7wishes Table of Contents

The stories of 7wishes were written to keep my head above water, posted to alleviate the loneliness and isolation of nightshift, and have moved on from their humble bloggy beginnings as these things are wont to do.

The collection has been gussied up so as not to be an embarrassment in polite society and is currently represented by Sally Harding of the Cooke Agency (Canada).

7wishes

• for a day when the gravity is turned down
• for a pony
• for a day in which we are only allowed to talk to strangers, and are not allowed to acknowledge anyone known to us
• for real true amazing sleep
• that there is a little door in my room, only big enough to crawl through on my belly, with paint so faded and peeled it is no colour, it is all colours
• for silence
• for them to finally drop the bomb

7wishesII

• for a tree to climb
• for photosynthesis
• BAMF!
• for a white knight
• for reassurance
• for just once chance to see
• to hear

7wishesSpecialEdition

• for a bigger, better, blimptastic balloon

7paintingfiascos

• moar ass
• after the war
• before the other war
• unlimited power
• i love to fiiiiiiiight!
• when our powers combine...!
• omg its a velociraptor get in the car
  

7wishesIII

• for a world without secrets or strangers
• for a rock to hide under
• to save the world, one light globe at a time
• for foresight
• for the world to respect people on nightshift and during the day just stop it, seriously now, we’re trying to sleep
• for consequences and crocodiles
• for earthquakes

7paintingfiascosII

• GFS!
• GFSB!
• GFD!
• GFDUAG!
• GFP!
• GFU!
• GFA!

7wishesIV

• to say what i mean
• to know where the wind goes
• for validation
• to know the origin of all things
• to walk through walls
• for a little sunshine
• to be god for a day

7choices

• Predestined (to a point)
• c. Wait...er, where am I?
• a. Do I look like I eat peasant food, you obsolete calculator?
• a. Swim to the edge of the bed, find your clothes and GTFO!
• a. Throw the damn parsley porridge at the ButlerBot, throw the pillow at the ButlerBot, throw yourself at the ButlerBot, etc.
• c. Cry.
• c. HAMMER TIME.

7wishesV

• for more time
• to be king, I hear it's good to be king
• to live in the path of some great migration
• for it to be bleeding obvious
• sharing is caring
• for a bear
• for the revolution

Extra Love

• Arthur Miller's CYOA (with accordians)
• Mike's 7wishes Chinese Whispers
• Jaime's drawing of Florence the Bear
  

- to hear.

Paper cuts the webbing between my fingers, and I hiss, and with that hiss realise that I haven’t spoken in a week.

I think about saying something, in that empty elevator. There is nothing I have to say that is worth saying, so I say nothing. The elevator stops. I open my mail, carefully this time.

There is one letter, hand-written, and it simply reads; St Kilda Beach, Sunday, 7.00am. There is no name, no return address, and no postmark. It has been hand delivered.

I don’t know. 7.00am is early. I don’t much like it even when I’m paid to be awake at that hour.

In smaller writing on the back; if you do not intent to come, then say so.

I say nothing. There’s nothing worth saying.

No one misses my voice. Supervisors come by my desk to drop of work, rolling out instructions, and I only need nod. Friends ask questions, and I only need nod. The phone rings, and I’m told I have a package waiting at home. I nod. I can drift through this life without saying a word. Words are force direction movement intent, and I am none of these things.

Do this for me, the supervisor says, dropping off a fifty page historical sex offence report. My fingers hurt.

There’s a long string of emails I should reply to, but they’re words, and nothing I have to say is worth saying.

Maybe, if I hold out long enough, words will leave my mind too. Then I will only think in pictures and music.

Come out tonight, they say, and I nod. I’m tired. Over dinner they talk and talk, and I listen. It’s hard not to listen, when people speak with conviction, so sure of their own voices. I can’t keep them out of my head, and they overwhelm my quiet thoughts. I go home with the voices of so many other people in my head. They won’t be quiet. They never stop and listen, so intent are they on what they are saying.

I don’t sleep. I can’t stop listening to the rest of the world. There’s so much everyone has to say. There’s so much that needs to be heard.

Eventually, I give up. After showering and dressing, I go out. Autumn mornings are nippy, and the sun isn’t up yet. I take the first tram to St Kilda. Tired and sobering and dishevelled people slump in the chairs, their fine clothes not so fine now. The beach is long. I get off at first sight of the sand, and amble along it in that slow, easy, comfortable stroll that so few people can pace. I don’t know what I’m looking for.

I find kites. All manner of kites high in the rising breeze of dawn, tied to stakes in the sand. There are dragons and boomerangs and boxes and snakes and the diamond kites like I remember flying in Westerfolds Park. A great flock of beautiful kites, going nowhere. They sound like motion. The wind tears on their strings. Their fabric ripples. I wander in the midst of them, turn about a full circle, and lie in the sand, watching them glide quietly above me.

A child of uncertain age and gender swathed in beanie and scarf walks out to me, and begins reeling in a fish. It pulls away from the others, and curls about the end of its tether. Like most fish, it doesn’t want to be brought in. The child lands it without tangling any of the others. In their hands, the string is clearer control than the best of reigns. The fish lies at my feet, and I prop myself up on my elbows to see.

