Go A Bit Wild Molly Duka
Excerpts from her novel in progress Fatherland.

I've emptied the fridge of you
and rearranged the sculptures in the hall
later on I might kick off my shoes and go a bit wild...'

It was years ago when he discarded the boxing gloves. His cold blue eyes now less menacing. Closer to peace. Looking to the east the sky a red ragged line in the fractured morning light. She opened the door surprised but pleased to see him. Then she noticed the look in his eye and with typical point blank brevity, he said, I've let you go Cindy, I'm goin' and I'm not coming back.

His footsteps receded as slow shock rose in her throat now suddenly dry, a profound physical ache enveloping her breast, her mind a shattered emptiness. That was Tuesday morning, a suburban street, filling his coat, turning the corner, his stride eased.

The gesture of throwing sultanas into his mouth brought back vivid images of 'running with pigs'... a theatre work he'd seen a few weeks ago. Pieces of broken porcelain strewn across the floor, an urchin crouched in the corner milking a bone... and who was that woman with the generous mouth? The director he guessed, she seemed to exude a maternal pride over the creation. So it wasn't just the piece in question, it was the sharing with a friend, it was facing the audience in the opposite stalls... guessing at vocations, degrees of contentment, feeling a little exposed, vulnerable. Now weeks later he was still getting flashbacks from the show.

Anyway that was the night when he realised he was adrift. He didn't catch the director's name. Freedom, he whispered often, but still struggled with residual emotions. Perhaps not the best frame to hang around a performance. But he left the theatre exalted, enthusiastic. He couldn't explain it in the moment but he was profoundly touched and although he didn't fully comprehend the story - he was content to let the images wash over him - rather than draw hasty conclusions. Walking home in the twilight he wondered about the obligations, the responsibilities of the average off the street punter. He read in a critique; 'her passion worked deep into those crevices of the soul that Beckett used to explore - the kind of work that inspires more journeys - congratulations to Ms Ogbyrne and her collaborators'.

Friday fatigued 6 hours on the couch drifting away. This is not what he wanted, didn't see it coming, heavy nova out for the count, couldn't raise a finger near dead, missed Antonio's birthday, came good later in the evening. Somewhere else now. Sunday morning rain, emotions awash, Cindy on the phone; listen I don't owe you anything... an explanation at least? - to explain where the love went? I'm sorry the door is closed, the house is empty... the straw-man ahs gone a'rovin.

Kilgour Street

Kilgour Street. street of first sorrows. The balcony a flutter of torn knickers, shirts, socks; tattered flags flapping over the rail, a carnival of despair. Listen, can you hear the old man creeping down the stairs, through the dinghy kitchen, wrapping his lunch in yesterday's Advertiser... back door clicking shut. Out in the yard bending to clip his trousers, throwing a leg over his trusty steed to pedal away through the frosty morn, the lively streets, off to the the blood-house... swerving to miss a truck... roaring; where'd ya get ya licence ya mug in a wheeties box?

Oh Matilda write me a letter, tell me you love me
and I'll be homeward bound...

Matilda at the machine of habit and despair grinding out her wares, toad in the hole cooking, the day slipping away, pink and fading over Woady Yallock soon be shearing time, weeks of bone-wearied nights no let up... a glaring crack of time when you know you are alive.

What do you want on the card? she asked. He couldn't imagine. Pretty young thing, her dreams already sliding sideways locked up it seemed in a room full of broken ladders. Where did she think she was going anyway? - poking fingers into the rotting corpse of democracy waiting for the starry end the impossible miles clawing at the sun, pack another pipe a hefty tome on politics slips off the bed, crashing into the abyss her face aglow in the flare up... she blows a ring, eyes rolling back into the ether of forgetting, the pity of it, to be bridled at her red-cheeked age, downy sweet lips turning ever so perceptibly earthward, no more caravan nights, who to care, to whisper sweet any-things backing into the big darkness...

Headlong into an empty canvas... he was the only one Matilda'd ever kill art for, they traced loves' drunken fingers over honeymoon maps, laid out wet dream futures... and all the while menacing growls from behind the door, down the wire, turn up the music, bring more wine, him screaming; I'd kill to be normal.

They phoned each other many times a day, they talked for hours. Then one day Matilda announced, she was removing herself to a new abode and wanted to know his thoughts on shooting the cat because it was eating the birds. Removed by remorse? he thought, but kept it to himself. The she said.- almost as an afterthought... do you want to come?

A conundrum of snow and loss, waiting by the empty mailbox. Turning around, the tired streets, uncaring, hostile eyes staring through anonymous curtain slits... cold rain stinging his face, careful not to make a noise but the rusted squeaking gate hinges. The past caught up with him that's what happened... tugging at his sleeve... he saw the hole in the fence, made a dash... but before that, a little steam, sweat beads on the brow... nodding quietly his head attempting cool exterior but pressure building... steel walls expanding, creaking, and the heat... oh brother... the boiler about to blow... a young bucks' brains all over the landscape.

Molly Duka writer and freelance art journalist. Born Barringup WA and now resides in Greece.