, signs of fish being around to inform their cast.  I am content to sit in my folding chair watching the sky and the water, listening to the birds and the waves, waiting for some curious piscine to find the pieces of kin-flesh that I have trapped with those chemically sharpened barbs.

This new hobby of mine is an excuse and a nod to an old cliché.  Having recently left behind some time demanding responsibilities I decided to hang up the old Gone Fishing sign; more than metaphorically.  I say it’s not about catching anything, and the activity level of my methodology suggests that I believe this.  But wouldn’t I really like to land a big one or two?

My rod twitches in its holder; once, twice.  I wrest it from the PVC tube I bound to a sturdy aluminium rod that slides into a hole in the concrete wall, and test the line.  Something on the other end takes it out some more, and I know for sure something is hooked.

I guess we’ll now see…

It started as a disturbance in the centre of my computer screen.

It looked as though the screen was a membrane and someone on the other side had pinched it between their fingers and was pulling it towards them.  The words and pictures on the screen were bending, being pulled into the centre of this stretching fault.  The fault started to grow forming a vertical line up the screen.  I reached forward to poke my finger into it and my hand seemed to stretch towards it, be pulled into it, so I pulled away.  Eventually something gave way and it tore open.

The tear did not stop at the edge of the screen, it continued up into the air above it.

I reached out and grabbed the edges of the tear, they felt like tissue paper, and pulled until the tear was large enough for me to walk through, then stepped back and looked at it.

It was strange to see a tear in the landscape of the office.  As if the desks, the windows, the scenery outside, all of it, were a photo, torn right down the centre.

And darkness beyond.

I couldn’t help my curiosity of course, I moved towards the rent in the fabric of my reality and I stepped through.

Oh, and what I learnt on the other side.

I learnt that somebody had got it right.  I learnt that this world, this reality, is Maya, is the illusion I create. This world, my reality around me, I control.  As do you with yours, if you exist as anything more than a reflection of myself.

I learnt that all the experiences I have I created.  Al my joys, my happiness came from within whatever it is behind this perception of me.  As well as my pain, my tears, all of it my own doing.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

What I saw on the other side when I stepped though the tear was far more shocking than that, far more terrifying than that, and it rocked me to my core.   Scared me more than I had ever thought possible; so badly that I had to come back.

I ran.  Leaping through the tear, throwing myself to the floor of this reality.  Wanting it to be gone, I turned to see that it was.  The tear had gone, my reality was healed, everything was as it had been before.

Except for me.

For I will never forget the infinite horror of what I saw on the other side the day my reality tore.

There was nothing there.

Tracey was bored.  This was generally the case on the train trip home from work.  The tedium of crowding onto the train with all the other commuters, all of them trying to make as little physical or eye contact with each other as possible, could, more than any other part of her life, depress the shit out of her.  As was usual she resorted to looking around the crowded carriage hoping to see something, or someone, interesting.

What she got was a smile.

Across from her there was a guy staring at her and smiling.  It was a strange smile, not unwelcome or off-putting, but strange, as if he was looking right through her.  There was a look in his eyes as if he knew her or held some other sort of secret knowledge.

“Hi!”

Tracey was startled to realise that she had been staring right back at him.  There was no way to avoid this, and for some reason she didn’t mind.

“Hello.”

“Did I startle you?  I often seem to alarm people whose eye I catch.  It’s a bit depressing that none of these people around us seem interested in meeting anyone else here.  I don’t know how they can just stand there surrounded by their fellow man, and avoid looking at anybody.”

“To tell you the truth, you did startle me a little.  I’m not used to anybody being friendly on the train, but I was just thinking the same thing about how depressing it is.”

“Why don’t you try what I do?  Look really hard at someone.  Get a good feel for their appearance, the way they stand, or whatever, and try to think up the story about their lives.  You know, what they do, what sort of person they are, etcetera.”

“I don’t think I can read people that well.”

“You don’t have to, then.  Just have fun with it.  Take that lady over there.  She’s shy.  Looks around a lot, scared, like a rabbit in the headlights.  I bet that on the weekend she goes down to the Hellfire club dressed as a dominatrix and whips men on the stage.”

Tracey couldn’t help herself.  She laughed out loud, “That’s shocking!”

“Give it a try.”

She was starting to enjoy this.  “What about that big executive over there.  Dominant and very arrogant; looks down on everybody as if they are unworthy.  Big wig that resents being on the train because his Merc is in the shop.  I bet he puts on a nappy, and meets up with that lady at the Hellfire club, where she whips him while he sucks on a dummy.”

