Author: Doug Jacquier

The Chalk Outline

/ Doug Jacquier / 4 Comments

This little piece has made the long list in the Wilson’s Tales of the Borders competition in Berwick, UK.

The Chalk Outline
‘So, theories, Detective Constable.’
‘Hit and run, gov. By aliens.’
‘Based on what?’
‘Well, gov, the ambos said he was badly sunburnt.’
‘And the object in his hand?’
‘Sunscreen, gov.’
‘Sunscreen?’
‘Yes, gov. Clearly these were aliens originating from the
Sun. He’s legged it, hoping the sunscreen would save him.’
‘The Sun?’
‘Well, stands to reason, gov. If it was the Moon he wouldn’t
have panicked and run into the road.’
‘So, not a drunk in the middle of the road, whiskey bottle in
hand, flattened by a passing truck?’
‘No, gov. That’s what the aliens want us to believe.’

Two poems published

/ Doug Jacquier / 6 Comments

Two of my poems have just been published in The Writers Journal – Doors edition. Available for purchase at Amazon (Kindle or paperback)

An uncommon future

Since the elders told me I only remember myths or dreams,
I’m not sure what past I share with you.
Often enough, until now,
I assumed a shared memory space,
a common time.

But if none of it was real
it means we can be anything,
now and in the future,
because the past is only what we conjure
from hatred and desire.

The challenge now is to grab this thing,
this weightless freehold,
this rule change,
and enter this corridor of a thousand doors
and dare to knock on them all.

I want in my remaining years
to say the unsayable and deliver the unaddressed
and release the never-to-be,
before it can hide in safe corners,
waiting for something-to-turn-up.

For time is the only kingdom,
the power and the glory,
for ever and ever.
And if we have no common past
we must have an uncommon future.
 
Bach to the future

The boy at the window nods to himself,
noting the half-empty whisky bottle
and the last century headphones
and the old man’s arms waving,
and the wooden spoon in hand
and the closed eyes
and the knitted brow.
On the side table,
sits an ashtray full of butts, an empty glass,
a tattered paperback
with a chocolate wrapper as a bookmark
and an ancient wallet.
On the floor,
a half-eaten bowl of pasta sits, congealing.
The boy slides silently
through the always unlocked door,
empties the wallet of all its cash,
bar twenty dollars,
and pads, in his stolen Nikes,
into the welcoming night.
As Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’
fades into the applause of The Proms audience,
the old man stirs, re-fills his glass, lights a cigarette,
and hopes the boy will buy some food.

Some recent successes

/ Doug Jacquier / 8 Comments

I’ve been fortunate to have a few pieces published recently.

A poem I wrote for my wife, Sue, has appeared in Wild Greens.

https://www.wildgreensmagazine.com/#h.k2ayhlttv5h0

A very brief piece, Tentative Space, has appeared in Star 82 Review.

https://star82review.com/11.4/jacquier-space.html

And coming out soon in Dark Homes Publishing ‘Dark Descent’ anthology is the story below. Warning: It’s a bit gruesome.

The Highway Coda

Keith turned his gas bottle on and lit the flame under the wok resting on its frame on the camp stove, poured a slurp of peanut oil into the wok and, after feeding a couple of pieces to Arfer, his German Shepherd, added the diced meat he’d had marinating overnight. When it had browned, he added the sliced vegetables and gave the wok a shake.

He had just poured another glass of cabernet sauvignon when a white SUV towing a gleaming white caravan pulled up some fifty metres away. A man in his sixties with a belly ponderously overhanging his shorts emerged, puffing noisily, and shouted to Keith ‘Great spot you have here’. He was followed shortly after by a woman of a similar age with badly dyed blond hair, a blouse displaying a shoe-leather tanned cleavage and a skirt short enough to have been fashionable fifty years ago. She intoned gaily ‘You look like you could do with some company. You never know who’s out on the road and there’s safety in numbers.’

Keith looked at them coldly and said ‘There’s no numbers here except for me and Arfer. How do you know I’m not an axe murderer and that Arfer doesn’t live off the leftovers?’ The man said ‘Come on, mate, you’re scaring the missus. There’s no need for that sort of talk.’

Keith said ‘Sorry, when you live alone you tend to forget that not everyone shares your sense of humour. And you forget the unwritten highway code of kindness to strangers. My apologies.’

