On a three thousand two hundred and fourteen acre property, a long way west of the nation's largest conurbation.
John took another deep swig and stared out over the bare expanse of his bleak inheritance.
For a second he thought, how had it come to this?
But he knew the answer, had learned it painfully. Simple ignorance.
Ignorance of the fragility of the land, of the water table, ignorance of the mercurial nature of the climate that once produced a vista of tall grasses and gently flowing water.
The pure ignorance of farming a foreign land as if it were a verdant English pasture.
He sighed, not for the first time today, you can't get mad at ignorance John tried to tell himself.
John stared down at the golden liquid, raised the scotch once more and looked out at nature's relentless spoiling of his plowed fields.
Neither these paddocks nor the rest of his land showed any benefit from the efforts of five generations of the Hudson's farming.
He slumped back into the cool canvas of his stockman’s chair and, glass still in hand, resumed his morose review of the past. The aged pages of his grandfather's journal lay flat on the weathered arm of the chair, its thumbed corners fluttering occasionally in the rare breeze.
The first John Hudson had sat, right about here, writing his memoirs nearly 200 years ago.
His fine hand had described this vista,
"It's lightly wooded, a mainly open space with lush tall grasses, the acreage is creased softly through its centre by a watercourse inhabited of the most beauteous wildlife."
Quite the paradise for a squatter to lay claim to, and for all that, John could bear no grudge or criticism of his ancestor.
Old John had written of the hard labour spent fencing off the land, backbreaking months clearing the scrub for crops and finally documented the bounty of harvests and the flourishing of his herd. He was a romantic scribe as befitted the age and fashion of those times.
From the sylvan prose John could clearly hear the copperplate boast in his patriarch’s achievements and could feel Old John's pride in selecting these superior lands. It was clear there was deep satisfaction from the rewards the land had bought the family.. There was also the clear presumption that the same land, well managed, would continue to provide wealth and plenty for future Hudson generations.
Granddad had no way of knowing what John inherited. The vast rural estate Old John selected had not always looked so lush, the soil held no structure for endless re-cropping, the land would not sustain the endless thirst and cut of cloven hoofed herds.
The ignorance was generational, as a child John could recall the joy of his father when a bountiful bore was tapped to irrigate the drying land.
John had learned the hard truths of farming this abused land, knowledge gained from the fatal errors of his family. The bore so beneficial for his father had in time lowered the water table, which in turn dried the river and parched the land.
These broad acres he looked out over while supping his last scotch were now void of fecundity, leeched of nutrient and most always cracked and sun-baked, a desolate landscape of heartbreak and regret.
John often got mad at the unfairness of his lot, had gone mad perhaps with the injustice of it all. Every prior generation had enjoyed abundance, ingenuity and prosperity. John was the only incumbent responsible for managing the demise of this pastoral empire. A banker's loan of more millions than can ever be repaid, a threatening foreclosure, eight consecutive years so unbelievably dry that income was something dreamed of on spreadsheets.
There had been one last chance, one small hint of hope in this year's business plan . A stock of drought hardened seed, GPS-guided machinery that would increase cropping and allow multiple harvests. The massive orange motor with it's computer controlled everything and bewildering attachments had arrived and performed to perfection. If it was not for the stupid amount of borrowing , John would have almost enjoyed the work. But the margins were wafer thin and the business plan cunningly flawed to divert attention from reality. The reality that everything depended on the success of this first crop.
This first crop's success was all John could focus on at every turn of the wheel, at every fill of the tank, at every close of day.
And he sat here now, sheltered by the porch's rusting tin roof, shotgun at his side, watching torrential rain cut away the furrows and wash the seeds away in a thousand flooding streams. A whole planting lost, a month of costs, a harvest gone, the loan defaulted.
He could see no possible solution.
No recovery.
No escape now from penury and the shame of failing to meet the challenge his forebears had left for him.
He could see that his hand alone had allowed the loss of the Hudson dynasty.
He pushed away Old John's journal and his hand fell to touch the cold hard metal of the trigger guard.