It’s a beautiful thing, made of such fragile elements, and yet strong. It can catch the wind, and not be defeated by it. It is no specific fish, just essence of fish. Pure fish, swimming in the sky.

The child unties a paper twist from the fish’s tail, and hands it to me. I unfold it, and in it find my voice.

“Thank you,” I say, and it is worth saying.

- for reassurance.

I stare myself down as I brush my teeth, until I have to look away. I’m not sure if that means I won or lost. The bathroom light may or may not be fluorescent. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I look bad. This morning, the shadows under my eyes are particularly pronounced.

I spit, rinse, and wipe my mouth. My eyelids are puffy. They go down, eventually, but it takes a couple of hours. I have to leave now.

My reflection leans out of the glass, and puts a hand either side of my head. She holds me so I can’t look away, and looks at me with earnest eyes. She says-

Today is not a butterfly day.

Oh fuck off. I brush her off irritably. Not a butterfly day. No fucking shit, Sherlock.

She shrugs.

Way to kill all my hope that maybe, just maybe, something random and nice would happen in the next twenty-four hours.

I didn’t say nothing nice would happen, she snitches.

I leave the bathroom.

She’s relentless, though. Stubborn. She just doesn’t let it drop. In every window and puddle and reflection she stalks me on the walk to work. And she mutters, dropping comments meant to only be half-heard, more gleaned from her tone than her words. Am I like that?

Obnoxious fucking cunt.

I pass a taxi rank, and a driver puffing on a smoke calls out to me. Hey, he says, it’ll be okay.

What? I slow, and behind him she leans out of the car window and gives me a thumbs up. I hurry away.

At the lights a woman in a business suit and early morning sneakers approaches, smiles, and tells me that everything will work out.

The little asian girl opening up Krispy Kreme ducks out the door and chases after me, waving and gasping in the cold, and tells me not to worry.

A car pulls up beside me as I wait for the lights to change. I turn to the passenger window, and she’s there, looking expectant.

These are not nice things, I say.

The window winds down. The passenger leans out and tells me that everything will be fine.

There are no reflective surfaces at work. The monitors are matt LCD, and the windows are hidden behind blinds. Good. I sit through encounters with everyone who walks into the office, whether they’ve worked with me for the past three years or they’re just dropping off some charges. Everyone pauses by my desk, and reassures me that everything will be okay. My answering nod and polite smile becomes sicker with each visit.

I have to go to the toilet, and she’s waiting for me in the mirror again. She’s wearing a ridiculous looking grin. My grin. I never knew I looked so fucking stupid.

Are you doing this?

She doesn’t say anything. Infuriating fuck.

Can you make it stop?

Today is not a butterfly day, she repeats.

I know, but can you stop it? I can’t take much more of this.

She shrugs and does nothing more. The door opens and a random uniformed officer enters. She nods at me, and tells me to keep my chin up. I just about vomit.

She’s right. Today is not a butterfly day. I’m tired and cranky, the tearstorm from the previous night leaving me sapped, and I have no resilience against the world. All the fear and anger and destruction in the reports gets under my skin. I take everything too personally. This constant barrage of hope, support and positive thinking is wearing me down and stressing me out like the best of slow tortures. I have nothing left to spend on keeping a bright face. I walk home with blurry vision, and when the door closes behind me, I cry.

Eventually, I go into the bathroom.

I told you so, she says. Fucker always has to be right.

But you didn’t have to tell me at all.

What do you want me to say? The same things everyone else said? That you’ll get a lucky break, one day? That things will work out, one day? That you’ll remember where you’re going, one day?

I shake my head.

Here, she pulls a wad of grey mush out of her pocket. Take it.

I look at it suspiciously.

Take it! It’s a present.

No thanks.

She glares at me.

Look, no offence, but you’re clearly a product of my unconscious or my subconscious or something like that, and so you’ll just have to forgive me if I don’t trust you.

She doesn’t say anything, just deepens her frown.

Last night my subconscious gave me a dream in which there were icebergs that holed the ship, storms that broke the ship, waves that swamped the ship and a freaking whirlpool that dragged the ship down and I drowned AND froze to death for good measure. You have it out for me.

She puts the grey mush on the bench. It sags a little. The most unappealing playdough in the world.

What is it?

It’s hope.

I raise an eyebrow at her.

I kept some aside for you, and you seem to be running low.

Hesitantly, I take it. It feels like fairy floss, or a spider’s egg sac, but doesn’t collapse when I handle it. It’s warm in my palm, unsettlingly so, and seems to breathe and shift about, like a sleeping foetus. Ick.

You should use it for general purposes, she advises. Keep you going for a while longer.

I think I want-

You don’t know what you want. She reaches out and pats my head. You’re a silly muppet. You’ll be okay.

I fucking hate you.

That’s because you know I’m right.

I crush my hope in my fist, hold it up to my lips and whisper: I hope I’m not going crazy.

She drops her jaw, furious and betrayed for one brief moment, and she’s gone. Tessa Victorius. It’s just me, talking to myself in the mirror. I don't know if that means I won or I lost. I don't think it matters. Time for a cup of tea.