The couple looked at him uncertainly. ‘It’s just when I see a snow-white rig I assume you’d prefer a group of grey nomads circled around a camp fire for company. You pull in there and get out your cask red and cheese and biscuits and join them. The women share their three gazillion photos of their grandchildren and the blokes share a beer and talk about politics and football. As you may have gathered, I’m not one of them.’

The man visibly relaxed and said ‘That’s OK. I see you’re a red man but I’ve got a cold slab of beer in the van and the cheese is top shelf. By the way, I’m Jack and this is my better half, Carol.’

‘Keith.’

Carol said ‘Well, I’ll get it all organised while you ask Keith about the hitching thing.’ Jack said, ‘Alright, alright, I’ve only just met the man.’ As Carol left, Jack said ‘ Women, ay?’ ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Ar, can’t seem to tighten up the coupling properly and every now and then it pops up and down. Got chains of course so it won’t come loose but Carol freaks out every time we hit a bump.’

‘That would be a lot of freaking out on this road. I’ll take a look. I’ll just get my tools.’ Jack went to follow Keith but Arfer stood up immediately, baring his teeth and growling menacingly. Keith returned with a long grease-stained kit bag. ‘Arfer, where’s your manners?’ said Keith. Arfer stopped growling but followed closely on Jack’s heels as the men moved towards the rig.

Jack bent over the caravan coupling and, as he turned to Keith to point out the issue, he had just a spit second to see the axe descend. Carol emerged smiling from the caravan with a tray of food and some wine glasses, cheerily calling ‘Drinkies time’ before seeing Jack hunched over the coupling.

Dropping the tray, she ran to Jack and began screaming at Keith ‘What have you done?’ Keith said ‘Just what I’m about to do to you. I mean. Fair’s fair.’ He swung the axe as he explained ‘Can’t have a loose coupling.’

‘Well, Arfer. It’s going to be a freezing cold desert night. So I think it’ll be alright if we dress them in the morning.’ Keith and Arfer returned to the campfire. Resigned to the fact that his stir-fry was now largely ruined, Keith picked at it in a desultory fashion before giving most of it to Arfer.

He picked up his well-worn leather-bound journal, pumped up his lamp and said ‘Arfer, what do you think of this passage? I think it has a sort of timelessness about it but that may be beyond your sense of the aesthetic.’ Keith read the passage in his sonorous voice. When he’d finished, Arfer revealed nothing. Keith said ‘You’re right, it needs work. Time for bed.’

He doused his campfire, turned off the lamp, burrowed into his swag and, as he drifted off to sleep, he noticed the moonlight glinting off his axe and heard Arfer laughing in his sleep.

Evil is as evil does

/ Doug Jacquier / Leave a comment

Almost 3 years ago this story was accepted by Literature Today and is now included in one of their anthologies.

Evil is as Evil does

Keith Neville derived his nickname of Evil from Evil Knievel, being a play on ‘Evil’ K. Neville. He was a long-haul truck driver whose invariable appearance consisted of baggy khaki shorts, sleeveless shirt exposing a myriad of tattoos on his arms, and once-white socks arising from sturdy workers boots.

One day he arrived home to a note from his wife saying she was leaving him and the faces of their three daughters looking at him, with ‘what happens now?’ written on their faces.

What happened was that Evil quit his job and did his best to raise his children. He picked up labouring work with local farmers and foresters when he could get it. His pride stopped him from signing up for welfare payments.

He still enjoyed a beer but he paid for it by taking bets with tourists at the local pub that he could eat a beer glass, which he did with no apparent effect on his health.

I was a wet-behind-the-ears social worker from the city posted to this rural area for a quiet introduction to the craft of saving the world one family at a time. Evil and his children came with my caseload when I arrived.

When I visited his home, I noted the horse in the suburban sized back yard. Evil welcomed me effusively and made me an instant coffee. After the formal palaver, I expressed curiosity about the horse. He said his eldest daughter had had her heart set on having a horse for Christmas so he’d done a deal with a local farmer for an in-kind payment for his labour in return for the horse.

Coming from a rural background myself, I gently pointed out that it would be difficult for a horse to get sufficient exercise in such a confined space and that it would rapidly consume the threadbare lawn that he had. Ignoring the first point, Evil proudly pointed out the abundance of hay that had come with his purchase. The clincher was ‘You should have seen the smile on her face.’

Courtesy of the local baker and butcher, he had a freezer full of bread and chops. When I mentioned vegetables, he outlined his plans for growing potatoes and cabbages in the front garden.

To round out my visit to the small town I visited the school, where the principal told me that the children had a perfect attendance record, completed all their homework assignments, and were always neatly dressed and polite to their fellow students and staff. What concerned them a little was that the eldest girl would soon hit puberty and whether Evil could handle that appropriately.