A cool soft stroke cradled itself around the back of his neck and slid down gently onto his shoulder.
"I hate the cliché," Margaret cooed in his ear, "but it really does never rain unless it pours does it?" She never wore shoes around the farmhouse and he was often surprised by her arrival.
His hand left the gun and moved up to hold hers.
"Have you been out in this rain?" She asked, kissing a salty drop from his cheek…..
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The theme for the Feb 22nd meet was either or all .... Rain, Rein, Reign or Bull. I chose rain. I used to like rain.
Short stories, poems and tales, some published, some broadcast. I'd love to get your thoughts. It is an enduring challenge to develop a thought, a plot, character and conclusion in a few words. I enjoy doing it, I hope you do.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
First Impressions
For the February 8 2012 meeting, tasked to write a story inspired by the Savage sketched image below. I was completely without an idea on this one so am surprised this story got written at all.
First impressions.
"West, is it?" She mumbled while looking down.
"Ah, yes, that’s right, Max West, I am here for an interview with Sir Thomas."
"Mmm .Was that for the Events management role Mr. er.... Maxwest?" She continued to not look at me.
"Um, sorry, that’s Max.. West.., my first name is Max, and no, I’m here for the Maintenance Manager role."
"Yeah right. Maintenance then... Look, take a seat over there, fill out this security clearance form and I’ll let Tommy know you have arrived." She thrust me a blank sheet of paper and started to peck at her keyboard.
"Um . look, sorry again, but this paper has nothing on it."
"I know", she drawled , pecking away with total concentration, "You.. have.. to.. fill.. it.. out … "
"No, I mean it’s a blank piece of paper, not a security form."
"Oh shit." She looked at me and smiled vacantly, "I’m stupid when I’m stressed aren’t I?" She left a pause long enough for me to realise she wanted an answer.
I waited too long ,
"No, not at all. "
And a tiny grey cloud shaded part of her fixed smile, which then vanished in a blush of action as she grabbed at and handed me a printed form.
I smiled back and headed for the seat, then I stopped short, paused for a minute and turned back,
"Ahhh, sorry, yet again, I’m not starting off very well here but…"
"Oh Jesus, what now?"
"Well, this is a pregnancy leave application form….. "
"Oh!, fuck fuck fuck. I hate this fucking place." She mumbled more obscenities and grabbed around for another sheet and glared at me so darkly I began to think it would be best if I just left.
A quick glance at the heading assured me this time I had a security clearance form and I retreated glad I had bought my own pen with me.
"Chrissy?" A noble sounding voice called as it passed down the hall. "Has that West fellow showed up yet?"
"Yes Sir Thomas she brightly replied." in a totally different tone, "He’s having a bit of trouble filling out his clearance form."
"Really?... Well, send him in when he’s done. And come in yourself will you?"
"Sure thing Sir Thomas" . She chirped cheerily and then reverted to muttering. "Fucking hell, like I got nothing better to do". And she shot me a conspiratorial glance that I had no idea what to do with.
The security form was two lines of print and just required me to sign and date it. I took it straight back to her desk.
"Well I don’t bloody want it." she hissed. I stood there a bit dumbfounded as she glared at me.
"Sooo, do I go straight in then?"
"Yeah, if you want." Still the blank stare. I began to move.
"Prick!" She stage whispered at me, "Of course you have to wait for me to take you in. You don’t just barge into see a knight of the realm do you? , Idiot!". And she cut in front of me to open the carved oak door, and sweetly smiling announced,
"Good Morning Sir Thomas, may I introduce Mr Westmax, he’s here for the events role."
A short pause hung for a moment before Sir Thomas spoke,
"Oh Chrissy," he laughed, straightening his waistcoat, "You do make me smile. Come in Mr. West." He waved at me and grinned, "Don't worry, I have read your CV, I know you are here for the Estate maintenance role."
Turning he pointed her to take a seat behind me saying, "Chrissy do sit there, scratch down your thoughts as the interview goes along and we can compare notes, okay?"