His laugh was quiet and comfortable.  He looked deeply into her eyes, “You’ve got a cruel streak in you.  Sounds like you don’t like executives much.”

The thought that occurred to her was a little disconcerting.  “When I saw you looking at me, had you been sizing me up, and guessing my story?”

“Of course,” he said, unabashed.  “It’s how I pass my time on the train.”

“Was it a funny one like those we just did, or did you try to guess what I was really like?”

“I play this game seriously.  But I don’t really ever believe the stories that I invent.  It’s just a way to pass time.”

“That sounds like a defence.  Is my story really that bad?”

“No, just an average workaday person.  But that doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t be offended by some part of it.  If I were to tell you.”

“Would you?”

“I’m not sure.  You seem to be a very nice person,” he said, adding with a smile, “I wouldn’t want to ruin the start of a really great friendship by offending you.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Not at all.  I like you, the story is unimportant.”

“I still want to hear it.  Please?”

His face went serious as he mulled it over.  Then with a brief, resigned laugh, and a growing smile he relented.  “Okay,” he said,” but remember.  I just do this to pass the time, I don’t really believe them.”

It was her turn to smile.  “Stop being so defensive, and get on with the story.”

“If you insist.  Firstly, I start with appearance and try to guess occupation, then I build a lifestyle around that.  The person I see in front of me is an attractive young lady in a stylish, but conservative, skirt suit.”  He smirked, “The highlight of this particular little ensemble is the socks and sneakers you’re wearing.  No, don’t look embarrassed, it’s very sensible.  The only sort of shoes that go with that suit are uncomfortable, and not particularly healthy.  So, we have someone who’s sensible and dressed for the office.  Probably keeps the other shoes in her bag, or a locker at work.  Doesn’t carry a briefcase, making her the most important person in any office, the secretary, or possibly a P.A.”

After a brief moment of surprise, she smiled.  “That’s very good.  I can’t wait to hear the rest of it.”

“I’m not sure about that.  Your job was the easy part.  The rest is just made up to fit some social stereotype that’s probably just crap.”

“Now I’m really intrigued.  Please, continue.”

“Okay, but I’m not looking for confirmation of any of this.  Just treat it like the story it is, and don’t take it personally.”

Now it was her turn to surprise him.  “Relax.  I’m enjoying this.  You’re very easy to talk to, I don’t think you could offend me.”

He sighed and smiled.  “Fair enough.  Let’s see.  I noticed the ring on your finger, so let’s start with him.  You’re very pretty, lovely figure, if you don’t mind me saying so, and about five-four?  Thought so.  Now, beside being very lucky, I would say that your husband is tall, at least six-two, large build, probably a footballer at school.  Still keeps himself in shape, and is probably a hot shot young gun at some big name firm, either accounting or law.  How’s that for a stereotypical match?”

The rest of the people on the train ceased to exist for Tracey.  This guy now had her total attention.  “Six-three, rowed for a private school, and it’s law.  I’d never looked at it as a stereotype before, but now I think about it, it is a bit.”

“It could be worse.  In America you would have been a cheerleader!”

She laughed openly.  She hadn’t felt this comfortable around anybody for some time.  She liked this guy.  “I think you’re holding out on me, though.  There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”

“You lived happily ever after?” he asked hopefully.

“No, that’s way too cliché for your imagination.  I want to hear it how you saw it.”

His smile dimmed.  “Ah, that’s where it gets rough.  I’m a little more cynical than most people.”  He laughed, softly.  “What am I saying, I’m more cynical than the average room full of people!  The rest of the story is a bit of a downer.”

Ouch! she thought to herself.  “It’s fine,” she said, a little less sure of herself, “I can take it if you can.”

“I’m not sure if I can.  Now that I’ve met you, I don’t think I could cope with you having anything less than the happily ever after ending.”

The sudden shyness in his smile caught her off guard.  Her heart skipped a beat.  She gave herself a mental kick, to pull herself together, and gave him what she hoped was a mischievous smile.  “Come on, we’ve gone too far to turn back now.  If you hold out on me now, the curiosity will kill me!”

His face was serious as he contemplated this.  He gave a slight nod and continued.  “In our story the young, attractive secretary meets the up and coming lawyer, and they fall in love.  Their dreams come true when they marry and move into a beautiful house in an upmarket, slightly outer suburb.”

