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Issue One, Summer 2011
Persimmon Press
proudly presents
the inaugural edition of
Winged Seeds
for the summer of
2010–2011
conceived, birthed and edited by
Anthony Fennell
Bronwyn James
Alex O‟Brien
though, in truth, we are all entirely indebted to
Kay Rozynski
Kevin Brophy
not only for their guidance, but creating a subject that required this of us.
if you crave contact, details or magazine related information, please email
or visit
wingedseeds.wordpress.com
the cover was designed by
Alex O‟Brien
the views expressed in Winged Seeds, no matter how brilliant, inspiring or
troubling they might be, are entirely those of the contributors, and in no way
reflect the views of the editors.
all non-attributed images are used fairly and gratefully under the terms of
creative commons practice.
copyright belongs to the individual contributors, and no part of their work can be
re-produced, re-published – in whole or part – without the particular contributor’s
express written consent.
Contents Hans Ammitzboll North by South 6 Sarah Wreford Of Skin and Insects 15 Natasha Jansz The Other Side 23 Georgia Mill In Salt Water 29 Matt Lacorcia Of Stones and Feathers 38
4
5 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
North
by
South
words and music by
Hans Ammitzboll interviewed by
Anthony Fennell
Ima
ge
sou
rce:
my
ruso
.dev
ian
tart
.co
m
Song Number One – 52 bpm
7 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
AF: Which work of other artist/s in
Winged Seeds did you decide to col-
laborate with and why?
HA: I live near and work within the
bushland of the Mornington Peninsula
National Park, which also includes
coastal environments like Cape
Schanck, Bushrangers Bay, Flinders,
and Gunnamatta. It‟s strange and
maybe mythic territory: a ship-wreck
coast of sorts, and home to colonial
violence and conflict between Settlers
and the Boonwurrung people of the
Kulin nation. Yet today the land and its
frontier stories are covered over with
the sprawl of suburbia, its shopping
centres, wineries, restaurants, and their
consumerist narratives (which is why, I
suppose, the Peninsula boasts the label
of „Melbourne‟s playground‟).
It‟s a strange and alienating feeling
to live in and amongst the supposed
domestic lifestyle which has literally
and figuratively come to cover a his-
tory of violence in such a short space
of time. It almost seems like everybody
is playing a big trick and that the earth
is in on it too, and that maybe one day
the facade will slip and the streets will
fracture and swallow everybody up.
I guess that it‟s this mystery beneath
the surface (made more peculiar be-
cause of the simplicity of the surface)
that appealed to me in Sarah Wreford‟s
short story „Of Skin and Insects‟. For
me, the character of the mother repre-
sented the slipping suburban facade
and the tumult beneath calm appear-
ance – much like the seaside where she
takes her children – being both an ide-
alized safe haven for family fun and a
dangerous place of depth, mystery and
of course death.
AF: In which order would you recom-
mend that our readers take the scores
and the corresponding songs on CD
and where would be the best reading
and listening location?
HA: I wrote the first two scores and
therefore the first two songs on the CD
for Sarah‟s short story. They can be lis-
tened to in reverse order (if the reader
wishes), and I would suggest that as
© N
. J
an
sz 2
00
9
North By South 8
Song Number Two – 54 bpm
9 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
obvious as it sounds, the seaside – pref-
erably on a windy, rough, and lonely
day – is a great listening location. I
spent time at a beach in Westernport
Bay to get in amongst Sarah‟s short
story and its mood. The salty breeze,
the smell of seaweed, the squawking
seagulls and the sea stretching to the
horizon definitely fed into the overall
sound of the songs. Just don‟t get sand
or water in your instruments if you
choose to learn the scores at the beach!
The last score (written over two
pages), and therefore the third song on
the CD, seems a little dissociated from
the spirit of Sarah‟s short story. It
seems to possess an upbeat sense of ad-
venture, so perhaps it could be listened
to on the walk to the seaside to preface
the unsettling, slow, and pensive
sounds of the first two songs.
AF: Should our readers stick rigidly to
the scores and the specific instruments
as written, or would you recommend
experimentation?
HA: I kept the scores simple so that
there could be some experimentation.
The recorded songs on CD are inter-
pretations of these scores, because as
you can hear there isn‟t any piano and
there is a simple drum line in the sec-
ond song. I like the idea of using found
objects (that have acoustic qualities) as
non-traditional instruments. For exam-
ple, I have access to corrugated iron,
slate, wood, glass jars and gravel, all of
which can be struck, scraped, or sifted
to make interesting sounds. I‟ve been
in the process of moving house and
most of my instruments are packed
away, but I have a lot of cardboard
boxes lying around, one of which I
used as a makeshift drum in the second
song. So by all means experiment and
use the songs as a springboard to create
other soundscapes or even paintings,
photographs, short stories or poems.
AF: Were there other winds of influ-
ence, within the world of myth and
fairytale, which gave spirit to these
‘Bu
ffa
lo S
ku
ll P
ile’
(to
be
gro
un
d f
or
fert
iliz
er)
by
An
on
., p
ub
lish
ed c
. 18
70
.
North By South 10
songs aside from the work which they
collaborate with and accompany?
