Autumn Street
(Photo: Guenter Sahr)
We have published the works of the following 14 writers
who submitted their responses (in up to 300 words) to this image.
We congratulate them for their enthusiasm and thank them for their fabulous contributions,
Pauline Rimmer | Geoffrey Gaskill | Julie Rysdale | Guenter Sahr
Adam Stone | David Bridge | Claudia Collins | Jan Price
Gail Griffin | Ian Stewart | Rose Jumelle | Daphne Delores Winter
Olympia Koziaris | Stanley Billing
Empty Chairs
I looked for them every Thursday morning as they came hurrying down the road in their smart coats, one a striking turquoise, the other in bright yellow. I was reminded of exotic birds, chattering away excitedly. Rain, hail or shine, they arrived clutching their handbags. No shoulder straps for these ladies. I guessed them to be in their late seventies, perhaps even eighties, going by their wardrobe. Nobody bothered to dress nicely for a trip into town these days. The usual wear was jeans, or lycra exercise wear rather than polished shoes, skirts and coats.
‘I can give you ladies a lift if you like? My name is Julie.’
‘I am Joan, this is my sister, Alice. No thanks, dear. The bus is the best bit. We enjoy the ride around the streets. I wish it would hurry because our legs are not getting any younger.’
I realised they looked quite frail up close. Joan leaned on the light pole for support, and Alice held tightly to Joan.
I watched them waving happily from the bus as I drove to the shopping centre. Impulsively, I made an extra purchase of two garden chairs. I carried them to the bus stop and imagined Joan and Alice’s faces when they noticed them.
It was Thursday. They didn’t come. I didn’t see them the following week either.
I waved down the bus driver.
‘Excuse me, do you know what has happened to Joan and Alice?’
He looked upset.
‘I am afraid Joan has passed away suddenly, and Alice is in care I was told.’
‘Oh, I am sorry! I didn’t know them well, but they brightened my Thursday mornings.’
‘Mine too, love.’
I returned home despondently. The two white chairs sat empty, and the world seemed greyer. I closed the curtains.
– Pauline Rimmer
Waiting
‘What is it about waiting …?’ Ed mused, looking at his mate.
‘If it were only one day …’ Ted sighed.
‘Maybe we’re getting old …’
‘… and grumpy?’
‘We never used to.’ Ed looked along the road. ‘Why aren’t those omnibus things punctual? I‘ve never trusted new-fangled inventions.’
Ted nodded. ‘Me either. And where’s the shelter?’ he asked. ‘That pole,’ he nodded at the post with its Bus Stop sign, ‘what’s that all about?’
Ed shrugged.
‘Lack of punctuality is bad manners, but,’ Ted declared his certainty, ‘It’s not as big a problem as lack of seating. We …’
Ed looked at his friend. The seating thing again? Ted was a predictable dog with its bone. But to avoid an argument, he nodded while completing the thought. ‘… shouldn’t have to bring our own chairs.’
‘I think the omnibus company …’ Ted began.
‘… is making our life difficult,’ Ed jumped in. ‘And that’s not paranoia.’ Ed warmed to his favourite theme. ‘If those bloody omnibus things ran on time …’
‘…this standing wouldn’t be necessary.’
They looked up and down the street. There was little more to add till Ed grumped, ‘You know, we’re starting to sound like an old married couple …’
‘… finishing each other’s sentences,’ Ted nodded, mournful.
‘How long has it been?’ Ed asked.
Ted looked around. ‘From the look of the place, the waiting, the sign, the chairs, the …’ he said weighing his answer, ‘… a hundred years?’
Ed raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a lot of practice …’
‘… waiting.’
They nodded, looked along the omnibus-free street again until, sighing in unison, they sat on their chairs.
To wait.
What else was there to do?
– Geoffrey Gaskill
True Story
Constable Smudge tapped at his keyboard. Was there nothing better for him to do than chase up two, supposedly, stolen metal chairs? Shabby-chic style – the sort you’d see outside cafes where dogs lapped puppaccinos and posed for Facebook pics.
Monday morning he’d had a call from an irate chair owner that his shiny chairs had been knocked off from his veranda over the weekend. He was demanding their return. His A4 posters had borne fruit – some kind soul said they’d seen them loitering near the library, complete with curled books nestled in the arm of their seats. But he’d have to be quick. Someone else said they spied one of them in the crook of a grubby doorway with a Weimaraner lifting its leg on its leg, the other lay legs akimbo on the footpath. The poor bloke was really rattled by that. Then another phone call alerted him to a pair of ladies sitting on them whilst yarnbombing a power pole. He sprinted quickly but all that was left was a crochet hook and some blue mohair. But no chair.