“That doesn’t sound like a downer.”

Pretending to be offended, he replied, “Who’s telling this story?  I have to give it the proper build up.”

She giggled.  “My apologies, Sir Storyteller.  Pray continue!”

He smiled, but it didn’t completely make it to his eyes.  “That’s better.  Anyway, they move into their dream home and for a while everything is wonderful.  She keeps the dream home dreamy, while his career is advancing in leaps and bounds.  They have a busy social life.  She prepares wonderful dinners for his business friends.  He plays tennis or golf with the boys on weekends.  She is the perfect partner at business functions, all the guys tell him so, and she doesn’t mind feeling apart from the conversation because she’s proud of his career.  She listens as he tells her about his work, and understands when he’s too tired or busy to hear about her’s.  After all, his career is so much more important than her’s, isn’t it?  She understands when he starts to come home late most nights because of his workload.  He values his career, she’s very proud of him.  She tells him that a lot.  He thanks her and goes into the study to go over a file.  She tells him about an invitation to an office party at her boss’s house the next week.  He apologises for being busy that night and goes into the study to go over a file.  She starts to feel a little less understanding about her career being less important than his.  She asks him if he appreciates her.  His reply about all his colleagues complimenting him on his attractive wife at parties doesn’t ease her mind anymore.  She asks if he’s proud of her career.  He says of course and he’s sure she works very hard.  Then he goes into the study to go over a file.  Her discontent at what her life has become is obvious, but not to her husband.  She feels like an ornament at his office functions.  She feels patronised by his lame attempts to pretend to care about her career.  She feels so entrenched in this lifestyle she doesn’t know what she can do about it.  And,” he hesitated, suddenly self-conscious of the content and length of his description, “that’s about as far as I got.”

He noticed the sadness in her eyes, and, like the proverbial knight, came to her rescue.  “Of course, that’s all just a story made up by a very cynical man,” adding with a conspiratorial wink, “who’s also a little jealous of your husband.”

She brightened a little, then feigned a look of righteous indignation.  “Only a little?”

His laughter stopped suddenly when he looked out at the station.  “My stop’s coming up.  Hey, I’ve got an idea!  There’s this great little cafe near the station, and, if you’ve got time, I would be honoured if you would let me buy you a coffee.  I’ll drive you home after it.”

She thought very hard about it, and was greatly tempted.  God knows she needed a friend, but her insecurities got the better of her.  “I’d love to, but I’d better just go home.”  She winced internally as she added, “I’ve got a lot to do before Jeff gets home.  His boss is coming for drinks.”

The mixture of sadness and empathy in his eyes was disarming.  He smiled, warmly, “I understand, take care of yourself.  I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t look back as he got off the train, and Tracey never saw him again.  She felt the loss of his absence for a long time, and wondered at why this was so.

She never even knew his name.

James was nervous.  He was having dinner with someone he hadn’t seen for a few years, and the last time they had spoken wasn’t exactly a highlight of her life.  In fact, it was the day that she separated from her husband, and he couldn’t help feeling responsible.  He had only recently found out what happened after his phone call to her that night, and he was surprised to be hearing from her.

He had had an affair with Jenette a few years ago, an affair that ended when he met someone else.  But they were originally good friends so they kept in touch.  Being honest with Maria about his past caused a bit of trouble.  She didn’t like the idea that he was still in touch with Jenette while promising fidelity to her.  She didn’t trust him, and one night it came to a head.

“If you don’t call her and tell her to fuck off, it’s over between us.”

“I’m not going to do that to her.  We’re just friends, there’s nothing happening.  Christ, she doesn’t even live in this state.  You know I love you, why do I need to do that to a friend?”

She couldn’t be swayed, and he was weak.  He called.

Jenette’s husband answered.  “Hi, Dan, it’s James.  Is Jenette there?”

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jenette.  Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you not to write to me any more.”

“Uh, okay.  Take care, James.”

“You too.”  He didn’t stay on the line long enough to gauge her feelings, he didn’t want to know.

But that was two years ago, and now Maria was gone.  He was feeling remorse at having treated Jenette like that and was wondering how she had been since.  He was shattered when he found out.