HA: I suppose there were other writ-
ings or certain images that fed into the
first and second songs which I‟d ex-
perienced around the time of writing
and recording. One is an excerpt from
the manuscript journals of Alexander
Henry, an early English explorer of
North Dakota (taken from Larry Woi-
wode‟s Beyond the Bedroom Wall):
„Jan. 14, 1801. At daybreak I was
awakened by the bellowing of buf-
faloes ... The Plains were black,
and appeared as if in motion, S. to
N. ... I had seen almost incredible
numbers of buffalo in the fall, but
nothing in comparison to what I
now beheld. The ground was cov-
ered at every point of the compass,
as far as the eye could reach, and
every animal was in motion.‟
„April 1, Wednesday. The river was
clear of ice, but the drowned buf-
falo continue to drift down by
herds ... It really is astonishing
what vast quantities must have per-
ished, as they formed one continual
line in the middle of the river for
two days and two nights.‟
These passages and accompanying pic-
tures suggested to me the bittersweet
nature of so many myths that take rise
and reside in contemporary Western
societies. That is, the great swathes of
buffalo that wound a ribbon around the
prairies and plains of America were
hunted to the edge of extinction at the
hands of human violence and hyper-
consumerism, and it is this approxi-
mate obliteration which has, to my
mind, most assuredly made them
„mythic‟.
So for me it seems as if the creation of
the mythic (or at least that which some
societies have deemed worthy to ele-
vate in remembrance or mourning) has,
to a large degree, destruction at its core
‘Bu
ffalo
Ga
llop
ing
’ by
Ea
dw
eard
Mu
yb
ridg
e (18
30
–1
90
4), p
ub
lished
in 1
88
7.
11 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
cont.
Song Number Three – 90 bpm
North By South 12
13 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
or as its springboard. Perhaps it is then that „mythmaking‟ is somewhat gro-
tesque: buffaloes often only remembered because of the violence that beset
them and deemed worthy of admiration after the fact of their near or complete
obliteration. It‟s troublesome that it takes the threat of their disappearance to
ensure their appreciation and survival. It‟s a very find line to tread and is one
which humankind constantly straddles, often without success.
However, having mythic narratives of animals (written in the „active‟
voice) within society may also be necessary to help restore mere memory to
reality, if not literally – in the case of the buffalo, bred back into existence –
then at least as a moral tale or omen to ward off inequitable, hyper-
consumerist human behaviours which so often bring about the annihilation of
other species.
The audio of Hans’s can be found exclusively online, free of charge, at
wingedseeds.wordpress.com. Ws
North By South 14
by SARAH WREFORD
interviewed by Bronwyn James
Ima
ge so
urce: S
ha
ire Pro
du
ction
s
I tried to ignore the smell of overripe fruit lacing my nostrils, tried to avoid look-
ing at their small, tender bodies waiting to be peeled and ripped open. But I could do
nothing about the noise. It felt as if the delicate skin of my eardrums had perforated.
A muffled scratching scratching was all the tiny shells in my middle ear
could do to make sense of the waves coming in. The ticking rhythm scrambled eve-
rything and I felt that I was being eaten alive, from the inside out, by insects click
click clicking their pincers through flesh.
The withered man beside me in the queue nudged his elbow gently into my arm.
Beautiful colour. He indicated my strawberries with a gnarled finger, smiling so
the pearly white of his teeth shocked me, and for a minute everything was quiet
again. My ears returned to themselves, noises and insects sucked back into a great
dark void. I peered, blurry eyed, at the pile of fruit and nodded, returned my atten-
tion to the concrete floor.
When I got home I held the keys carefully to the door, wanting everything to be
quiet, hoping there would be no metal scraping into the barrels deep within the lock.
There was one click. I shrugged the door away, placed the keys down on the bureau
and slipped off my shoes. I was hot underneath my jumper so I pulled it over my
head and it fell away from me like a petal. I wanted water. The shells in my ears be-
gan to echo.
I heard a knock at the door, the scrape of another key.
Kate? We’re home! The nanny found me in the kitchen, Henry in her arms.
They’ll sleep well tonight. Annie and Jack toddled in after her. I heard them mov-
ing, breathing, sighing through a dream, all static and shimmering. So I smiled at her
and took the envelope from the windowsill above the sink, exchanging it for Henry.
Of Stones and Feathers 16
I
She left with a promise that she‟d return in two days.
I turned to my children. Would you like to see the ocean? Shall we go to the
beach?
Annie and Jack chortled in agreement and Henry looked up at me with eyes as
big as moons.
unbuckled the children and they hopped out of the car, humming in its shadow,
waiting for me to release Henry from the strapping of his seat. Go on. I sung the
magic words and they came alive, skipped towards the grass of the foreshore to hunt
for sticks, rocks, feathers, charcoal. My little natives. I watched as their fair curls,
stung by the wind, shifted around their cheeks. Grit lodged itself underneath their
fingernails and burrs latched onto their clothes. Henry watched them too, between
his eyelashes, mimicking their coos with little gasping sounds and a wriggle in my
arms.
Let’s go to the water.
We fought against the onshore breeze, over the
scratchy, grassy dune to the beach. Wind seared the skin of
my face, pressed itself into my nostrils and down to my lungs. I let it sit there for a
second, as I had done every visit for years, and wondered if this angry, potent place
was something like another world.