Other more pressing cases soon piled on and Evil’s family fell down my priority list, until one day he arrived unannounced and asked if I could help with the cost of a second-hand fuel pump for his ancient Toyota 4WD. He needed his vehicle for work to support his children so I readily agreed and asked how much he needed. He said $37.50. I offered to write him a cheque for $50, with the remainder to be used for whatever other needs the family might have. Evil’s eyes turned to steel and he said ‘I didn’t want to come here. People can help me with most things but not this. I need $37.50 now and I’ll pay you back. You need to help the poor people.’  I wrote the cheque for what he requested.

A few weeks later, I received a call from Mavis McCaskill, wife of one of the local Councillors. She and her small but intrepid band of volunteers quietly did what they could to support families in need. Usually this occurred after bushfires or tragic accidents but there were always a few families constantly on the edge of welfare intervention that survived courtesy of their discreet work.

She said, ‘I know you mean well and that Evil is doing what he can for those girls but you’re being naïve. As the girls get older, he’s not going to cope. We’ve found a local family who’ll take the girls in and give them what they need. Evil can see them whenever he wants and he can go back to doing what he’s always done and provide for them financially. You need to know that the eldest is already starting to shoplift to help out and we both know how that’s going to end up when your bureaucracy gets involved.’

I knew enough to know that if the Department intervened this would not end well. I said, ‘Provided Evil is comfortable with this arrangement, I will happily close the case.’

‘Good, I’ll put him on.’

Evil’s voice came booming down the line, saying ‘I reckon this’ll be terrific. And I’ll send you that money for the fuel pump as soon as I get paid.’

Kelly Has A Plan

/ Doug Jacquier / 3 Comments

This story has just been published by the International Human Rights Arts Movement (IHRAM) Literary Magazine, as part of their Evolving Gaze project, which aims to provide a broad spectrum of perspectives to the forefront, challenging traditional notions of masculinity.

https://humanrightsartmovement.org/ihraf-publishes

It has taken over two years to find a publisher for this piece and it went through several edits before the publishers agreed to take it (and pay for it, which is always a nice bonus).

Kelly had contacted him out of the blue. On a patchy line she said, “Come and visit me for a few days. There’s something I need you to do. I’ll text you the directions.” And then she was gone. Adam hadn’t seen her for ten years, but they’d been close colleagues once. Not lovers, but close. And no time for small talk. So nothing had changed on that score. He briefly entertained the thought of not going, but always knew he would.

* * *

As he drove, Adam wondered what had happened to Kelly over the intervening years. She’d obviously recovered from the seemingly “unflappable Kelly” that he’d found in a foetal position on the couch in her tiny, inner suburban cottage all those years ago. She’d suddenly stopped turning up for work, didn’t answer calls and respond to knocks on the door. Adam had trusted his instincts and levered open the back door, where he had found her lying on the couch. Her eyes were open, but vacant. She didn’t tell him to go away as he was expecting. He had heated up some soup and she sipped some of it before beginning to lie down again on the couch. “Oh, no you don’t, Madam. It’s off to bed with you.”

They were the first words spoken between them and she seemed surprised to hear his voice. She had stood unsteadily, but gathered strength as she walked down the hall to her bedroom. The fridge had been bare, but there was enough food in the pantry to last a couple of days, so he wouldn’t have to leave her alone for a while. He knew that she would never forgive him if he called anyone else in to help. That façade of invincibility had to remain, no matter what.

Over the next few days, Kelly had recovered physically, but spoke rarely and her eyes had a disturbing deadness to them. She gave Adam enough snippets to piece together the story. The wheels had fallen off when she got word that the farmer she planned to marry one day had announced he was getting married. And not to Kelly. They’d agreed to wait while she pursued her career for a few years before they settled together on a farm.

When that rug was pulled from underneath her, everything unravelled and she had found herself on the couch, unable to move. The only place she could think of going was her late grandfather’s shack in the mountains. What she was going to do after that she had no idea. Confident that she was coping well enough, Adam retreated to his own place and his own life. He knew how much she appreciated his help, but he also knew she’d never say so and there would be no tearful farewell.

* * *

Adam packed some clothes and supplies, and set off. Kelly’s directions took him to a location in deep bushland on the side of a mountain. A small timber house, showing signs of renovation, sat at the edge. She emerged from the cottage and said, “I suppose you think you deserve a cuppa after your epic odyssey,” before turning back into the house. There were no hugs. Just gentle mockery; nothing new.

