Mass

1:  first the wind through the double doors

a valve pushed open a pulse in the air

down the red carpet's arterial design

the smell of perfume and crease of faces

an old woman's smile extinguishes all that preceded it

but kindness

2:  then the voices climbing reach a single note

late afternoon descends through the open windows

while ceiling fans sweep and rearrange His words

outside they fall swollen to the ground

you know the way the light is in here?

heavy and green

3:  I've missed you

and the company you keep

a place at your table

saved for me

Amanda Surrey, published in the Record, Winter 2010

My France

A short story of mine long in the making has been published in Hecate, the Interdisciplinary Journal of Women's Liberation from the University of Queensland.  It begins .....

I’ve never been to France, but it pops up in my dreams every now and then, like an old friend back in town for a few days. I’ll wake up in the morning with the details a little hazy, but with one clear thought: I dreamt I was in France last night.

It’s beyond me why I’m always so certain it’s France. I wonder whether the textbooks I was forced to read during those long gloomy years at High School, with sleep inducing titles like, "The History, Geography and Culture of France", painted an impression which persists simply because I’ve never replaced them with the real thing. If that were the case, the France I dream about would be stuck in the nineteen-sixties. School textbooks are always hopelessly out of date.

You see, I dream of a modern country, not sepia toned and awash with garish polo necks. I'm pointing this out from the start in case you've been there. I know some people set great store by detail, accurate detail, especially when it comes to storytelling. You should know before we proceed any further, that I’m dispensing with accuracy and writing about France – my France – as it appears in my dreams.

..... to read the rest of this story track down the latest issue 42.16.