That brings us to Constable Smudge’s current state of annoyance. A Rain-Man-type bus driver, had called with the latest sighting. Two metal chairs fitting the description were circling another power pole in an overtly welcoming manner beside a bus stop outside a building with 5,382 red bricks, behind a fence made from 425 wooden palings. He would give no further details other than to say that whilst one person might see theft, another will see community spirit and the bloke should feel proud that his chairs were serving the public. The bus driver also added that there are 478 bus stops in Geelong in front of fences hiding red brick buildings, so good luck finding those chairs …
– Julie Rysdale
Late-night bus
The boys were out
Drinking late last night
Waiting for the final
Before-midnight bus
To town.
A few more drinks
In bars, a nang or two
Before jumping queue
For a nightclub
And a stoush.
The stouch meant
Out, and
Other clubs barred
Entry for the word
Had got around.
4:00am phone calls
To fathers were diverted
And pleas for pick-ups
Blithely stored
On voicemail.
Too boisterous fer
Cabbies curled up at
The city’s ranks
The boys ambled home
Pissing on fences.
– Guenter Sahr
Route 25
‘Good morning for it!’
‘Yeah, ain’t that the truth?! I love these crisp, sunny autumnal days on Autumn Street. Light winds and once the dew has burned off the grass, I don’t get wet feet. Mind you, the Council could improve the greenery around this part of the street. Makes you wonder where our rates go.’
‘Yeah, I hear you. I’ve been lobbying them to have these bus timetables positioned lower on the poles, but I just can’t get a seat at the table. The Council say it’s a PTV matter and of course, PTV just tilts me back and forth. I tell you, it doesn’t pay to be vertically challenged. It’s okay for the stools of this world. I met an old bar stool here last week, all cracked red leather and grandiose. Like he was too good to travel by bus. He could read the timetable just fine.’
‘Where are you headed anyway?’
‘I’m catching the 25 bus to Bell Post Hill and going to Aldi. They have seat cushions on sale and I feel as though I’d like some coverage coming into winter.’
‘Aldi hey? Don’t get sucked in by all those “special buys”. It’s a trap, that place. I once went to buy some rubber stops for my feet and came out with thermal leggings – two pairs of course – and a ski jacket. I’ve never even been to the snow!’
‘Ha! How about you? Where are you off to?’
‘Oh, I’m not actually catching the bus. I’m with Powercor and we were called out to deal with this loose-hanging wire. I’ve tied it up for now. I’ll have to come back with the truck and fix it properly. Anyway, here comes your bus. Don’t get mistaken for a footstool!’
‘Touché! See you around!’
– Adam Stone
Rubbish Decision
For Brian, the council’s hard rubbish collection was dual edged. It offered a smorgasbord of free materials for the discerning hobbyist like himself but, all too frequently, it prompted his beloved to contemplate the departure of mature yet serviceable items that had the temerity to cling to space within their home.
Just now, four plastic chairs that served a variety of purposes in his base of operations, the garage, were under threat of expulsion. The seats were certainly a little careworn from sawhorse duty or allowing him a feet up position to contemplate complex problems, yet in Brian’s view function outweighed form, despite Jan’s keenness to replace this remnant of old garden furniture with a new set spied on-line.
Over the years, Brian had learned the value of compromise and negotiation. A successful strategy relied on correctly identifying what each most ardently desired. Jan aspired to chairperson of the local neighbourhood committee, an organisation dedicated to enhancement of amenities such as parking spots, playgrounds and bus shelters. The latter was literally close to home with a stop for two routes on the pavement outside. It was not a priority for seating since there were seldom more than two passengers waiting, but Jan was a regular user.
Weighing opportunity versus loss, Brian assembled tools and materials, including old water pipe and the two best plastic chairs. Soon the chairs were clamped to the post at a COVID safe interval, in line with the pavement edge but a step back. He was testing firmness and stability when a bus pulled in and Jan alighted. Her delighted expression contrasted with the driver’s glare, but Brian’s momentary foreboding passed as Jan complimented him on finally proving his ‘junk’ had value. Furtively, he eyed an armchair awaiting collection two doors down.
– David Bridge
Sad Chairs
Silence … but there are different kinds of silence
This is the stillness of the night
Useless, unwanted, we are side by side
A street lamp bathes us in eternal light
There is no traffic noise in the wee small hours before dawn
Then … two cats courting, screeching, a dog barks
‘SHUT UP!’ a man roars
He throws a boot out his window and the dog yelps
Then … sunrise, the rhythmic footsteps of a jogger
Whose breath steams in front of her
It looks the same as that of a smoker
The flip side of the health coin
She passes by in the grey morning light
Silence … but there are different kinds of silence
This is the silence of a broken heart
If there is no one to hear it beating, does it beat?
Alone, unloved, we sit outside the fence
Of the house where once we dwelled
The recycling truck approaches
Embracing bins in its strong, metal, arms
They lift and comfort those, the discarded
Who will begin a new life, a new adventure, as something … new
The truck passes by like we don’t exist
Silence … but there are different kinds of silence
This is the silence of questions unanswered
When did ‘Honey’ and ‘Darling’
Become ‘Bitch’ and ‘Bastard’?