"Certainly Sir Thomas." She smarmed.
~
'Max, you too, do take a seat." he gestured me into a boardroom style swivel chair as he dropped back into a leather monstrosity behind the vast inlaid desk.
"Now Max, you’ve been through all our standard interviews now, today is just a, me getting to know you sort of chat, I simply want to ask you a few background things, is that alright?"
"Yes certainly Sir Thomas, anything you want to know….."
And the interview sort of progressed from there through the usual queries about education, hobbies and interests , experiences and general chat really.
"So tell me" , he paused, well into the interview now, "How do you find the weather here? A bit colder than in Sydney right?"
"Oh, I’ve got used to it now, you know, I have a puffer jacket for the colder days if I’m out and about." I became aware of Crissy scratching on her note pad behind me.
"Hmmm do you walk much, through the dales and such?"
"Yes a little bit, we try to get to different places when we can."
"Do any shooting?"
"Well, no actually. Last thing I shot was a duck with a air rifle when I was a kid." More scratching from Crissy.
"So what sort of outdoors stuff are you into then?"
"Well, .back in Sydney, all the water sports, surfing, sailing, you name it I was into it."
"Got webbed feet have you?"
"Well not quite, not here anyway, I’ve tried your indoor swimming, its not the same, you know?"
"Yes, I guess not…So tell me ,…. West, …….where does that surname come from?"
"Oh that’s a long story, Short answer is the family moved from Denmark to the USA in the 1700s and then to Australia for the gold rush in the 1800s."
"So you have Viking American roots. That’s a strange mix…"…He ran his hand through his thick grey hair and concluded, "Look I think we are just about done here, one last question. Are you a smoker?"
"No, or a reformed smoker really, about ten years now."
"Oh? Good. Me too. How did you give up."
"It was tough, I did it on my own, probably should have had help, I was a moody fellow there for a while" and even he was noticing Crissy's committed note taking now.
Yes, I'm sure". "Anyway, Max, times up, thank you for coming in. Chrissy and I will compare notes and we’ll be in touch in the next day or so…"
He rose smiling, shook my hand firmly and directed me to leave by the same door asking me to close it behind me.
As I walked past Chrissy I saw the caricature of me she had drawn on her pad. Most grotesque, I hoped she would not show it to Sir Thomas.
From behind the closing door as I walked from the outer office, still clutching my security clearance form, I heard his raucous guffaw.
It gave me little hope of being offered the job.
First impressions.
"West, is it?" She mumbled while looking down.
"Ah, yes, that’s right, Max West, I am here for an interview with Sir Thomas."
"Mmm .Was that for the Events management role Mr. er.... Maxwest?" She continued to not look at me.
"Um, sorry, that’s Max.. West.., my first name is Max, and no, I’m here for the Maintenance Manager role."
"Yeah right. Maintenance then... Look, take a seat over there, fill out this security clearance form and I’ll let Tommy know you have arrived." She thrust me a blank sheet of paper and started to peck at her keyboard.
"Um . look, sorry again, but this paper has nothing on it."
"I know", she drawled , pecking away with total concentration, "You.. have.. to.. fill.. it.. out … "
"No, I mean it’s a blank piece of paper, not a security form."
"Oh shit." She looked at me and smiled vacantly, "I’m stupid when I’m stressed aren’t I?" She left a pause long enough for me to realise she wanted an answer.
I waited too long ,
"No, not at all. "
And a tiny grey cloud shaded part of her fixed smile, which then vanished in a blush of action as she grabbed at and handed me a printed form.
I smiled back and headed for the seat, then I stopped short, paused for a minute and turned back,
"Ahhh, sorry, yet again, I’m not starting off very well here but…"
"Oh Jesus, what now?"
"Well, this is a pregnancy leave application form….. "
"Oh!, fuck fuck fuck. I hate this fucking place." She mumbled more obscenities and grabbed around for another sheet and glared at me so darkly I began to think it would be best if I just left.