Descending from the crest, Annie and Jack clung to my side again. They felt the
invisible string just as I did. I stopped near the bottom and we waited, taking in the
ribbon of horizon and the foamy lip of water that kissed the sand again again
again. I peeked down at their faces; they stood hand in hand, pious and as lovely as
angels. I touched their arms, one after the other. They understood and bobbed away
to trawl through the sand for more treasures.
I spied a rock jutting out from the dune and moved across to sit down, making
sure Henry‟s blanket exposed no part of his body to the breeze. He lay quietly on my
lap and we watched the twins against the smoky water like two gold medallions,
their soft, secret whispers floating back to us on the wind. My eyes burned. I felt a
twinge in my temple and gripped Henry‟s tiny wrist, rubbed my thumb over the
17 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
F
inside where the skin is translucent-blue. The children gripped shells in both hands
and stood ankle-deep together at the edge. I blinked and an insect pinched again be-
hind my eye. They shuffled around in the water and moved out to where it licked
their knees. I got up from the rock and padded my way towards them, Henry curled
into my chest. Jack swiveled as I approached, holding both the shells and his pants
out of the water. The hems were soaked.
Doesn’t matter.
He released them, exhilarated. I waded out, listening to the clicking and the
sloshing of the waves. I could feel water landing on my legs and arms and I could
see the nest reflected in the marble-coloured sky. I reached up to press my temples,
squeeze the bridge of my nose. I was waist high in water. The breeze whipped past
me, wailing wailing.
loorboards creaked. A shuffle. Blankets were tucked around me, pressed into my
sides, swaddling me. I could tell the hours had strung me along like a rag doll. My
insides were clotted, swelling with their own heat. My thoughts were soupy, es-
tranged from my body, free to somersault where they would, weaving in and around
the pincers. I lay back and listened to the soft clicking, deep down, reverberating
from the base of my skull in waves and waves. I tasted sea water.
Eyes still closed, I sensed a figure cut through the air, move away; the whirl left
behind smelled of tuberose.
Jilly, Jilly.
Yes, my darling, how do you feel?
Shadows flickered across my eyelids as she lowered her face to mine. Even her
breath was sweet.
You look a bit queer, Katherine. You came to me all wet and sandy. Did you for-
get your swimming trunks?
My tongue was sticky in my mouth and she pressed a glass into my hand. I
opened my eyes just a little and looked at her through the gaps, brought the rim to
my lips. Water swelled to my cheeks. I swallowed. And again. I was in Jilly‟s lounge
room, on a thick day-bed with a carved, wooden back. She sat on a stool watching
me over her glasses.
Are you hungry? Shall I make us tea?
Of Stones and Feathers 18
I nodded carefully. She snapped into life, a sail suddenly caught in the breeze. I
followed her with my eyes as she left for the kitchen, waiting for the clink of china
against china and for the dull thud of her feet on the floorboards. I heard her pick up
the telephone receiver in the next room, heard the low hum of her urgent voice
through the walls. She appeared a minute later with a tray and pink cheeks, resumed
her spot on the stool and began to place the saucers on the coffee table, then a plate
of sugar biscuits, a scorching teapot. I winced as every item touched the surface,
feeling like Jilly had brought her hand down hard onto the glass in a gesture of de-
struction. The sound was splinters and fragments inside my head.
Jilly handed me a cup, rippling and heady with tea. I sniffed it and sipped, liking
the heat on my palate that sent shocks of warmth into my belly. She passed me a bis-
cuit and I nibbled at the edge.
These are delicious, and the tea. Perhaps it’s because I’m a bit chilly. Is it loose
leaf?
Yes, from the shop on Main Street.
Nodding, I dipped the last corner into the cup and watched as a piece crumbled
away and dissolved into nothing. I swished the flecks of tea around and around, a
spiral, a figure-eight, making my own tides, the waves lapping against porcelain
cliffs.
I remember this blanket, Jilly. It’s heavy with memories.
Her eyebrows raised just a fraction, sliding above the frame of her glasses. I had
said something wrong. She put a hand on the woolly fabric, but I kept myself as still
as possible. The scratching intensified, picking at the fibres of my thoughts. I
watched her with a dark, thick gaze.
She tried again.
How have you been? It’s been – what – twelve months, is that right? Such a long
time ...
Yes, Jilly, a very long time.
Darling, is everything as it normally is? You seem cold ...
A great beast dug a talon deep into the soft parts of my head and wrenched it out
again. I spasmed and her face swam languidly before my eyes, but I squeezed a
smile to my lips.
Jilly, Jilly, stop being silly.
I breathed the rhyme of my childhood, while underneath something was leaking,
something precious, from the mesh of my battered insides. Salt still lingered in my
mouth, tingled on my lips. My skin was flushed. I felt strangely victorious.
19 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
The blanket slipped away and I felt myself float towards the window. Clouds hung
low over the trees and a deep blush had begun to stain their low, pregnant bellies.
The evening chill seeped through the window pane. I could see the water, whipped
and churning, from where I stood. Goose pimples wrapped themselves around me,
screaming the hundreds of spindly legs into action, urging the soft-shelled bodies
and snapping pincers forward.