The night of the phone call, Dan had confronted Jenette and they had separated.  James knew that the marriage was dead anyway, but the guilt he felt over his participation was significant.  His main reason for not wanting to make that call was because he was spineless and always liked to be Mr. Nice Guy.  He didn’t like being the cause of pain to anyone, even though he knew a painless life is not possible.  It’s just like Schopenhauer said.  ‘A life without pain is a life without meaning.’  But it still caused him pain to realise that he was a catalyst for the final act in that tragedy.

Then he got a call.  She wanted to see him.  She was moving down his way for a while, and wanted to catch up.  He accepted. 

And now he was nervous. 

She was coming around to his flat for dinner.  He didn’t know what he was going to say, how he was going to apologise.  A mutual friend had told him that she hadn’t had a particularly easy time of it since, and his guilt gnawed at him like termites in his guts.  He felt ill.

He jumped when the doorbell rang.

Steeling himself he answered the door.

“Er, hi, Jenette.”

She smiled at him.  “Hi, James.  I brought a bottle, was that okay?”

His tension eased a little, and he smiled.  “Perfect, come in.  Excuse the Spartan furnishings; just sit wherever you feel comfortable.”

“You now the floor’s fine with me.”

“Dinner’s ready.  I’ll just go dish it up and open this.”

In the kitchen, James relaxed in the smells of the food.  He loved cooking.  He opened the bottle and took a healthy draught to settle himself, before taking the plates and two glasses of wine back out to the lounge.

Jenette had put on some music.  Nina Simone, a mutual favourite.

He smiled.  “Good choice.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.

The conversation over dinner was light, but constant.  Jenette gently refuted any attempt James made at apology.

“It was really the best thing that could have happened.  You know it was over long before that.  If the marriage was healthy, we would never have been lovers in the first place.”

“I just feel guilty about that call.  That was no way to treat a friend.  You’ve no idea how sorry I am about it.  Doing that to a friend to please someone who I already knew couldn’t be satisfied.  Man, I’m glad that’s over.”

She lifted her glass in a toast.  “The past is the past.  No hard feelings.”

He agreed with a smile, and drank deeply.

They continued to talk for a while.  General sort of stuff.  What they had been doing.  What they were hoping to do.  James felt as if they had never parted, and was glad.  He just realised how much he valued this friendship.

The he started to feel ill.

His vision wavered a little, the lights dimmed, and his hearing went foggy.

He looked at Jenette saw her smiling strangely.  “The past is the past, and now you will stay in my past.”

The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was her wine glass.

It hadn’t been touched.

He recognised the sound of the blown muffler long before they pulled into the driveway of the block of flats.  He rolled over and looked at the clock.  2.15 a.m. Great!  And he thought he was going to get some sleep tonight.

He waited.  There it was.  The inevitable slamming of doors, the loutish, drunken shouting; sounds like they brought some friends home with them tonight.  Well, say goodnight to sleep.  He chose to excuse the pun.

Then it occurred to him.  He still needed to test his latest acquisition to make sure it worked on the day.  May as well try it now.

He could hear them outside at the rear of his flat.

“Did you see the way I played that last fucking game of pool?  That prick didn’t know what hit him.”

“I hit him, remember?”

“Oh yeah, what a fucking loser.”

He slipped quietly out of bed, being careful not to wake the sleeping form next to him.  He never could figure out how she could sleep through just about anything.  Pausing only to put on some loose slacks, he withdrew the package from under the desk.  He removed the contents and slipped unseen out the front door.

Their flat was behind his and upstairs.  As he walked barefoot around to the rear of the flat he began to assemble his new work tool, clipping the plastic pieces into their well crafted positions.

“Whose got the fucking keys?”

“I have.  Catch, arsehole.”

“Don’t give them to him, he’s too pissed to see the fucking keyhole.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

Ah, regular pillars of society.

He could tell by their shouting that they were on the stairs leading to their front door.  The staircase led up between two high walls with the front door and the base of the stairs as the only exits.  Hidden in the shadows at the base of the stairs he could see them.  The two men at the top and the two near the bottom were playing catch with the keys, throwing them past the frustrated, but inanely giggling, woman in the middle.

Fish in a barrel, he thought to himself, as he screwed the plastic silencer onto the polymer-construct 9mm automatic pistol in his hand.  The pistol broke down into many parts of various shapes, undetectable by normal weapon detectors.  He knew he could put it together in the dark, even while walking, but did it work?

They started to laugh as the guy at the top fell, thinking he was drunk, until the one next to him saw the blood and the pieces of brain on the wall behind them.  The next polymer slug shattered its way through his temple as he turned to look down the stairs, and the two lower down were dead before he hit the landing.

