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The Butterfly Effect or more technically
the sensitive dependence on initial conditions,
is the essence of chaos
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You wake, its morning.
Unfiltered sunlight prickles your face warm. Time to get up.
The local coffee shop is closed; he always slept in.
You cross the road to get a bagel instead.
Inside the bustling shop you sneeze.
A nearby baby inhales,
Gurgling and bubbling with happiness.
A week later, subtle signs, a mild flu.
The doctor bills will put a strain on her family.
They will fight and the little girl will silently cough herself to sleep.
He will leave the mother and the child, sick of bickering and bills.
Distraught, the mother will curse the child for their desperate situation.
Ten years later, and the child will still remember this.
She will become a troubled girl.
She will be expelled from school.
At 14, she will leave home.
Dont go, youre only a bloody child!
But the mothers words will be drowned out by the girls pumping music.
She will become submerged in the gritty underground,
A dirty street dweller, high on chemicals, low on money.
The repercussions will catch her when shes older.
The girl, now a woman, will have nothing.
She will die in a musty hotel room.
A few days will pass before the cleaner finds her.
She will be buried amongst the other nobodys,
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Rotting inside a cheap coffin.
You, on the other hand, have no idea this will happen.
You wipe your nose quickly and grab the bagel.
You catch a glimpse of the baby girl.
What a cute baby you think.
But she is already gone, it is written.
You leave, oblivious, never to know you were the cause.
Nobody can fathom the countless lives they alter.
And you are no exception.
One was Ira
Who lived by herself.
*
Slow crevasses of sadness gently divided her features like a jigsaw. Time ran slow for
her; an undulating force which towed the day along, persistently urging it forward
over the mild waves of the day. It had been two weeks now, and even that seemed like
an eternity. Ira Gore had lost the one being for whom she lived, and now, without
him, for the first time in her life she felt old.
She dressed herself in a modest black dress and delicate velvet pumps. Powder danced
on the light as she dusted her nose, and after two weeks of morbid lament she actually
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looked quite pleasant. The final touch, a dark blue felt hat which slid neatly over her
thin hair.
Two checks in the dusty mirror and she approached the door thick oak panels
suggesting a barrier, keeping the world out.
Or her in.
She couldnt quite remember.
Gripping the door handle, she twisted it, half dreading and delighting in what was
behind. Light poured in, cascading over her coat-hanger frame and into the house. It
was a hot, steamy liberation of Iras senses; the sunlight prickled her translucent skin
and painted it with colour.
*
He didnt look compassionate, eyes squinting with impatience and stubby fingers
drumming on the table. She noticed with distaste that his rainbow tie harmonised with
the colour coded highlighters that lined his desk.
So how can I help you Mrs.
His voice trailed off, awkwardly evaporating as he checked some files.
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Mrs. Gore?
She nodded and proceeded to speak.
All the while he sat blankly staring at her, scanning her face with hollow eyes. Ira
suddenly felt very self-conscious, and glancing down, noticed she was slowly
shredding the rim of her hat. He was just like the rest, unwilling to listen and eager to
send her away, without the loan.
Look, Mrs. Gore, the tragic accident with your husband and the delivery truck is
unfortunate
His eyes glazed over, as if he had repeated this same speech to multitudes of
mourning wives - each time with the same monotonous tone and sickly attempt at
sympathy.
but it doesnt qualify you for our loans, not during the GFC sorry. Maybe you can
try somewhere else. I could give you some names and numbers
His efforts at kindness were futile, voice hard and cold, another routine utterance.
Cause and effect, the stale office worker had just significantly altered Iras existence.
But how was he supposed to know?
He cleared his throat.
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Im afraid our time is up. You can go to the front desk for some helpful references
His eyes flashed, drawing out a path for Ira to follow.
She rose, suddenly filled with sympathy for the hollow man who sat before her. As
she replaced the hat atop her head, she said a silent prayer for the man.
May happiness seep into the
Concrete slab which is your existence
And then she exited.
*
One
By
One
Ira watched the cans evaporate from within her pantry. Sure, she rationed, but even
that didnt halt the musty nothingness which slowly replaced her food.
Day
By
Day
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The knocking of domestic poverty shook the house with more vigour, until it was a
dirt-pile, so large that even Ira couldnt continue to sweep it under the rug.