The front door opened and closed. Jilly stiffened. The room shifted as soon as he
entered and I ignored him, hoping he would leave with little fuss. He didn‟t. I no-
ticed a thick pulse in my neck drumming against the fine white skin, beat beat
beating its way to my ears. I forced the stale air of the living room down my throat
and back up again in broad, square breaths. When I closed my eyes I thought I could
feel the brushing of a veil over the tops of my feet.
Then there was a pressure on my arm, squeezing into muscle like a vice. I looked
up at him.
Where are the children, Kate? Jilly’s already told me you were at the beach. You
should all be at home, like we planned ...
He couldn’t finish, but his voice stirred the loose
ends inside me, so I concentrated on holding eve-
rything taut. Jilly was up off the stool, flanking his left. He released my
arms and pressed his fingers into my face, holding my cheeks between his palms.
Ribbons of white pain sliced their way from the back of my eyes, tracing the curve
of my skull past the crown, down to the neck, to the delicate beginning of self near
the column of vertebrae. I pressed my eyes left into their sockets, avoiding his face,
looking over towards Jilly‟s dancing figurines in a row on her bookshelf. Lovely, I
thought. They had a cold strength in their fine wrists and ankles and, for a minute, I
was envious.
Why would you ask me that? My body was electric now, standing on edge like an
animal excited by bloodshed. It was a tale of bravery and beauty and I knew the end-
ing. The pincers applauded. My mouth twitched. I brought my giddy attention back
to the room, back to my husband.
We had such a wonderful time. I watched the whites of his eyes grow thick and
creamy around his irises.
Did you take them home again, call the babysitter back? Is someone looking af-
Of Stones and Feathers 20
ter them?
I didn‟t reply.
He had never hit me; he wouldn‟t now. Slowly, Jilly latched on to his arm and
withdrew him, backwards, carving them both through the truth towards the door.
Let’s go down to the beach, Katherine. James will drive us. She manoeuvred him
into the hall like a man blinded.
After driving a little way, we pulled into the side of the road next to brush as
thick and as grasping as claws. My Volkswagen was parked in front of us, the only
other vehicle along the foreshore. Both of them burst from the car. When I didn‟t
move Jilly opened my door and unclicked my seatbelt, tugging me free.
The wind had picked up as we made our way down to the water. We came to the
same crest of sand, the same breeze sprinkled with rain, and surged onwards towards
the blurry divide between the land and sea. Jilly‟s mouth opened and closed in
James‟s direction but I heard nothing except for the hiss of the wind and the hum of
nervous insects. He stood with his shoulders low, hands dangling at his sides and I
saw, through my hazy vision, his head bobbing, drooping like there was nothing left
to support it. I was repulsed.
Finally, they twisted themselves to face me, upwind, and mouthed questions I
couldn‟t hear. I knew what they asked. I motioned to the water, imagined stroking it,
running my fingers along its surface for a streak of hair, a graze of white-perfect
skin. My own hair was blowing around my face, into my eyes, but I was determined
to watch them as they stumbled forwards to the foamy mess, their shirts and pants
slicked close to their skin and begin to comb along through the weed, looking for the
beautiful, sandy mer-bodies tumbling beneath the surface.
© H
. Am
mitzb
oll 2
01
0
21 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
BJ: Would you rather feathered hands
or scaled feet?
SW: Feathered hands! How lovely. I‟d
accept anything which would increase
the chances of being able to fly. Feet
are unattractive in their natural state
(although while I think of it, mermaid
feet would be pretty) but all I can think
of are bird feet … gnarled feet … over-
sized feet … with talons and claws. I‟d
rather look at hands, or hair – feet are
less expressive, somehow muted. Feet
are practical. They help you to balance.
And provide the ideal subject for shoes.
BJ: As a child, which story were you
particularly drawn to?
SW: When I was quite young, it was
The Eleventh Hour; the perfect mix of
illustration and text. Then – of course –
it was Harry Potter. The first literary
novel I fell in love with was The Great
Gatsby; Fitzgerald‟s beautiful prose in-
spires my own. A favourite image is the
scene in which the green light lingers at
the end of the pier, when he is so aware
that there is something he wants but re-
alizes he cannot have. BJ: Life is much better with/when …
SW: You don‟t have to think about
money, and can do the things that you
naturally love. If I was in this position I
would write. Everything connects back
to writing for me, and not just the act
of writing.
I am constantly aware of it; being
drawn to words, following images, pur-
suing suggestions of narrative. That
hour after sending yourself to bed and
actually reaching sleep is when this
process happens in overdrive for me.
I have taught myself to be strict, in the
sense that I now force myself to get out
of bed to write down the thoughts
while they last.
BJ: Tom Thumb was no bigger than
his father’s thumb. Who would you
want to carry around on the palm of
your hand?
SW: Anyone I love, I suppose? I think
I‟d rather be the one being held. There
is that sense of someone else‟s vulner-
ability in carrying them that frightens
me. I‟m not sure I would want to be in
that position, to have that responsibil-
ity. I would much prefer to trust some-
one else than trust myself with being
trusted … psychoanalyze that! Ws
Of Stones and Feathers 22
the other side
Ima
ge so
urce: stea
mp
un
kw
alp
ap
er.com
/?p=
34
3
NATASHA JANSZ interviewed by Alex O’Brien
AO: Has a photograph ever captured what you saw?