Time paused for a second as the woman stood frozen where she was.  What had just happened started to dawn on her and the scream was cut off before it started as the slug entered her throat and left with some of her spinal column out the back of her neck.

With thoughts only of respect for the craftsmanship of the weapon, he started back to his flat, disassembling the gun as he went.  He entered his flat and put the parts back in their hiding place before disrobing and slipping back into bed.

The woman in his bed stirred as he nestled up next to her.  Noticing his arousal she wrapped herself around him and he entered her as silently as the bullets had entered his neighbours.  They made love, slowly, and rhythmically, before slipping into a peaceful dreamless sleep.

(actual essay set as part of a correspondence writing course - incomplete)

I’d almost forgotten how hard it is to try learning a foreign language.  It’s not like I haven’t tried to learn foreign languages before, I just didn’t expect to be trying to learn this particular one.  Of course, the only thing harder than trying to learn a foreign language is trying to remember it more than an hour after the exam.  But maybe that’s just me.

I remember back in the first year of high school we had a semester each of German and Indonesian.  I don’t remember a great deal about the introductory German we were given in the first form other than my opinion that ‘schlange’ is a pretty cool name for snake and the translation of ‘schwarzkopf’ is a rather unfortunate brand name for beauty products.  Luckily they’re only hair care products; I wouldn’t recover if they brought out a pimple cream.

Indonesian was the language I chose to continue into later years, more for the rather attractive young teacher than the language itself.  After two and a half years you’d think I’d remember more than I do, no matter what my motivation was.  It was a fun language to study, but when my teacher told me that ‘babi’ means pig, I asked her if she thought someone should tell Ken.  Of course, ‘apa kabar’ and ‘bagaimana’, which are the formal and informal versions, respectively, of ‘how are you?’ do tend to sound like swear words to early high schoolers.  But, then, at that age there’s no harm in a little harmless titillation, is there?  Tell that to the school bully, whose grasp of languages wasn’t quite the same as that of yours truly!  Oops!

Japanese was a particularly hard one to try.  And to think I actually chose to do it in my spare time as a night class.  As if post-graduate research wasn’t hard enough.  It was probably a sign of things to come that I ‘aced’ my Japanese exams and flunked out of my doctorate.  Not that I can actually speak the language, of course, but some things I do actually remember.

Some of the grammatical structure of the language, for one.  Of course, considering the structure of this essay, you wouldn’t really say that grammar was likely to be my forté, would you?  But more on that later.  The Japanese actually have a word that doesn’t really mean anything, well it doesn’t have a precise translation anyway, but most sentences are not complete without it.  The word, or one of it’s derivatives, is tacked on the end, like something of an afterthought, and it’s function is to end the sentence and to say that something is, isn’t, was, or wasn’t the case.

Desu, dewa arimasen, deshita, dewa arimasendeshita.  Is, isn’t, was, wasn’t.  Don’t you just love those long ones?  Imagine using a fifteen letter word just to define the tense of a sentence.

Another one is the word ‘wa’.  This particular little gem doesn’t have any sort of translation but is more of an arrow.  It points to the subject.  In Japanese, the subject is the word before the word ‘wa’.

Allow me to illustrate:

Watashi (I) wa (the subject of this sentence is me) gakusei (student) desu (am).  Of course, if this gets too much, just be informal and drop the subject and let whomever guess it, then you don’t have to worry about where to put ‘wa’.  Gakusei desu; I am a student (Aren’t I?).

The handiest word I learnt, and coincidentally the first, was wakarimasu, or understand.  (Watashi wa) wakarimasu; I understand.  Wakarimasen; I don’t understand.  Wakarimashita; I understood.  Wakarimasendeshita; I didn’t understand.  How long can those words get?

Speaking of long expressions, I really must mention my favourite word extension from this language.  It stems from the expression ‘thank you’.  In Japanese, the longer and more convoluted the expression, the more formal or, as in the case of ‘thank you’, the more humble the expression is considered to be.  From this we get; Domo (thanks), Domo arigato (thank you ever so much my liege), and Domo arigato gozaimasu (I am a dog and unworthy of your favour, but please accept as much worthless gratitude as one such as myself can gather).  After you go through all this, the one being thanked replies with Do itashimashite (please, stop it, you’re embarrassing me, don’t mention it) to finalise the formalities of thanking someone.  Please don’t take the translations I have given here literally, they are of my own devising to serve as illustrations only.