First the letter writing desk. For $100.
Dark mahogany and hand varnished to perfection. It had been his gift to Ira, so she
could still write to him. Every week a small blue grey envelope would arrive, her
name printed delicately in the middle, as if to kiss her hello. Resisting impulse, she
would neatly pry the seal, almost smelling the saliva which had closed it. And every
time, a creased letter would tumble out into her hands, throwing itself to her, a tasty
morsel for her feverish lovesick famine.
And Ira would gobble it all up
the description of his life; the wounds; the constant rain. Even the bits she didnt wish
to hear, Ira would endure; a gesture of empathy for her distant lover.
In reply, a well written descriptive account of her week would manifest itself atop that
writing desk. The words which she accentuated dug minute holes into the wood, until
snippets of love letters could be distinguished within the wood grain.
Then the tall vase which guarded the entrance. For $50.
It was a wedding gift, something different amongst the myriad of cooking pots and
soup ladles. Azure blue ceramic descended down the long shaft, slowly morphing into
a texture not unlike that of sand. If examined closely, one would notice tiny purple
dots dancing along the base in festive celebration, an eternal reminder of their happy
wedding day. For twenty years it had mothered countless bunches of flowers,
supporting and feeding them until they would wither and die, promptly replaced with
a bright new bunch.
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Dry petals from the last bunch of flowers still dotted the ground below the vase, each
one a solemn reminder of his love.
Ira swept these up.
Casually brushing them aside with her foot as the neatly dressed housewife entered
her doorway to claim her vase.
Each week, the measly profit from her belongings would be eaten up, consumed by
ravenous debt. And each week Ira would let go of one more precious memory, her
furniture silently devoured by another four-wheel-drive.
This melancholy routine continued until an emptiness filled the house, flowing into
the unused rooms, down the hallways and eventually dripping through Ira herself. The
once vibrant home was transformed into a void of nothing; a catacomb of loneliness.
Everything echoed
Illuminated
Reminders of
Absence
Soon the slow sponge of grief had soaked up everything of worth. Tired and
frustrated, Ira sat down by the window. And wept.
After some time Ira noticed a tiny glitter dancing on her face. It caught the light and
thrust a minuscule beam into her eyes. Then another, and another, until ten little
rainbow lights had made themselves apparent.
Ira looked down excitedly, half expecting to find a tiny pot of gold, but instead her
heart cracked a little. It was the suns reflection from her wedding ring.
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*
$467, the highest bid.
Ira watched with regret as the last material memento of her marriage was auctioned
off. Then, with the misery money, she exited, catching a last glimpse of her jewel,
adorning an unfamiliar hand.
Ira looked down to her own fingers. A small pale band remained where the ring once
sat, etched hard into Iras skin over the years. She caught the bus home; mind
swimming in the sea of recollection, dancing with her husband amidst the hollow
rooms of their new house. And they had danced all night, drunk on joy and scotch,
finally able to purchase a house, a home.
She stopped.
This house was no home anymore. Its nurturing heart died the day he had. It hung
loosely on the corner, a decrepit flapping sack of nothing. Her home had never looked
so foreign; the garden was a jungle, draped around a rotting wooden fence. Mossy red
tiles jutted over the roof at wrong angles. And the rustic letter box perched
precariously atop a tree stump, hollow from decades of ant infestation.
No, this most certainly wasnt home anymore.
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$200,000, for the block. And that was good, considering the economic tangle woven
around the Western world.
But it didnt matter anyway; the cursed economic crisis made sure all gains were
handed straight to the bank.
Levering her out of the debt that most were drowning in. Yet
Leaving her with nothing
The house would be demolished - rapidly replaced by modern sterile apartments,
conveniently designed to tessellate. Ira shuddered at the thought. Then, before any of
the developers saw her, Ira hurried off down the road, carrying two small suitcases
and a crooked yellow umbrella.
*
It was cold.
Ira knew it was going to be.
Some drunk street dweller told her the first night was always the coldest.
Despite their drunkenness, they had been right.
City sounds multiplied as the huge golden orb descended the skyscraper staircase. The
classy business feel was replaced with a putrid stench; wafting around the flashing
neon signs from the stray animals, the homeless.
