Tag: American Creek (page 1 of 2)

To chew on grass in the sunshine. To
lick at the yolks of eggs, or bright &
fern-dappled sunlight out in the yard.
The trees crack like whips & faraway
the southerly, the change comes. It’s
worst at night, beneath the porch, as
the spin dryer hums & the gums drop
leaves that flick at my ears before I

Betty Malvern with a bee. Here’s my
sisterly path, the secret way. Through
the woods, into the sunlight for a sec.
Token uniform a spot of brown by the
creek. Small whorls of dirt in the clear
water, like washing a coffee cup first
in a sink olf sudsy white, like a beach.
Clouded eyes now, smile erased by a

They don’t believe in fairies but I do.
You don’t believe in fairies, do you?
I have seen them, and you’re wrong.
I’ll bide my time, until they all come
back to visit. They like to hide inside
jacaranda trees. I hear their cries in
the purple flowers and the leaves. I
think about lots of things every day.

There’s fairies in American Creek &
today they’re probably being swept
out to sea, or wherever it is the creek
ends up, disappears. I feel sorry for
them – sometimes. Then again, dogs
are okay to talk to as well. They don’t
swim but they can dog paddle. As for
Cats, don’t ask me. Yes, I saw it, once.

I’ve seen them, too, in Beaton Park.
Dark eyes, lightning stripes. Surprise,
all ages, neverending stories. Here’s
my decoupage hat box, there’s some
kind of woven mat. Have you been to
Thirroul? I’ve read D.H. Lawrence’s
Kangaroo. You don’t believe in fairies,
do you? I didn’t think so. Look at you.

Don’t laugh at me like that. You’re
one to talk, dressed like a real idiot.
As for that haircut, don’t blame me.
You asked for it. Was I supposed to
do the talking for you? Some kind of
friend you turned out to be. Or did
I already ask you about fairies, huh?
Best wishes for the morons’ reunion

all the same. Alicia is the name. Do
not tempt me. I’ve got a book report
to prepare so, you know, see ya. Bye.
Is there an echo in here? Okay then,
get lost. Do I make myself clear? It’s
the same thing, year after year. You
do realise, of course, that I’m only in
year seven? Well, then can I ask – do

you play music? No? Me, flugel horn.
Okay get lost then. No, I mean it. I
don’t care. You could be all the tea in
China for all I care, or even Anastasia.
Of course she was making it up. Ask
anybody. Yes, well boys would spend
their time rolling around in creeks. It
just goes to show. What? Yes, I’m fit.

I also compete in orienteering. Good
luck with your assignment, then. Ha.
The time it takes me to write a single
line, or two. You guessed it: we could
have walked to Westfield and back by
now. Pity you missed the bus. Maybe
mum can give you a lift on her way to
Collegians. Running’s meant to be bad

for the calf muscles. Little Athletics.
Just don’t ask. Who of all people has
any idea what it means to win, and
then to lose it all. Kind of like a river
in the rain, a creek in flood, gold rush
dreams and literary drownings. Down
by the creek the peppercorns droop.
My two brothers, American troops.

The creek’s steam mingles with our
gossip, picking apart other peoples’
reputations, as we do. The morning
stream calls. I ran out of the house,
missing the fern by millimetres. In
a way this flood is funny. It washes
so much of the year away. It’s as if
we were caught stealing or smoking

cigarettes, Joni, me and Star. Durry
bombs deep in the lungs. The Alpine
green of mucus, the waxheads down
on South Beach. I saw my future in
that churning wave of debris. Star’s
jeans are way too tight for her to sit
down. She prowls the outside of our
conversations, keeping guard. We’re

sisters, too cool for North Beach, or
tennis. I’d imagine the courts are all
underwater now anyway. Blow the
semi-pros, their try-hard crews. You
lose. Like when Clint stayed up late
to watch Pat Cash win Wimbledon:
loser, take two. Still, a kid’s got to
have some kind of hobby that’s not

school. The rock bulges out under-
neath the drooling peppercorn tree.
I suppose that was a bit harsh. Nah.
That’s what big sisters are for, hey?
Ha. Pass me that, before it goes out.
Ta. What’s the time, anyway? Okay.
Yeah, I guess so. Don’t even mention
the boys. My tight school tunic hugs

me like a wedding dress, creamed.
Be glad to rip it off for the last time.
Here comes the post-storm breeze.
Cold against our pale forearms, the
miniature hairs. Sun’s coming out –
while American Creek sickens still,
clay-coloured torrents of hill vomit
rushing past us four teenage girls.

Watching the water swirl. Hey Jess,
Star goes, Jess. Demanding that we
watch, she dangles spittle above my
face. Daring her to suck it back inside
her mouth, half hoping she chokes.
Very funny, Star, ah how old are you
again? We’re laughing, though. Fuck,
we can’t help it. Older than you think,

says Star, passing me the burning
leaf. Jason and his magnifying glass,
all over again. They’d make an ideal
couple, if he wasn’t a moron. I must
tell him that, again. So many insults,
too little time. Just my way of being
kind. I mean it. What would he know
anyway. Star’s pointing me with the

stick, we get your mum next year –
like I care, or will remain. Year 10’s
the end of the line, my ticket, I say.
She laughs, in that knowing way. But
she doesn’t. Never will. I’ll save my
breath. Star lives just down the road
anyway, like it’s a kind of umbilical
cord that joins us, bitumen and all.