What colour is a horse's neigh?

The horses in the stable neighed spiritedly, as the wind picked up outside. The sound rippled, black and white, down old Jimmy's spine, like a finger running through the octaves of a piano; from High C to low.

Green

Entered for the Sunday Scribblings prompt - Woods

Green eyes glint in the darkness, betraying the malevolence obscured and watching deep within the shadows of the leafy undergrowth. An evil presence lurks, blending into the landscape; stealing into the scene with a creeping slipperiness, like a menacing oil slick spreading its vile intent atop a benign ocean.

An oblivious emerald parrot fans its jewel-coloured feathers on a low branch, while other avian varieties, sensing the depraved, spontaneously flee, screeching for others to follow suit and escape to higher ground, but the warning is unheeded by the emerald parrot .

All is too quiet in the forest now; an uneasy hush has spread throughout the lush woodlands; only the low tinkling of leaves and haunting creak of damp wood rubbing against damp wood can be heard.

The emerald parrot is lulled into a false sense of serenity as it is gently swayed in the branches; natures conspiracy. Even the orchestrating frogs inhabiting the reedy pond nearby, appear to be caught, mid-croak, holding their breaths and waiting in anticipation for the regrettable; the inevitable.

Glimmering eyes hold fast to the object of its desire. A supple body lowers, crouching in readiness to strike. Glowing green eyes fixate; ebony pupils dilate; a heart within an agitated chest, hastens; muscles tense and adrenaline courses through plump veins.

Without warning, a lithe, auburn body springs from the dark conspiring brush. A solitary screech rings out as a single emerald feather drifts upon the invisible crest of a final breath.

Falling. Spinning. Drifting.

In final flight, the feather gently comes to rest. It lies motionless upon the damp forest floor; hidden and blending with the moist mosses, Baby Tears and unfurling tendril of ferns.

For a moment all is quiet, but for the sound of quick loping footsteps padding stealthily back into the cover of dark shrubs and shielding leaves. A Lark calls from a distant treetop. It is a question. It is a query as to whether the deed is yet done. Somewhere through the foliage, desperate grunts and tearing ensure, and the sounds of beastly gorging soon follow.

The pond frogs breathe out. Their simultaneous sound is a symphony of disquiet, functioning to obscure that unbearable partnership of sound: consumer and the consumed.

Charlie

I remember when Charlie died. It shouldn’t have been as traumatic as it was, considering I was raised on a farm where death was a necessary and demonstrated way of life. Chickens were beheaded and plucked, on demand; pigs were slaughtered and strung up on hooks; rogue brown snakes had their heads blown off with a .22, and kangaroos lay bloated and mangled along the highway. These occurrences were known and accepted, but Charlie was not like the other animals. He was one of us.

Charlie, an affectionate ginger tom, fathered most to the farm cats that inhabited our yard, along with many of the feral varieties that squealed in the scrub in the night. Charlie was the only pet allowed inside, and could be found sunning himself on a bed, bathed in a shaft of light thrown by half drawn curtains. The burnt orange fabric casting a glow about the room, making his ginger fur alight like the sun.

Of a winter, he would bask in the warmth of a crackling fire and he would lap up the endless stroking provided by my younger brother and I; content to hear him lulled into a melody of gentle purring.

He was my mother’s cat, but he surpassed my history, so I remember him as ‘ours’. It was my mother who found him that day.

‘Dead’, she said.

‘Old age’, she said.

I was six, and in the middle of my evening bath when she appeared in the doorway to tell me the sad news. It was the first death-of-a-loved-one I had experienced, and I suddenly felt more naked than I had been only moments before.

‘Charlie’s dead. He died of old age’; as simple as that.

She left me there to wallow and wail; exposed and alone. No comfort was offered; no hugs through shuddering tears. I was in the bath. What could she do? Her timing was like months old milk.

I remember calling for Charlie the next day. Shaking a carton of dry cat food like a maraca, I did so in the vain hope that a promised meal might lure him from hiding. It did not.