Ira just stood there, unable to bring herself to sit down. Late-night workers passed. To
them, Ira was just waiting for a bus, a taxi, a friend. Most certainly not homeless.
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She sat at the edge of the city fountain. Its high splashing water, now stagnant with
the occasional rebellious drip. Street lights flickered on and illuminated the speckled
bottom, each coin a tiny bait fish catching the sunlight. Ira pondered the wishes that
these coins guarded. Had they come to be? Or had their metal anchors defeated them,
forever destined to exist at the glinting bottom?
From out of an ice-cream shop emerged a little boy, wrapped in a thick sheepskin
overcoat and woollen beanie. He approached the fountain, clutching a two dollar coin,
and decided on a wish. Glancing around, he lent forward over the marble edges and
lowered his hand to the water, its carbon black finish rippling as his hand went in.
Then, as the tiny fingers loosened their grip, he caught sight of her. He must have, for
he let out a small cry of surprise and retracted his hand from the pool. Ira didnt mean
to frighten him. She came around to his side of the fountain and sat down, the two
suitcases between her ankles.
You shouldnt hide in the shadows; people might think youre a baddie
Ira guessed he was about five, if that.
Pa just bought me an ice-cream.
He held up the cone, a large blob trickling down his fingers like fudge.
I was about to make a wish.
What for?
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Here, have this, it might help.
He was so sincerely concerned that Ira was afraid he would burst into tears if she
declined the offer. She took the tiny gold coin and smiled.
Thank you
BEN!
The weathered man was now standing outside the store
Come on Ben, time to leave.
Ben turned to go, and glancing back at Ira, smiled such a genuine smile that Ira
wanted to hug him goodbye. But he had already raced into the shadows. She looked at
her hand, the old coin nestled between lines of age. Ira knew it wouldnt get her
anything, but the gesture seemed almost more valuable than if it had. She closed her
eyes, silently made a wish and dropped the coin into the inky depths - looking back
just in time to see the velvety black ripples spread and flatten. Then, picking up her
bags, she made her way in search of some quiet alley where she could rest.
Two was Jasper
In need of some help.
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*
Ticking, scratching, copying, filing
Typing, coughing, clicking, stapling.
A slow rhythmic baseline keeping tempo with the sporadic office banter.
The bubble of the water urn resonated. Coffee cups clinked empty. And a slow second
hand methodically counted down the moments until lunchtime. Jasper sat, his face, a
hollow void, absent of all emotion. The stack of paper on his right-hand side was
large, the stack to his left small he had almost finished the days work and it was
only 11 oclock.
If one were to look upon Jasper, they would find neither a great nor horrible being.
Two oily blue eyes hung below his brow, constantly scanning the workspace and
constantly moist. His hair was neatly combed to one side, defined from too much gel.
A stiff blue Ben Sherman struggled to cover his belly. In an effort to hold it together
he wore a bright rainbow tie; a vomit of colour running down his front.
The only thing beautiful about Jasper was his dainty nose, unquestionably out of place
amongst his other features. It was as if he had stolen it from the face of a porcelain
doll and glued it to his own.
*
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Every night it was the same. Jasper would catch the 5:14 train home, opting to stand,
making his exit at 5:21 swift and unchallenged. If he had caught a later train maybe
things would have worked out differently. But he didnt. Jasper didnt know why he
hurried home it wasnt for the comfort. His clinically white apartment offered
anything but that. It wasnt to see his family; he had lost that aspect of his life years
ago. His estranged parents had pickled in their respective nursing homes, senile and
bitter. Jasper hardly considered them family during his childhood, his existence was a
small but ever present stain on their otherwise clean sheet of life.
And they never let him forget it.
Jasper couldnt identify the drive that embodied him. He secretly guessed it to be the
longing for eternal solace, to see whether after seven years of city living he finally felt
at home. But that had never happened. Not in this reality anyway.
Every morning it was the same again. Jasper would wake before the alarm, eyes wide
at first opening, as if his body was fine tuned to routine. Then after an elevator down,
a train to the city and a busy zebra crossing to his building, he would arrive. Finally at
his desk; a whitewash panel of generic laminex. There Jasper sat, comfortably cradled
in his padded chair, solemnly getting his job done.
