Furry Pink Monster Animation

Melanie Rees is an Australian writer. She has published over 80 stories and poems in magazines such as Apex, Space and Time, The School Magazine and Spirit’s Tincture. More information on her work can be found www.flexirees.wordpress.com and Twitter @FlexiRees.

Australia

Melanie Rees

Muldjewangk

I know not if
Muldjewangk still lurks
within my depths,
or if
like me
it will soon fade.

The modern monster
is much greater foe.
He stills my lungs for they … gasp
with
acidic
breath.
My salty skin so cracked
the itch never ceases.

Massage my mouth open
for the modern monster
sews my lips shut
with red tape strong,
but brittle enough to break.

Let it break.
Quench my thirst,
so sandpipers can probe
in my mudflats; cattle
can converge on my sandy shore;
snail, shrimp and springtail
can dance in the damp soils.
Let turtles dream
lest they dream no more.

For the monsters of new wear
woven suits and weary smiles.
Their true intent concealed
by un-creased Akubras
and un-scuffed boots.
On my lonely banks
away from their city dens,
cleanliness provides
no camouflage.
With their glinting
knives, they threaten
to sever my veins
and drown me
in salty tears.

I know not if
Muldjewangk still lurks
within my depths,
but it is not
the monster
children
should fear.

 

 

dust devils

willie willies scour
his drought-ridden farm
as star droppers stand defiant
against skeletal soil and
the devils in the dust

his tractor craves
to stretch its legs
as cracked clays deepen
and smile lines fade
broken
soul
waits and prays
to banish
the devils in the dust

uncapped pill box beckons
now only fear
rains down
he looks deep inside
and he sees
his demon in the dust

 

 

The Red Angel

In wattle country
the Red Angel flares
with ferocity
and malice
and renewed hope.

She spreads
amber wings
and soars across
mallee, bush and plains.

They don’t fear the
Angel stripping them bare
or scorching the ochre sands
beneath their feet.

They long for her,
as they do for rain
and sunshine.

Ten years their
babies waited.
Now seeds will awake
to a new day.
Epicormic shoots
and saplings will arise
from the soft black carpet
that trails at Her feet.

The Angel
graces them with
her presence for
just a moment.

They know it is not
long
before she drowns.

They hold timber
arms towards her
in prayer
and hope she warms their hearts
before the metal yellow demon
soaring above
drowns all.

 

 

IV symphony

I catapult myself onto crisp white linen, brazenly braided with blue ink. Ammonia and alcohol taint the air. Sterile, septic, spotless – ghastly. The nurse greets me with perfectly pleated smiles. He cradles my pincushion – the arm I once knew – and makes idle chit chat to distract from the prick.

I gaze at the fluid dripping hypnotically down the IV line. Distracting from the clamour around me. Distracting me from the patient by my side.

I shut my eyes and nurses glide like ghosts, name tags sway to and fro. Balletic and graceful, lab coats swirl like pinafores. My personal pantomime.

 

The patient alongside conducts a harmonious medley. Clank, clank. Metal trolleys wheel in. Clank clank. Hospital beds wheel out. An adagio. Pitter patter as shoes shuffle across lino. The symphony rises. The conductor screams crescendo! Click beep beep, click beep beep. And a piercing falsetto cry.

 

Whirr.

The IV machine breaks the symphony. I open my eyes to the conductor. He grasps at his back and groans. The nurse rushes forth, his perfectly pleated smile… quivers… crumbles at the sides.

LiteLitOne