A quick glance at the heading assured me this time I had a security clearance form and I retreated glad I had bought my own pen with me.
"Chrissy?" A noble sounding voice called as it passed down the hall. "Has that West fellow showed up yet?"
"Yes Sir Thomas she brightly replied." in a totally different tone, "He’s having a bit of trouble filling out his clearance form."
"Really?... Well, send him in when he’s done. And come in yourself will you?"
"Sure thing Sir Thomas" . She chirped cheerily and then reverted to muttering. "Fucking hell, like I got nothing better to do". And she shot me a conspiratorial glance that I had no idea what to do with.
The security form was two lines of print and just required me to sign and date it. I took it straight back to her desk.
"Well I don’t bloody want it." she hissed. I stood there a bit dumbfounded as she glared at me.
"Sooo, do I go straight in then?"
"Yeah, if you want." Still the blank stare. I began to move.
"Prick!" She stage whispered at me, "Of course you have to wait for me to take you in. You don’t just barge into see a knight of the realm do you? , Idiot!". And she cut in front of me to open the carved oak door, and sweetly smiling announced,
"Good Morning Sir Thomas, may I introduce Mr Westmax, he’s here for the events role."
A short pause hung for a moment before Sir Thomas spoke,
"Oh Chrissy," he laughed, straightening his waistcoat, "You do make me smile. Come in Mr. West." He waved at me and grinned, "Don't worry, I have read your CV, I know you are here for the Estate maintenance role."
Turning he pointed her to take a seat behind me saying, "Chrissy do sit there, scratch down your thoughts as the interview goes along and we can compare notes, okay?"
"Certainly Sir Thomas." She smarmed.
~
'Max, you too, do take a seat." he gestured me into a boardroom style swivel chair as he dropped back into a leather monstrosity behind the vast inlaid desk.
"Now Max, you’ve been through all our standard interviews now, today is just a, me getting to know you sort of chat, I simply want to ask you a few background things, is that alright?"
"Yes certainly Sir Thomas, anything you want to know….."
And the interview sort of progressed from there through the usual queries about education, hobbies and interests , experiences and general chat really.
"So tell me" , he paused, well into the interview now, "How do you find the weather here? A bit colder than in Sydney right?"
"Oh, I’ve got used to it now, you know, I have a puffer jacket for the colder days if I’m out and about." I became aware of Crissy scratching on her note pad behind me.
"Hmmm do you walk much, through the dales and such?"
"Yes a little bit, we try to get to different places when we can."
"Do any shooting?"
"Well, no actually. Last thing I shot was a duck with a air rifle when I was a kid." More scratching from Crissy.
"So what sort of outdoors stuff are you into then?"
"Well, .back in Sydney, all the water sports, surfing, sailing, you name it I was into it."
"Got webbed feet have you?"
"Well not quite, not here anyway, I’ve tried your indoor swimming, its not the same, you know?"
"Yes, I guess not…So tell me ,…. West, …….where does that surname come from?"
"Oh that’s a long story, Short answer is the family moved from Denmark to the USA in the 1700s and then to Australia for the gold rush in the 1800s."
"So you have Viking American roots. That’s a strange mix…"…He ran his hand through his thick grey hair and concluded, "Look I think we are just about done here, one last question. Are you a smoker?"
"No, or a reformed smoker really, about ten years now."
"Oh? Good. Me too. How did you give up."
"It was tough, I did it on my own, probably should have had help, I was a moody fellow there for a while" and even he was noticing Crissy's committed note taking now.
Yes, I'm sure". "Anyway, Max, times up, thank you for coming in. Chrissy and I will compare notes and we’ll be in touch in the next day or so…"
He rose smiling, shook my hand firmly and directed me to leave by the same door asking me to close it behind me.
As I walked past Chrissy I saw the caricature of me she had drawn on her pad. Most grotesque, I hoped she would not show it to Sir Thomas.
From behind the closing door as I walked from the outer office, still clutching my security clearance form, I heard his raucous guffaw.
It gave me little hope of being offered the job.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
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