And he never stopped hating it.
The client would come in, full of hope at possibly acquiring a helping hand. And
Jasper knew he was going to cruelly swipe it away, reducing their hopes to fine dusty
acceptance. It was strict for him now that the GFC had hit. Where he would once dish
out loans like cheap meals, he now had to ration them. He would avert his eyes and
drum his stubby fingers on the table. Then, pretending to meet their gaze, Jasper
would say that due to the unstable circumstances he couldnt help.
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Once they left Jasper would slump down, legs apart underneath the desk. And with a
shaky left hand he would pick up the stamp and press a harsh, red
Denied
on top of their paper. Then, filing it in his [SORTED]pile he would pick up the next
sheet in his [TO DO]pile.
If one were to ask Jasper how he managed to be so emotionally bland and
unsympathetic, he would most probably reply with a slight shrug and get back to
work. But no one ever did question his work ethics, because he got the job done. In
fact, he was the best. But, this didnt come without its tolls. His life wasnt much
more than a hollow plastic bag on the breeze. Taking him to places he wanted to go,
but still so undeniably empty. If only he had known the fun and adventure his other
realities were having, maybe he would have considered altering his bland life. But the
change that was to come was entirely out of Jaspers hands. Instead, that honour
resided in the weathered palms of a lollypop man.
*
Nothing changed with Jasper. Meeting people, forming relationships, then somehow
letting them dissipate, thats how it went. It wasnt that Jasper had a hard time
meeting people. Keeping friendships just wasnt a high priority. It had begun when
she left him after four months. Stupid bitch. She was a red lipstick beauty who turned
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heads wherever heads were present. When he was introduced, Jasper was immediately
drawn to her.
TanyaahhhBut he was ignorant of her other life. Her children and husband on the outskirts of
town were mere dusty tales, blown away by her exuberant presence. But after four
months she had left him, and when she did, her passionate hurricane transformed into
a devastatingly powerful storm, crushing and mutilating any previous happiness.
*
The loud host shouting out Easter celebrations slowly drifted into his conscience. And
as he slowly roused himself, eyes half plastered with crusty dreamtime remnants,
Jasper realised for the first time in four years he had slept through the alarm. Fuck. He
squeezed an orange and washed it down his dry throat. Then, once dressed, Jasper ran
down to the subway.
Sharp air wrapped his heaving body, immediately painting small crimson circles on
his cheeks and nose. The train had been late and Jasper bit his lip impatiently as he
waited at the crossing. Jasper cursed the Easter parade for unusually busy traffic. It
seemed as though he would never reach work on time. A weathered looking lollypop
man stood in the middle of the crossing, oblivious to the irritated commuters
congregating on the curb.
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SCREEEEEECH
The tyres of a speeding delivery truck roused the man and he flipped the sign. STOP .
The traffic halted. Jasper tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, bent his head
down and proceeded to cross.
She came from behind, bumping his shoulder with subtle strength as if she had
intended to slightly set him off course. Jasper looked around, startled with the sudden
human contact, but instead of finding another gruff businessman, a lovely pair of eyes
gazed back. Her hair was pulled together in a high pony, resting coyly above her
feathered fringe. A light blue oversize t-shirt gave the illusion of excess weight, but
her petite legs suggested otherwise.
Sorry I didnt see you there.
Its fine, I should be concentrating. Im surprised it hasnt happened before.
A short polite chuckle and she was off, turning left into a caf. Jasper stood there, just
out of the revolving doors reach, its glass arms groping, returning then spinning out
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again, an endless attempt to lure him in. And eventually, he succumbed, unwillingly
thrust inside the bustling office.
Typing, coughing, clicking, stapling.
Ticking, scratching, copying, filing.
Again, the subtle diegetic noises infiltrated any possible pockets of peace.
Jaspers routine prevailed, client after client, each one leaving no imprint on his heart.
And when he hurried home that night, he wasnt much different from them.
Emotionally empty handed and itching for change.
*
This time, he bumped her. Intentionally.
She swivelled around, then seeing it was the man from before, flashed a timid smile.
It had been two weeks but it was evident she recognised him.
Coffee?
Jasper didnt know. He couldnt recall the last time he went out for coffee. A tiny
trickle of uncertainty seeped onto his features. It must have been obvious.