Charlie seemed, quite simply to have vanished. I had not seen him dead. We had not buried him together, and my mother did not think to talk to me about my understanding of death, despite my obvious distress. Neither did I seek her wisdom on the matter, although an independent wondering about the afterlife began to fester in me; a theme that would become a considerable fixation some decades on. A fixation stemming from that timelessly puzzling first question, ‘but where did Charlie go’?

magic garden

“You appear to have yielded a crop of green umbrellas”, teases my husband on the way to watering his prized roses. “At least vegetables are useful”, I scoff after him, rolling my eyes. This is my patch. Travis, being the experienced gardener in the family, reluctantly surrendered the daggy part of the garden for my project.

I gaze at the apparent “umbrellas”. Their edges ruffle in the light breeze, like elephant ears mindlessly swatting flies. Many leaves have flopped, exhausted from heat; remaining upright only with assistance from tubular stems; the leaves, hanging over them like a sleeping toddler draped over the shoulder of a loving parent.

An organic aroma hangs in the air; earthy and pungent. It smells of comforting things; blue skies, flitting white cabbage moths and crumbly soil.

A phallic-shaped object peeks out from a jungle of leaves. With great anticipation, I wrap a quivering hand around its firm shaft and give a gentle twist. I am quite unsure of what I am doing – virgin gardener that I am.

My arm grazes a plant stem. Fine prickles irritate my skin like an old man’s beard during an obligatory greeting kiss. The discomfort forces me to acknowledge the mother plant, while my hands wrangle among her leafy petticoats.

The fruit comes away in my hand with a satisfying snap, leaving a warm green object to lie across my palm. Moist, white flesh lays exposed and glistening from whence it had been torn from its parent.

Delighted, I go in search of others, and find six more playing hide and seek in the thicket. Possibilities for tonight’s dinner file through my mind; saucy and sweet.

With my haul clutched greedily in hand, my plants suddenly appear even more despondent. Guiltily, I utter some token words of gratitude, though my guilt is fleeting. Ratatouille and zucchini cakes simply do not make themselves.

unfurl

Creeping vine

T'ward sunlight curl.

Entwining branch

In tangled whorl.

Newborn ferns

Reach and unfurl,

Midst shafting forest light.

© Strauss

9th May 2007

Image by David Blevins.

Red walk

Spike-heeled stilettos

roam the streets in wait.

Red Light District,

in the dark corners of the night.

Shiny leather boots

march defiantly as one.

The world's Red Armies

Unite the Communist front.

Winter pale toes

stomp the season's first fruit.

A silky red wine

born from luscious juice.

Bare Indigenous feet

dance The Brolga with precision.

Dry red dirt

swirling with the movement.

Dorothy's famed shoes

click at the heels.

Ruby Red slippers

Just want to go home.

Swollen ankles - mine,

throb from standing.

Red woollen socks

With a hole in the toe.

© Strauss

6th March 2007

leather gloves - Magpie 28/12/10

I found her driving gloves in the drawer of the hall room table. They lay neatly beside her keys; soft, smooth leather contrasting the sharp edges of cold metal and steel.
Carefully, I lift them into the light. It feels like a sacrilege. It is too soon. Too confronting. I am holding her hands; cold and limp.
I imagine her slim, elegant fingers outstretched in them, as I have seen many times in the past. These gloves are synonymous with her - a second skin.
Iconic images forge through my mind; her leather clad fingers wrapped around the steering wheel - leather upon leather squeaking with each flex and tightened grip, like sure, taut ropes against a ship's rigging.
A long elegant finger stretched skyward pointing out a hawk circling overhead as we huddle on a mound of ancient seaweed under a red woollen blanket spread over our knees; a brass wrist buckle glinting in the restrained winter sunlight.
Tentatively, I slip a glove over my clumsy hand. My hands are not slight, my fingers not elegant . The leather is tight around my fingers; snug and comforting. Bending my fingers, I wonder if the creases in the leather matched those of her palm and whether I could read her life through these same creases....if only I knew how.
The familiar aroma of well-kept leather is heady. She looked after her things as she looked after me.
Gently, I pull the glove from my hand. I stare at the gloves and swallow hard, contemplating the necessity of placing them back in the drawer; surrendering them to darkness for the final time.
"Keep 'em", a ragged voice strains from behind me.
I turn feebly toward the voice. Our watery eyes meet. Same eyes in different skulls.
With a barely detectable nod my eyes cast down to the gloves. "Thanks..... I think I will". Carefully, I fold the gloves into my coat pockets, quietly bid my farewells and leave.
I walk home with my hands in my pockets; her warm hands holding mine.