NJ: I don‟t think that I‟ve ever actually wanted to capture what I‟ve seen. Whenever
I‟ve taken a photograph, I‟ve tried to see what I hope to capture. But most of my
photos turn out to be so far from what I saw and expected.
AO: Can you retire as an artist?
NJ: Not if you just stop creating, but if you lose your drive and desire, then yes I
think so.
© N. Jansz 2010
The Other Side 24
© N. Jansz 2009
25 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
AO: Is the fear to create internal or
external?
NJ: Internal I guess. It‟s not so much
that I‟m scared of creating; I just don‟t
want to feel like I‟m not good enough.
I can‟t separate what I create from my-
self. If what I create isn‟t good enough,
then I’m not good enough. And I don't
know if I can necessarily handle that.
I create when I know that what I‟m
doing is both exciting and valid. I don‟t
know who decides what constitutes
„good‟ though – that part of it sure isn‟t
internal.
AO: ‘In the eighteenth century the
word ‘art’ meant predominantly
‘skill’. Cabinet-makers, criminals, and
painters were each in their way con-
sidered artful’. –
Clifford James
NJ: I tend think of art as passion.
However, I don‟t know if I would con-
sider someone „artful‟ if they weren‟t at
the same time also skilled.
AO: Why do you think that people live
‘Goldilocks lives’?
© N. Jansz 2009
The Other Side 26
NJ: As much as I like to think and say
otherwise, I‟m as boring and uncom-
fortably comfortable as any of them
you‟ll ever meet. But most are oblivi-
ous to it and are happy living like that.
I‟m not.
AO: If you were to create a hybrid
animal, what would it be?
[Allow me to briefly preface Nata-
sha’s answer by saying that she is
deathly terrified of moths].
NJ: Okay, I think my hybrid animal
would be a fish-moth. This fish-moth
would prosper so productively under-
water that all the land moths would see
them and think, „you know what? That
is the type of life I want to provide for
my thousands of moth children. The
type of life that I never had.
And then they would breed with fish,
and lots more fish-moths would be
born. Soon, there would be no more
moths on the land, and I would live
happily ever after, although I may
never swim again.
AO: What would you do if you got to
heaven to find it was fluorescent? I
mean, it gives you headaches, makes
you entirely uncomfortable ...
NJ: There is no heaven. I don‟t think
about heaven or have any expectations
of heaven. I think sleep gives us a
glimpse at the practical experience of
death. We decay, and that is all. Al-
though, when I turn to religion to re-
solve my midlife crisis, I‟m sure I will
say otherwise. Ws
© N. Jansz 2009
27 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
© N
. Jan
sz 201
0
The Other Side 28
J ette has her jeans rolled to her knees and arms folded across her chest to keep the
cold air out, but also to show her contempt. Sophie stands slightly deeper in the wa-
ter, wearing a bathing suit. Jette can see the stretch marks on her sister‟s legs.
Sophie‟s arms are straight by her side, pulled down by a giant magnet beneath the
sand. In her right hand she grips a small, bronze urn, its weight barely registering
within her. She imagines the small, black body of her mother curled up at the base of
the urn. Slowly she wades out into the water. The surface is green and bruised where
bloodied clumps of seaweed rise. The two sisters stand partnered in a small bay on
an empty stretch of sand.
It has been raining and the sand is seasoned with dints. Overhead, the sky is grey,
sagging with heavy clouds that form an arc around them. Low scrub frames the
beach and behind is the main road, its cars muted by the breathy exaltations of the
sea. Over the road is a milk bar and caravan park, followed by loosely dotted houses,
climbing feebly into the hills behind.
Jette watches Sophie as she makes heavy steps, full of self-designated responsi-
bility. As she gets deeper, her arms become outstretched like a scarecrow. Jette is im-
patient, cold, and angry at the urn that has been rolling around her boot for the past
two weeks. She thinks of all the people, like her mother, having never shown any
interest in the beach, making their family drive five hours to scatter their ashes.
Somehow it would have been more appropriate to scatter them in the backyard, in
the lake across the road, or in her mother‟s dark room. It all seems like a trick.
At the funeral everyone approached Sophie and exclaimed how old she looked
and how she resembled her mother. Jette had stood by her side, waiting to be ac-
knowledged, to be told that her mother often talked about her too. But she was met
In Salt Water 30
by awkward smiles, the kind that signify retreat. Her dark hair and deep set eyes
bore no resemblance to her tall, fair sister.
The four year gap between them did not make Jette feel wiser, instead she felt
like warm milk trapped beneath its own skin.
Sophie removes the lid from the urn and held it away from her body. The wind is
moving on shore and she positions herself so none of the ashes will blow her way.
She turns to Jette who has tucked her chin upon her chest. Sophie looks back to the
urn and tilts it carefully, as if she were measuring it into a mixture. Before she re-
leases it into the water, Sophie pushes the lid back on the urn and exhales. She walks
quickly through the heavy water, back to Jette who says nothing as she dries herself.
„Not yet,‟ she explains.
„When? We can‟t keep coming down here!‟
„I thought I was ready.‟
„Ready? Soph it‟s got nothing to do with you. It‟s a pile of ash. All you have to
do is tip it in.‟
„No.‟
„Well I don‟t see why not. She doesn‟t care, she can‟t see us.‟ Jette spits. „She‟s
not living in that thing.‟
Sophie storms off through the low scrub. By the time Jette makes her way back
to the car Sophie is sitting on the bonnet, trying to soak up the faint warmth of the
cooling engine.