Oh, never mind,
Youre off to work anyway.
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But he could tell she wanted him to come. There was something strangely interesting
about her and Jasper found himself drawn towards the coffee shop.
No, no. Work can wait, it isnt going anywhere
She was evidently pleased and her boyish grin reiterated this.
*
The sounds immediately enveloped them; steam from creamed milk, cups clinking,
ovens buzzing. A warm cosy feeling ran over Jasper and suddenly he felt very
comfortable.
They plunged effortlessly where ever the ribbon of conversation took them, as if they
had been acquaintances since childhood. And, as she spoke, her hands were thrown
violently into the air, illustrating the stories with sign language pictures. Jasper spoke
as well. Not entirely letting his guard down, but for the first time in four months
feeling comfortable around another person.
Jasper wasnt much attracted to the woman in front of him, but she emanated a kind
of fresh happiness which made him want to do something he had never done before.
Something radical, something wild
Maybe he would wear sandals to work tomorrow.
Maybe not go to work at all.
All the possibilities were thrilling.
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But as all good things do, their meeting finally came to an end. And Jasper realised,
with embarrassing concern, that he was twenty minutes late to work. Casually he
excused himself, unwillingly thrust back into metropolis reality. Clinking coffee cups
drowned his goodbye, animating his facial expression while concealing his words.
She smiled and waved, bent her head down and continued to scan the newspaper. She
must have been reflecting on conversational strands, replaying and rewinding. Or
maybe that was just Jasper.
The bell chimed as he stepped out onto the frosty pavement. Again, Jasper became a
tiny atom making up something larger, fuelling the pumping heart of the city. But he
was not aware.
Jasper was submerged in thoughts of righting wrongs, of serving up a slice of
contentment to someone hungry for happiness. He wasnt happy himself, but that
brief encounter with the cheerful stranger had made him see this. Acceptance was the
first step, he had heard. And now, he wanted to pass the deed on, give someone else
the first push on their way to personal fulfilment.
The fast tempo;
a welcome change
to his previous
melancholy ballad.
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*
She came in. Blue hat clutched in spindly spidery fingers.
Standing timidly by the cubicle entrance, as if summoned to the principals office.
Jasper thought she looked like the saddest women on earth, eyes sunk in hollow
cavities, thin lips desperately attempting a smile. She teetered in grey-black pumps,
long outgrown and scuffed at the toe.
Poor women, thought Jasper, what happened?
He looked up at her again, saddened by her presence.
She needs what I needed - a taste of happiness, if only for a fleeting moment, the
cleaning juice of kindness. Jasper was still dripping in it, sticky and sweet, ready to
rinse it off and bestow it upon another sorry soul.
So how can I help you Mrs
He reached for her file, glancing at the name.
Mrs Gore?
She nodded, with an air of remorse and opened her mouth.
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My husband was killed in an accident just about two weeks ago, leaving no will or
superannuation in his wake. As you may well know the Global Financial Crisis is not
in my favour. If I sell the house, the money will go straight to the bank and Ill be
living off nothing. Financially Im unstable, emotionally Im in a similar state. I just
need a basic loan to get back on my feet.
Dark empty eyes stared back at his, reading him like a glossy magazine, scanning and
flicking through his personal pages. He hesitated, undecided as to what should be
done next.
He stood up
Peering outside his felt-lined cubical,
checking.
Then, slowly lowing himself back down,
he lent forward.
Look, Mrs Gore, Im not supposed to do this. But something delightfully curious
happened this morning.
A skerrick of excitement flashed across his eyes
And now, for no particular reason, I feel like returning that.
Her brow furrowed, she wasnt following.
He reached across the laminex table and grabbed her tender hands.
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I had a revelation this morning, Mrs Gore. I was an unhappy man, a city ghost,
wandering in the ebb and flow of nothing. But this morning, by chance, something
beautifully coincidental happened to me.
One cup of coffee.
Thats all it took!
He realised he was shouting at the frail woman, and lowered his voice to an audible
whisper.
Mrs Gore, Im going to give you the loan. If you had come yesterday I would have
sent you away. If you came tomorrow, I probably wouldnt be here. But, Mrs Gore,
you chose the right day to come, today, where anything and everything can change a
lifetime, someone elses, if not your own.