Inside was an ordered chaos: boxes mixed with the bare necessities, bed, dresser, small kitchen table with two chairs, sink, fridge, stove, and potbelly heater. The bathroom had been re-plumbed, but remained unlined and had no door. The extra bedroom was little more than a frame. They sat at the table with mugs of instant coffee. He said, “I think I see through your cunning plan. Free labour to finish before winter.” “That’s part of it,” she replied. “Why do I suspect chopping enough wood for the potbelly is Part B?” “That’s another part.” He smiled and said, “So how many moving parts does this exploitation machine have?”

“All will be revealed on a when to know basis, as and when necessary.” “And the length of my servitude is required to be…what?” “Until you’ve met all the requirements.” For the first time, her face softened and she said, “I’ve missed you.” She stood. “I presume you’ve brought meat, salad, and wine. The meat you’ll want to barbecue, so you can pretend you can cook. So, first task. Build a barbecue. You’ll find whatever you need scattered around the place. In the meantime, I’ve got work to do.”

Later, dinner consumed and wine glasses in hand, they sat in director chairs in front of the barbecue. She stretched out her long denim-clad legs and rested her well-worn elastic-sided boots on the rock wall he’d assembled. She slowly shook her head when he lit up a cigarette, but didn’t say anything. They both stared into the fire, comfortable in their silence.

When he’d finished his smoke, he threw it into the fire and said, smiling, “So, we’ve covered free carpentry and wood chopping. What are Madam’s other requirements?”

She said, “I want you to get me pregnant.”

Stunned, Adam stared into the fire trying to frame his response. Finally, he replied, “Want to fill me in on the prequel?”

“I’ve always wanted a child. The bloke who was supposed to be part of that took off and now I don’t trust anyone. But I still want a child—you’re smart and funny, and half-way human for a man, and you don’t want to be married either. You tick all the boxes. Besides, you’ve always fancied getting into my knickers…”

“Guilty as charged on the last bit. But you do know there are sperm banks where they screen for axe-murderers, congenital idiots and the like, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s like dating websites. Everyone lies. And these days the kid has the right to know who the donor is when they turn 18. I don’t want her saying, ‘How could you have picked that guy?’”

“And you know you’re going to have a girl because …”

“That’s what I’ve decided.”

“Oh, well that clears that up then. Here I was thinking there might be some element of chance involved.”

She chuckled. “You can still make me laugh. Another good reason to want you in the gene pool.”

He didn’t speak for a while, pretending to be busy stoking the fire and adding more wood. Seemingly composed now, he said, “I’m not sure I have the language for this situation, so forgive me if I’m indelicate.” She waited. “Apart from the obvious, how did you imagine this might work? Will you summon me when the stars are in alignment or do we just go at it like rabbits until we win the lottery?”

“Something along the lines of the former, I was thinking—only aligned to cycles and not stars.” She took her eyes away from the fire and said, “Don’t worry, tonight’s not one of those days. You can sleep without fear of being ravaged.” He didn’t laugh and shortly after said he was turning in; it had been a long drive, too much wine. She watched him go and, by the time she came in, he was seemingly asleep in his swag in the corner.

* * *

Far from asleep, Adam was remembering Selena. The moon goddess. They had met at college; she had long, straight, jet-black hair, a mysterious crooked smile, a deep, uninhibited laugh, and clothes that instantly said “art school”; but, somehow seemed more stylish and carefully assembled. Finally he summoned the courage to ask her if she’d like to go out for a meal. The meal happened, she invited him back to her place for coffee, they drank red wine, and the seemingly inevitable happened next. As the weeks unfolded, they decided they wanted to be serious and rented a house together. One night she announced that she was changing her name from Selena to Simone and that she was now a sculptural artist. Like most men from the working-class, outer-suburban dustbowls, Adam knew nothing about art. He was suitably enthusiastic about this change of direction from film to sculpture, without having a clue what it meant. But, he loved her.

He found out what it meant when she was invited to exhibit a piece in a group collection at a gallery. Her “sculpture” consisted of “found objects” from the local dump. She called it The Ephemera of the Universe. Adam told her he found it deeply moving but elusive (a phrase he’d borrowed from one of her art magazines, not knowing what that meant either). She glowed. Unfortunately, a red dot indicated a sale was elusive and one rainy Saturday afternoon she asked him to recycle it where it had originated.