„I need to stay here for a while,‟ she pleads.
Jette is looking off into the distance. She moves towards the bonnet and exam-
ines Sophie, as if she were a strange bug with its legs flailing in the air. Sophie sees
Jette as a huge gourd, an unavoidable presence of thickness and curiosity. She is
about to say something when suddenly Jette is in the driver‟s seat, starting the en-
gine.
„No, wait!‟ Sophie jumps from the bonnet as Jette begins to back out.
„We can‟t go,‟ she chases after the car, which is moving away from her.
„Wait!‟ She screams, opening the door and launching herself into the passenger
seat. Jette says nothing, but spins the car out from the sandy car park. Sophie is sob-
bing. Jette launches the car over the main road and brakes suddenly, landing them
outside the office of the caravan park. Sophie looks up.
„Go and get a key.‟
31 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
E
line is woken by the sound of her daughter‟s howling. She flies down the hall
and into the room, switching on the light. Jette is lying on her back, her body con-
vulsing, releasing massive tears. Sophie is sitting up. At the sight of her sister she
begins to wail. There had been a man in the room, he had come in through the win-
dow and lay down in bed with Jette. He was hairy and his body was warm and
heavy, trapping Jette beneath a mammoth arm. For hours she had been lying stiff
while he slept, his body, so hot, almost burning her. Eline looks at the tiny window
above Jette‟s bed and smiles. She tells Jette that sometimes dreams can smell and
feel so real, but they are just puppet shows to keep our brain entertained while we
are asleep. Eline moves forward to embrace her daughter but she is met by flying
arms and screams. Jette‟s outstretched finger catches a feather of skin beneath its
nail and drags it along Eline‟s cheek. She stops, registering the contact of their bod-
ies. She clutches her face and retreats to the bathroom. She ducks her cheek into the
small sink, wedging it underneath the tap and lets the cool water run down the side
of her face. Eline stands up, she can still hear Jette‟s loud, melodramatic sobs. She
takes a face washer from the shelf, wets it and walks back through the girls‟ room.
Jette‟s sobbing becomes louder as she enters. Eline throws the face washer at her
daughter, the wet fabric slapping hard against her face. Jette is shocked and lies si-
lent while the water runs down her neck.
Later, sweeping the hair from the corner of her eye Eline rummages through the
darkness of the room until she locates her daughters‟ sleeping bodies. One of them is
soft, not just in touch, but in company. Eline‟s breathing slows at the sight of blonde
hair and luminous white skin. The other, is porous. She is often so quiet Eline is
barely aware of her being there and it is this ‘halfness’ of atten-
dance that is so uncomfortable. Looking into her eyes, Eline
knows there is a memory bank full of all the harsh comments she has ever said to
her. Her eyes are so dark that they could go on and on. Sometimes Eline does not
even realise her daughter has spoken until she wakes up in the night as the words
bubble to the surface of her mind. Eline touches her cheek where the scratch is.
Through the dark room there is a parting sound, like a fish breaking the surface of
the water. Jette can see her mother standing in the doorway. Eline turns sharply clos-
ing the door.
In Salt Water 32
I
A
In the morning, at school, Jette takes Sophie onto the embankment. They sit in
her den, a hole she has dug out of the side of the hill, no more than a disc just deep
enough to fit their bottoms. She takes their drink bottles and empties them onto the
slope in front. The water leaks like oil over the dusty ground, barely soaking in.
Sophie shrieks in amazement then takes one of the bottles and helps her sister wet
the slope before their den. Jette explains that this will help keep them safe from the
enemy. With arms flying and lungs bursting with laughter and excitement, Jette and
the older children launch at each other with sticks and other deadly weapons. Sophie
is the treasure and she is often stolen by the other children who lead her gently to an-
other hole in the dirt, where she waits for Jette.
voiding eye contact Jette sits in the car. Looking out of the windscreen, she can
feel Sophie‟s gaze from the caravan park reception. If she turned around Jette would
be met by Sophie‟s brow, pushing down onto her wet eyes, pursed lips and a long
deflated body. Jette grips the steering wheel harder and muscles twitch along her
arms. She cannot remember the smell of her sister‟s skin.
‟m not scared of it though,‟ Eline avoided looking into her daughters‟ eyes. Jette
could not resist. „Mum.‟
„What?‟
„How long have you known?‟
„Long enough to get used to the idea.‟
„Mum, you don‟t get used to it, it‟s not something you get “used to”, it‟s not a
fucking wart Mum. It‟s not like it‟s going away. Christ. Is that what we‟re supposed
to do? Get used to it?‟
„Jette I told y –„
„No, no you didn‟t, you‟re telling us now, now that you‟ve cleaned the house out.