A small sliver of smile had manifested itself upon the womans face as she watched
him floundering around.
Here, sign this.
He handed her a sheet of thin paper embossed with a silver stamp. And she signed it,
half confused and relieved. As she rose up to go, the velvet folds of her mouth
opened.
Thank you. Who knows what would have happened if it wasnt for your kindness
And with that, she pulled on her blue hat and turned to go, leaving Jasper to reminisce
his deed.
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*
Jasper went on temporary leave,
to drown his greyscale being in the fluorescent nature of the world.
He hung up his tie, packed a bag and locked the sterile apartment shut.
His stiff suits now collect dust.
Three was Russell
No emotional health.
*
He couldnt believe it.
And for four bloody months.
Tanyaahhh
He cursed himself for being so complacent.
She sat on the bed, looking with large apologetic eyes. He knew she was sorry, that
she still loved him. Tanya was disgustingly beautiful in that way.
Look Russ, it wont happen again, I promise, baby.
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Hell, the children Tanya, they know, how can you stand that?
But everything can go back to normal right?
Thin tears carved his cheeks raw; he hated emotions he couldnt control.
No. Youre going to have to go. Just piss off Tanya, you blew it
He looked away - hurt, embarrassed and ugly with anger, so much that thick veins had
erupted around his temples.
It was evident his fury ridden appearance petrified Tanya. She got up and slunk to the
open caravan door.
Keep the children. Get to know them Russ, its time you did.
Then, taking one last look around, she stepped down the bessabrick and vanished
amongst the sea of white tin homes. Russell was left alone, the metal door banging in
the wind; drumming to his elevated pulse.
There in the hallway, two faces peered from behind the door. The little boy was
quietly sobbing, stippling fat tears on the carpet. The girl had her arm around the boy
and was looking intensely past Russell, out to where Tanya had walked off.
What are you looking at? Get back to bed
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The little boy retracted into the darkness, but the girl remained; large brown eyes
fixed on the night which had just swallowed her mother.
Go on Marley, get
One last look, then she was gone. Leaving Russel kneeling by his bed, running over
what had just happened.
*
Multitudes of dishes were colonising the sink, and a thick wet odour draped itself over
the tiny caravan. Russell looked around; it had been months since she had left and still
her presence was distinguishable. He wanted her gone, but it hadnt happened.
Outside on the pavement, his two children, Ben and Marley played, rolling Easter
eggs through the concrete cracks.
The radio blasted Easter jingles throughout the caravan park. But the celebration was
lost on Russell; he shouldered a large work bag, laced his boots and unwrapped the
foil off a melted egg, squeezing it into his mouth.
Working on a public holiday, He thought
What a fucking drag.
But because of the Easter parade, the city would be bustling, and he needed the
money.
Badly.
Russell stepped down onto the gravel tarmac and set off into the heart of the city, not
bothering to wave goodbye to his children.
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The traffic moved like a steady tide, leaving black marks on the freshly painted street
zebra. Russell stood in the middle of the crossing, legs evenly spread to a salute
position, left hand gripping the sign, rotating it, STOP. His mind wandered freely,
contemplating his wife,
life
and kids.
After ten years, he still felt like a stranger to his children, no more their parent than
any of the pedestrians surrounding him. But he hadnt wanted a child, let alone two.
When he found out about Marley he tried to push Tanya down the stairs, but she was
determined to have the baby, the maternal cow had punched him back. SLOW. The cars
zipped past like antelope, herded by the large busses behind. Russell stood dead
centre. STOP. He recounted the night he found out about Tanya and her cheating. The
rage that engulfed his body was uncontrollable, Tanya was his and no other scummy
bastard was to have her. Why did she do it? Was it because he was a nobody? A lowly
roadside builder? A nothing? He never met the guy, but he was sure he wasnt a
builder - probably some big wig up in the towering glass prisms. Russell looked up at
the skyscrapers, squinting, crows feet treading lightly beside his eyes. Beep.Yes, he
was definitely up there. Beep.Actually, he was probably at home enjoying the public
holiday. Beep. Rich inconsiderate fucker.