A week later, after they went to bed, she suddenly sat up, and exploding out of her body came, “I’m pregnant”. Her anger was visceral and palpable. She threw off the arm he had draped across her belly and said, “The idea of sleeping with you just makes me want to vomit.” And stormed off to sleep on the couch. He wanted to go to her, but instinct told him that would be a bad move.

He lay awake all night, wondering about what he had just experienced and what he should do next. He had an early class the next day, so he sidled out the back door, without breakfast. When he returned in the afternoon, she announced that the lounge room was now her bedroom. A glance through the door suggested what he could only imagine was her idea of an artist’s studio. The wafting flimsy fabric had returned.

“You need to give me money.” To his quizzical face she said, “For your half of the abortion.” He could feel his face had gone grey and clammy, and his heart was racing. He regained enough composure to venture,

“Can’t we at least talk about this? I think us having a baby could be great, but it might not be. Let’s at least talk about …” She cut him off savagely and said with a coldness he’d never heard from her before, “It’s not ‘us’ having a baby, it’s me. It’s my body and my decision. Just get the money!”

The door slammed in his face. And he did.

Some years later, at a loose end one Sunday afternoon, he decided he’d check out the fair that had been organised by a nearby upper-class school. He’d barely entered the grounds when he heard the laugh. That laugh.

She was seated behind a table under a marquee, selling raffle tickets to fundraise a sculpture for the kindergarten playground. She looked up and saw Adam. Her face froze. Her husband followed her gaze to Adam. They looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments. She blinked first, pretending to take great care to ensure her name badge was perfectly straight. It was too far away to see if it read Selena or Simone.

* * *

Adam woke barely rested and disorientated until he could focus on being at Kelly’s cottage and her making coffee. Over breakfast, she said, “I didn’t mean it to sound so cold and mechanical. I want it to be enjoyable for us both. I do care for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. It’s just … I just don’t want it to be all … lovey-dovey and kis sy-kissy.” She stood and cleared her dishes into the sink, “I’ve pinned a list of your building jobs to the wall over there. Top priority is the weatherboards. They’re recycled so you’ll have to strip them first.”

* * *

They made steady progress on completing the cottage, working well together without the need to for a lot of conversation. One evening after dinner Kelly announced, “It’s time.” She went to her bed, undressed, threw back the covers and said softly, “Let’s do it, lover boy.” Adam went to her, somewhat surprised that he was instantly aroused. He was even more surprised when they climaxed together and, for a fleeting instant, Kelly’s face radiated satisfaction tinged with the emotional vulnerability he’d only seen there once before.

* * *

Two months later, over morning coffee, Kelly said, “Your work here is done.” “I’ve still got a couple of things on my list. There’s the …” He stopped when he realised what she meant. He knew it was pointless to ask if she was sure. “Well, am I allowed to say congratulations?” She laughed, “Yes. To us both.”

After breakfast, he said, “I’m off for a walk to the waterfall.” When he returned he said, “I’ve been thinking we need to talk about this a bit more.” Smiling, Kelly said, “No thinking needed. Job’s done, Adam.” Adam didn’t smile back.

“No, the problem is we haven’t thought about this enough.” “How so?” said Kelly suspiciously. “I want to know what happens next. Now you’re pregnant, where do I fit in?”

Kelly scowled. “I get on with having my child and you go back to saving the world. I won’t be asking for money, if that’s what you’re worried about.” “I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about what sort of relationship I’ll have with … our child.”

“Adam, this is my child. You won’t have to see her or remember birthdays and all that crap. You’re as free as a bird.” Adam locked his gaze on Kelly’s eyes, “I don’t want it to be like that. I want this child to be our child.” Kelly’s voice rose as she said, “But that’s not what we agreed.”

I don’t recall agreeing to anything about what happens afterward. But…” “But what?” Adam was angry now. “You’re not the only one in the world who regrets not having children,” he shouted.

“Well, stop walking out on perfectly adequate relationships and have some. That’s not what we’re about here. This is about my life.”

“Exactly. Your life. What about my life? What if this is the only child I’ll ever have? What if something happens to you? Who’ll look after the child?”

Kelly’s voice was matter-of-fact. “That’s the difference between me and you. I have plans. You have impulses.” Adam felt like he’d been slapped and his face was ashen. He stood, put on his coat, picked up his car keys, and walked towards the door.

Kelly sighed, “Adam, it was always going to end like this.” As he drove away, his mind wandered between hating and loving her for who she was and for her knowing what he was. And he wondered how quickly 18 years would pass.