We can‟t help you.‟
„I don‟t want you to.‟
Sophie runs to her mother, looking to her for support. Jette wants to crush their
33 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
S
embrace with the weight of her sorrow, but instead sits separate, lifeless. She will be
the dull thud of bass underneath a wailing melody.
ophie sits on the door step of the caravan in the fading light. Jette can hear the
telephone conversation through the antiquated door. She pictures the receiver‟s ear
withering with the recollections of their day. Her lungs tighten as Sophie pulls draw
strings through them. She looks down into the large pot of boiling water resting
above an eager flame. The curtains are drawn, but the sun still teases its way through
the fabric leaving the small interior swollen in an orange hue. Moving her face fur-
ther above the water, the steam forces her eyes closed and from there she lifts one
arm. Innocuously, she lowers it down into the pot, her index finger outstretched. The
tip greets the water. Jette waits while her body tells her lies. First, that the water is
painfully cold. Then that the water is hot, too hot for her.The water is bigger and
stronger than her, it is capable of taking over all the senses in her body and making
them scream in retreat. Jette breathes deeply and plucks her finger from the water. It
throbs in the highest pitch, but she can still hear Sophie through the door.
The orange light is making her drunk, her finger is
throbbing, but she has nothing cold to run it under. Clumsily she searches her sister‟s
belongings for some moisturiser or aloe vera, even her wet bathers. Her hand stops
bluntly against a cool object. Jette takes the bronze urn out of the tangle of clothes
and holds it tightly. She presses the hot tip of her finger against the cool bronze until
it doesn‟t feel cold anymore. Then she rotates it until she finds another cool section
to place her fingers. Sophie‟s clothes have been spewed from the bag and lie
clumped all over the small interior. Jette stands up and picks her way through them,
not letting go of the urn. She is gripping the urn so hard that she expects it to cave in
like an Easter egg. Her hands become hot and red and her face is sweating. The cara-
van is filling with steam from the boiling pot, and with the orange light Jette is find-
ing it hard to see. She takes the urn and walks towards the pot. The water is so noisy
that she can no longer hear Sophie‟s conversation. The steam has muted the outside
world; it is just her, inside the orange steam filled caravan with the urn.
The urn is fogging also, Jette wipes the steam from it, but instantly it returns.
Jette‟s cheeks, sear and grow tender red. Stepping towards the stove, she trips on a
In Salt Water 34
E
J
pair of Sophie‟s tightly rolled socks. She staggers and her face jolts forward towards
the stove. Carefully she stands up, her face almost grazing the side of the pot. The
steam is so thick Jette keeps gasping through it, as if it were too evasive to be tricked
into her lungs. For a moment Jette closes her eyes. They feel cool tucked beneath the
lids, but then the steam and the orange of the caravan pulse through them, as if they
have melted onto her eyeballs. Jette holds the urn over the pot, her hands growing
wet from the steam. Quickly she unscrews the lid and holds the full urn in her right
hand.
line holds a tissue in her hand as Sophie blows snot lazily out of her nose. She
wipes the snot from Sophie‟s lips and lies her back down in the cot. The hot water
pipes ring loudly in the walls as the bath is filled in the next room. Eline lays her
own head on the wooden frame and closes her eyes. She listens to Jette struggle with
her father, as he tells her to hop into the bath. His voice is unrelenting and she pic-
tures him picking her up and placing her in the bath. The splash of her body entering
the water is dull, but the screams which follow are piercing. Eline sits up and runs to
the bathroom. Jette‟s small body stands shivering in the bath, from her waist down
she is scarlet, the skin traumatised. Eline grabs Jette from the bath and runs the cold
water in the shower, placing the hot little body under it. Her husband stands, his eyes
glazed and face wet with steam.
ette‟s eyes are still closed. She can hear a soft sound like silk being pulled across
skin as she tilts her right hand and the contents of the urn slide into the water. Turn-
ing the stove off, she stands whilst the bubbles die down.
The water has a thin layer of dust on its sur-
face, the rest of the thick ash has sunk to the bot-
tom, leaving the middle clean. Jette searches the ashes for an
35 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
J
eyelash, a fingernail, anything that would tie her mother to the dirty substance. Jette
becomes aware of Sophie‟s banging on the door and realises that she must have
locked it. As it is unlatched, Sophie thrusts it open. She sees Jette burnt red and wet
standing over a pot, the empty urn on the bench. Sophie inhales, about to scream,
but Jette picks up the pot and walks towards her. Sophie jumps out of the way to
avoid the boiling pot, but Jette continues past her and out the door. Jette cannot feel
the hot metal burning through her palms. Sophie trails after her, screaming.
Other campers have come out to watch the sisters, one holding a pot out-
stretched, the other reluctantly following and pleading with her to stop. They cross
the road. Sophie stops screaming and starts crying, taking in huge breaths; she is
forced to stop whilst they shudder through her. Jette walks quickly through the bush
and onto the beach where she sinks the pot into the sand and collapses next to it. She
becomes aware of the burns on her palms and the tender flesh on the sand. Through
the scrub Sophie emerges, pulling Jette to her feet draging her to the water. Being
led deeper into the waves, Jette follows Sophie who holds her wrists gently. She
watches her hands as they are dipped into the water. The salt stings, but Sophie holds
them beneath the waves until the water cools them. When the sisters emerge from
the water the pot has cooled. They sit down, the pot between them and the sea.
ette has not been watching the petrol gauge. The car engine splutters out on top of
a hill and continues to roll down slowly, coming to a stop in the dirt on the side of
the road. The sound of the gravel beneath the tyres seems to echo inside the shell of
the car. They sit in silence for a very long time until Sophie opens the door. She
places her backpack on her shoulder and begins to walk along the side of the road.