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BEEEEEEEEEEP
Russell swivelled around, suddenly aware that he hadnt been before. A fuming driver
sat in the confines of his delivery truck. The simple act of daydreaming on the job had
halted the traffic, and cars and busses which otherwise would be flying down the road
were approximately eight seconds behind their parallel selves. The fluctuation of this
eight seconds altered reality
And a life and a marriage were saved.
Russell would never meet Ira but, further down the road her husband would avoid
being crushed by a delivery van, all because Russell held up traffic.
SLOW. The cars began to file past the crossing, eager to reach their Easter destinations.
But as the seventh car was approaching, a blurred blonde raced onto the crossing. It
was obvious she was in a hurry, her high pony tail wobbled as she ran and a pair of
keys made music to the beat of her stride.
Hey! Stop! What the hell are you doing?
But she proceeded to run. On the other side she turned and, looking at Russell
sincerely, she shouted,
Sorry!
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Then she was off, light blue t-shirt distinctly noticeable amongst the neutral commuter
garb which surrounded her.
Another man went to follow her lead and stepped out onto the road.
Stop, is it that hard to wait for my signal?
The man stepped back, obviously annoyed, but didnt say a word. Instead he just
furrowed his brow and looked down to his shoes. Russell noticed there was something
unusual about the plump mans face. Typical fat office slob. Pathetic. He was out of
proportion, peculiarly disjointed. TheF man looked up and wiped his nose with the
sleeve of his jacket. It was the nose. Something about it was off.
Too small, too petite, too feminine.
The man noticed Russell and opened his mouth to say something. But in a flash,
Russell rotated his sign to slow the traffic. STOP. And the man was gone, hurrying into
the glass revolving doors on the other side.
*
The Easter parade was dismal. A light dusting of rain had made the costumes soggy
and the crowds irritable. By late afternoon the traffic had slowed down to a whisper
and hardly anyone perused the pavements. Yet Russell still stood in the crossing,
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slowly rotating his sign absentmindedly, thinking about what to do with Ben and
Marley.
*
The kids were still playing silently on the pavement when Russell returned home at
dusk. Easter foil lay around their silhouettes, glinting orange with the setting sun.
Neither of them looked up.
I'm heading in to make dinner; itll be ready in fifteen.
Yeah, OK
Their disinterest stung like citrus juice. The rude little pests didnt even bother to look
up. Inside was dark and quiet; a cold stony solemness filled the room. Dinner would
be baked beans again.
They played outside for quite a while, lost in their perfect game, illuminated by the
streetlight. But when the chill got too biting, Ben and Marley reluctantly came in,
concealing their shivers behind tightly crossed arms.
Im not hungry.
Neither am I.
Plus, we had that last night.
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The boys disappointment was evident; he looked at the steaming bowl of beans and
then up at Russell.
Im going to bed.
The bluntness of his words tore at Russells chest and he watched with increasing
anger as the little boy shuffled down the hallway. Ungrateful little shit. Marley stayed,
sitting down carefully and staring at her food; eating it with her eyes.
An
Awkward
Silence
Descended
Russell found it hard to look at the girl; she was so much like Tanya. He just wanted
to hit her. He looked at his plate of beans instead.
Where did mum go?
Her sharp features hacked at him like a saw. Jesus, thought Russell, interrogated by
my own bloody daughter, hows that? She continued to stare at him, the swinging
table lamp reflecting in her pupil.
Swing.
Swing.
Well, she left us. Decided to go somewhere else.
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Swing. Swing.
Will she come back? Or do we have to stay with just you?
Swing.
Russells hand shot out and steadied the lamp.
I dont think shes coming back for a while.
A flash of sadness and then Marley was neutral again.
OK, Im going for a shower.
She took her plate to the sink and went outside to the communal shower block. What
had happened? Tanya was gone, his kids hated him and his job was an
embarrassment. Where had it all gone wrong? Was there a time he could pinpoint and
say, yes, this is where everything changed, if I had done this maybe my life wouldnt
be so nothing? Or was this always going to happen?
?
?
?