So, after plugging away at Japanese, and only being able to remember some of the technicalities of the language, here I am trying to learn a new language.  Like I said, it’s not like I don’t know how hard it is to learn a new language; it’s just that I didn’t expect to be learning this particular language.  Or for it to be so foreign.  After all, I was bred, born, and raised in an English speaking family; I should know the language by now.  Shouldn’t I?

Grammar.  The bane of every schoolchild’s existence.  Except mine, apparently.  I have not had the pleasure of meeting this little demon before now, but this is not the forum for the discussion of the capabilities of certain state funded learning institutions.  Oh, to return to the heady days when verbs were ‘doing’ words and nouns were names.  Now it’s all so complicated. 

I thought I knew what an adjective was, but adjectival clauses?  What does that mean?  “The subject described by the adjective only fits this description if all the criteria in the contractual agreement of this sentence are met.  And the wind is blowing south west.”  Do all sentences have clauses?  To my mind it would make sense if each sentence had the clause; “If you don’t read this sentence right, you will not comprehend its content.”  But, then, that’s probably stating the obvious.

Is it really necessary to name everything, for every part of a sentence to have a description?  I think the stragglers could have been left alone.  They couldn’t be included in any of the other categories so it was decided to call them articles?  That makes sense.  Why not just call them ‘bits’, or ‘leftovers’.  And why definite and indefinite?  One’s sure it’s an article and the other’s aren’t?  The definite article.  Why not leave off ‘definite article’ and just have ‘the’?  Why complicate it?  It’s not like they’re going to get a complex if they don’t have names.  If they were, calling two of them indefinite would be cruel enough.  I rest my case, and I do, apparently, have one.  Probably nominative (I think!).  If the object of a sentence is in the accusative case, doesn’t that make the subject the defendant?  Of course, any word in the genitive case would be very annoying, because he thinks everything is his.

Just a thought.  If Nietzsche had found his perfect sentence of a single word, would it have been in the brief case?

Isn’t it a bit limiting saying that within each conversation there can only be up to three persons?  And I think it’s a little unfair ranking them.  First, second and third.  Does that mean that I am always the winner?  Not that I mind, of course.  Besides, there don’t appear to be any losers here.  You may always come second to me, but you always beat all of them.  On top of that, they all got equal third.  I hope there’re enough medals for them.  While I am waffling in this area, competition does seem to appear rather a lot.  Take adjectives, for example.  It’s good to be positive, but comparative is better, and to be superlative is best.  Where does it end?

However, as far as labelling is concerned, the verbs appear to get the biggest beating.  So many little pigeon-holes to put them in.  Transitive or intransitive.  Passive or active (are all intransitive verbs really lazy?).  Finite or non-finite.  Indicative, imperative, infinitives, participles.  Just as well there is a verb auxiliary to help with their tension, with all this confusion they need it.  And speaking of confusion, would somebody please tell me just what, exactly, is a gerund?  Is that even an English word?  Of course, that’s not really an issue, the etymology of much of the English vocabulary being traceable to several other languages.  Maybe that’s the problem?  I’m trying to learn too many languages simultaneously!  Whew! That’s a relief.  I though it was just me!

This brings me to what is, hopefully, my final point.  If in fact I ever had one, but that’s a bit too existential for this particular exercise.  The whole point of me writing this discourse on the difficulties of learning a foreign language is as part of my assessment for the very course that is the source of my current language learning difficulties.  How logical is it, really, to be moaning about my difficulties with the syllabus to the very person who I am supposed to try and impress with my capabilities as a student of the language.  But then, maybe he’s just the person I should tell.  Who knows?  Not me, obviously, I’m a moron.  Watashi wa Ei-go wakarimasen.  And it’s the language I was raised with!

Katrina looked at the kids happily munching away on their sandwiches and smiled.  You couldn’t blame them for being excited; it was something of a novelty for their father to be around on the weekend, or any day of the week, for that matter.  He didn’t want to be at this picnic.  He had made it very clear that he could have been working; making more of the money he adored so much.  He was a good provider, as far as his understanding of it went, but he was not a good father or husband, and he never made any secret of the fact that he preferred the company of his mates to that of his family.  When he wasn’t working, he was down at the pub, or at a mate’s place, or anything that saved him form having to watch the automaton that his wife had become.  She pushed those bitter thoughts from her mind.  Things were going to change, and soon.  She was going to leave him.  She knew it was possible to find a way out of this bondage he called a marriage.  A little birdie told her.