The wind outside is cool but Jette sits on the warm bonnet and waits, opening up
her palms to the wind. Many cars slow down as they pass; cars with salt encrusted
surfboards and towels strung from windows and across backseats. None of them
stop, although a few come close. But Jette, sitting on the bonnet with her eyes closed
and palms open to the sky doesn‟t notice.
Sophie returns hours later, in a taxi with a can of petrol and a cold parcel of
chips. She fills the tank and starts the engine. The car moves off the gravel and Jette
sits in the passenger seat eating.
„How are your hands?‟ Sophie asks, not taking her eyes off the road.
In Salt Water 36 36
Jette looks down to her fingers covered in tomato sauce and salt. She brings one
of them to her face and licks it clean. Sophie laughs, looking at her sister covered in
salt and sauce.
„You‟re going too slow,‟ Jette says, but Sophie doesn‟t adjust her speed. Jette
sighs and looks out the window as light rain falls, being instantly absorbed into the
sea.
© H. Ammitzboll 2010
Winged Seeds, Summer 2011 37
WS: Do you relate more to the idea of
a giant or to Thumbelina, who is small
enough to sleep inside a walnut shell?
GM: I hope that I fall somewhere in
the middle. I‟m not too crazy about
walnuts.
WS: Have you ever considered, or at-
tempted, a translation of your text to
visual art, or conversely, visual art to
text?
GM: Hmm ... not until now, but that is
something I might have a go at.
WS: ‘I measure my life in … ’
GM: ... Meals, laughter and holidays.
WS: How, if at all, does Natasha’s im-
age of a girl holding her own hand,
either directly speak or relate to your
short story?
GM: I love Natasha‟s image, espe-
cially the fact that it is slightly asym-
metrical. I suppose the idea of feminin-
ity and a strong bond is reflected in the
image and (I hope) in the short story.
Ws
© H. Ammitzboll 2010
38 In Salt Water
Stones and
Feathers a poem by
Matt Lacorcia
The game is stopped and rearranged by juvenile fish.
This is the last call from the secret land of stones and feathers.
Bees scuff the tops of pollen-heavy buds,
opened since the morning
–will close up in the rain.
This light world has its own stones. They roll with ease.
Dusty landscaped hills and
cactus pricks in your fingertips.
Tweeze them out carefully to stop the pain.
This lesson teaches strength, and gritted teeth.
Water drips along the dusty ground
in rivers, snaking, collecting
a coat of dust as it moves – leather.
Leather strapped to legs, the skin of bucks.
Where are the horns?
Antlers should be here.
I keep pebbles when I walk in the heavy world.
The feathers are striped with brown and white.
The stones take the weight and hold it sacred.
The antlers are sharp, covered in glue.
Feathers spread, lifted by silk wind to cover them,
locked away and under wraps of block and grey.
They look like birds now.
40 Winged Seeds, Summer 2011
The game is stopped and rearranged by juvenile fish.
This is the last call from the secret land of stones and feathers.
Bees scuff the tops of pollen-heavy buds,
opened since the morning
–will close up in the rain.
This light world has its own stones. They roll with ease.
Dusty landscaped hills and
cactus pricks in your fingertips.
Tweeze them out carefully to stop the pain.
This lesson teaches strength, and gritted teeth.
Water drips along the dusty ground
in rivers, snaking, collecting
a coat of dust as it moves – leather.
Leather strapped to legs, the skin of bucks.
Where are the horns?
Antlers should be here.
I keep pebbles when I walk in the heavy world.
The feathers are striped with brown and white.
The stones take the weight and hold it sacred.
The antlers are sharp, covered in glue.
Feathers spread, lifted by silk wind to cover them,
locked away and under wraps of block and grey.
They look like birds now.
Of Stones and Feathers 41
WS: Do you draw on any mythical
stories to understand the world around
you?
ML: I think Orpheus is important. You
know, don’t turn around or Eurydice
will disappear? There have been plenty
of times when I‟ve turned around, to
check something before it‟s finished,
and lost out. Patience comes in useful.
Faith and focus together; I‟m always
trying to learn how to stay focused, and
not check that she‟s still there behind
me.
WS: The Brothers Grimm wrote a
story entitled ‘The Turnip’. What com-
mon object would you consider writing
about within a fairy tale?
ML: I rarely come into contact with
turnips. I like the idea of fairytales
about modern things, things that don‟t
seem right, like maybe some cursed
botox injections (aren‟t they all?) or
chewing gum.
WS: Do any of the three songs com-
posed by Hans capture or resonate
with the mood in your poem?
ML: Song number two – The warm
strums of the lead guitar, the feathery
scratches of the other guitar in the
background, contrasting with the heavy
thump of the low bass and drums.
WS: Do you tend to daydream/write
indoors or outdoors?
ML: I like to think outdoors, so I walk
a lot. The only problem is you need to
make sure you‟ve got something handy
to write on, preferably paper (and not
your hand, but sometimes that‟ll do, or
an old metcard). But when I‟ve got the
idea, I do tend write inside (better than
outside where wind flaps your pages
around, and Melbourne‟s constant
threat of rain scares laptops). Ws
1
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43
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