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He poured himself a shot of bourbon, its warm soothe momentarily corking the river
of questions. Russell sat down in the springy armchair and poured another. He felt
hopeless. What had he done of worth? Nothing, nothing. He flicked the heater on and
replaced his shot glass with a cup. He poured another. Slowly the warm feeling
trickled down his insidesand his emotions heightened.If everything was prewritten,
why had he gotten such a stunted chapter in the book of existence?Or, if it was
reactive, he wanted to find those people who had influenced his life, ignorant little
bastards.He wished he couldrewind the split second thatdragged him down this
shithole, if only he knew what it was. Russell was aware of the door opening slightly,
tiptoes down the hall way and into bed. It must have been Marley but the room was spinning
and Russell couldnt see a thing. A cold dry darkness cloaked his mind and he blacked out,
fully clothed on the springy armchair.
*
Pounding. Pounding. Pounding pulses violently throbbed his brain. Like a tiny man
was inside his head, crashing cymbals and stamping around in a raucous masquerade.
Russell squeezed himself out of the heavily moulded armchair and glanced at the
microwave clock.
.
Shit. The booze had hit his head hard and he had slept in. Two packed school bags sat
at the rusted door, waiting. Marley was in the kitchen, trying to slice cheese with a
butter knife, stupid idiot. Ben was brushing his teeth in the shower block. It was
obvious the kids were proving they didnt need him, they didnt want him. It was a
cruel twist of the knife. But Russell could play that game as well.
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Lets go, time for school.
A sharp reply came from the kitchen.
We know, weve been up for ages. You were passed out; we couldnt wake you, but
its OK not like that hasnt happened before.
Wow. Russell wanted to bash her face in.
Yeah, whatever, get off to school.
She packed a mangled sandwich into each bag and then stepped out the door, with not
so much as a goodbye.
Takes after her mother, cold, icy, devil child. Russell was fuming. He was not looking
forward to another day on the roads, not in this mood.
*
But what Russell didnt know was that a simple roadside eaves drop would alter his
perception completely. He was drilling concrete to dust when a businessman stopped
by the construction to take a call.
Hello, yes, speaking.
No, Im his son.
He was fine last time I checked the nursing home.
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Yes, that was six months ago.
Is he in a stable condition? I cant make it right now, Im quite busy. But I can
arrange someone to pay the bill if you want.
Im sure, yes. If hes not about to die Ill come in a few weeks, when work clears up
OK thanks; speak then.
And with that the man was off, having just been told his father was on a deathbed.
Russell stood there, drill in hand. Did he want his children to emotionlessly organise
his funeral? Did he want them to dread visiting when he was old and frail? And in an
alternate reality, where one Russell would have died lonely, this Russell decided to
make an effort and bond with his children after ten years.
The switch Russel flicked wasnt a swift clean-cut transformation. Russell would
never become the perfect TV dad and he knew that. Baby steps were the best way to
gain respect from Ben and Marley. But he knew one way to a childs heart.
*
They couldnt believe it. An outing, with Russell, for ice-cream. Marley bit her lip
raw with nervous anticipation and Ben systematically went through all the possible
flavours. By the time they got into the city, it was dark and a navy velvet had
descended, tiny moth holes illuminating the CBD below.
OK, out. Were here.
Both the children looked at their father with uncertain eyes. Was he for real?
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Well go on, get out or the offer will expire.
They shuffled out quickly and headed for the neon milk bar sign. Inside there were so
many decisions. With only one choice, multitudes of flavours would go untasted. Ben
looked overwhelmed; what would happen if he got this flavour instead of that one?
He ended up getting simple vanilla in a cup and went outside to wait for Russell and
Marley by the car.
Out of the corner of his eye, Russell watched Ben sitting on the edge, tossing his
silver change into the large fountain. And for the first time in a while, the deep frown
creases lifted off his forehead and he grinned at the little boy.
Back in the car, as Ben and Marley were falling asleep to the sound of car tyres
navigating tarmac, Russell turned around.
Hey Ben, what did you wish for?
The little boy was barely awake and struggled to answer.
For everyday to be like this.
His eyes began to close. Ben was unaware that in some other dimension he gave his
change to an elderly woman. Nor did he know his fathers daydream had saved her
husband.
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No, Ben wasnt concerned about these alternative timelines; in fact he didnt even
know they existed. The only thing concerning Bens five year old mind was the now;
the happy moment with his father and sister. Infant dreams washed over him as he
closed his eyes and drifted off.
THE END
But in your alternate reality, you never started.