Actually, it was three little birdies.

Three weeks earlier, the first of these harbingers of freedom, as she had come to think of them, came into her house.

It was early one morning while she was getting the kids ready for kinder and day care.  Tom had left for work early, of course, and she was a mess.  Mess or not, she had to hold it together for the kids, and switched to autopilot.  Just as they were about to step out the door, a sparrow flew in through one of the windows.  It flew around the room a little, and then perched above a doorway.  Disoriented and lost, it started to scream.  Katrina didn’t have time to deal with it right then, so she bundled the kids into the car and left it there.

When she got back it was still there, and it was still screaming.  She watched it for a little while, saddened by its plight.

“I know just how you feel, little one.  This house does that to me, too.”

Katrina grabbed a pillowcase and caught the sparrow, taking it out the back and releasing it.  She had watched it flying off into the distance before going back inside for some screaming of her own.

About a week later she had a second visit.  She was at home, alone, wondering which daytime talk show was least likely to depress her, when another sparrow came into the house.  It flew in the window of the lounge near where K was sitting and did a few laps of the room.

“Oh, boy, a distraction from the high level excitement of daytime television.”

She’d got up off the couch and followed the bird’s progress.  It had flown down the hall and made side trips into most of the other rooms in the house.  Finally, it perched momentarily on the sill of the open kitchen window, before flying away, out of the house.

“Wow, wasn’t that exciting,” she’d thought to herself, as she sank back onto the couch.

The third visit, four days ago, was truly extraordinary.  Katrina had been tidying up the kids’ toys in the lounge, when another sparrow found its way through the window.

“I really should put a screen on that,” she’d thought to herself while watching yet another bird do laps of her house.

This sparrow’s foray through the house was brief.  It came back into the lounge, and perched on the back of the couch.  It seemed to look at Katrina and chirped loudly.

“What do you want me to do?  You’re the one who invited yourself in.”

Then it started to cry in earnest.

“Okay, okay,” she said, then, and without thinking walked right up to it and picked it up.  After an initial shock, it settled down and sat calmly in her hands.

She had stood, transfixed, looking down at the fragile life she held in her hands.  A life that seemed to trust her to look after it, relinquishing control of its freedom to her.

After a few minutes that seemed like hours, she carried it out the door and into the yard.  She’d opened her hands and watched as it sat there momentarily, before chirping softly once and flying off into the blue spring sky.

Thinking back on these visits in progression, the significance of these three events was not lost on Katrina.  Before Tom got her pregnant, completing her imprisonment, she had been quite a spiritual person, and did not believe in pure coincidence.  She had thought long and hard about those little visits, and could see them for what they were.

Metaphors for her own existence.

The first sparrow, trapped in the house, screaming, not knowing what to do other than sit there and cry out, was an illustration of what she had become.  Trapped, lonely, and unaware of an alternative.

The second sparrow showed her that a way out could be found, if you looked hard enough.  All she needed to do was search for it.

The third sparrow was confirmation of who is responsible for her search for freedom.  Herself.  Only she can find her way out of it, she must take control of her own future, if she is to have one worth living.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

The bushland was beautiful this time of year, and the thought that she was soon to be free of this loveless union allowed her to enjoy the experience for the first time in years.  For the first time since before her children were born, she enjoyed the scents of the wildflowers, the call of the native birds, the sight of the blue sky filtering through the trees.  She smiled inwardly at the observation that spring was a time of renewal and rebirth.

They came to a landing overlooking one of the highlights of the national park.  The graceful drop of the waterfall was truly magnificent.  She could smell the clean fresh moisture in the air, and feel the light spray on her face from the breeze that came to them across the top of the two hundred and fifty foot drop of this wonder of nature.

“Isn’t this beautiful, Tom?”

“Yeah, just great.  Ready to go kids?”

She turned to look at him, and in her mind the cold steel of the handrail was transformed into the bars of her emotional imprisonment.  She wasn’t going to leave him.  She wasn’t strong enough.  She couldn’t make it on her own.  She was trapped in this cage forever.

A sparrow came down near them to forage in the litter.  It gave a soft chirp and flew out across the waterfall.  A single tear fell from her eye as she turned to look at the kids huddling around their impatient father.  Not wanting them to see her cry she turned to look out over the waterfall once more.

And then she flew, too.

And for the last few seconds of her life she knew freedom.