Why did they leave us behind?
Now the street light is replaced by the sun’s wintery glow
At the bus stop are those who wait, like us
Temporary bottoms providing temporary warmth
For a few minutes we are … useful
For a moment there is … hope
My twin has a gammy leg
I have a screw loose
But maybe someone will see beauty
In our once graceful lines
The bus groans as it opens its doors
Passengers enter, passengers depart
They pass us by
– Claudia Collins
Confession
A wild wind impersonates the sea
thundering waves with a devil’s calloused fist
against these tall sanctified bluestone walls
where an age of whispered sins have stained
this musty air relic-yellow around me.
Below this echoing cathedral
I sense a weathered precipice beneath my feet
and miles of cold empty land far beyond
scarred with barren black tilted trees
on low tuft-torn grey hills
where a snatch-away wind might call
‘Heathcliff’!
In this scapula-fawn confessional
I sit on a sin-washed plastic chair
and ask for mercy yet again!
The short see-through curtain billows
and a shelf-candle jiggles boxed shadows
from a fake cough smothering amusement.
Now from the eerie hue
I walk slate-clean through oak doors
out of the dark into daylight
onto Autumn Street
where the devil knows
how to Winter me.
– Jan Price
Random Act of Kindness
Huddled together, arm-in-arm, like two book ends,
an elderly couple, standing at the bus stop
rugged up against the late autumn cool
waiting…waiting…waiting
in their bid to not be late they’d arrived ten minutes early.
A small café on the other side, a vigilante spies them
becomes concerned for their welfare
decides to assist with two sturdy chairs
and hastens to carry them across the street and offer them up
as an unbidden, unexpected gesture, triggering gratitude.
Appreciated, thankful, the elders take their seats
Bless you says the lady, then, You’re very kind, young man.
Her husband shakes his hand and nods agreement with his wife.
The pleasure’s mine, their saviour says and stays there for a chat
Nothing special. Couldn’t miss a chance to help like that.
He farewells them and crosses over busy Autumn Street
goes back inside the café and resumes his role within
caught up serving customers he doesn’t see the bus
the couple board and ride away, the vacant chairs remain
solitary reminders of his random act of kindness.
Preoccupied, to himself he smiles, warm vibes reward his deed
No time to check right now he thinks but when he does he sees
the elder folk have gone, safe aboard the bus no doubt
and thereupon he then decides to leave the chairs in place
as tokens of his thoughtfulness, for future chance encounters.
– Gail Griffin
Facing The Journey
A lonely bus stop, PTV provided
Shelter-free; relentless sun beats down
Your local stop, therefore your fate decided
If you need to make your way to town
You totter forth, your front gate left behind
Will you make the journey to the spot?
On failing legs that are of aged kind
Arriving, will a long wait be your lot?
It’s something that you wish you didn’t have
This need to stand when really sitting’s best
Aha – what’s that I see? It’s not so grave
I grab the nearest chair with sprightly zest
My guardian angel has been on my case
I hope she sees the smile gracing my face
– Ian Stewart
All Seasons Hold Wisdom
We wait. Huddled.
I check the bus timetable. 6 minutes.
The pre-dawn chill is beginning to thaw. Morning sun rises to illuminate our commute, softening the blanket of frost on the pavement and hinting a promise of midday warmth.
My breath forms pillows of fog. I plunge my gloved hands into my coat pockets, anticipating the beeline I will make to inhabit the sunny window seat in the cafeteria in my lunch break. Window basking my only respite, knowing the dusk will creep in to snatch back the warmth before our stiff journey home.
Such is the affliction of autumn. Daylight shortening as each day passes. The last remaining traces of warmth diminishing in increments as we bid farewell to bare arms, legs and toes until summer returns.
The autumn sun whispers its metaphoric wisdom:
‘Have patience.
Accept and be open to the lessons that the colder, darker months will bring.
You have the strength to endure the coming days and months that are not what you want them to be.
Don’t wish away time.
Notice what pleasures can be found right here.
Remember all you are capable of. How resilient you are.
Notice.’
My eyes fall on a small pile of leaf litter by my feet. Papery field maple seeds have come to rest after their twirling descent in the midnight wind.
2 minutes. We wait. I wonder.
What pleasures will befall me this autumn? What will I learn?
Who will I be and what stories will I have to share when the summer solstice returns?
The fumes of the peak hour rush bring me back to this autumn street.
The sad whine of a dog reaches my ear, mourning the departure of its beloved owner.
Reluctant surrender to a lonely workday wait.
The bus door opens.
– Rose Jumelle
The Bus Stop
Courtesy of the Netherlands government, I was in Holland for three months in 1988, undertaking research on West Papua. The hosting Nijmegen University helped me locate accommodation. The head of anthropology introduced me to a welcoming circle of scholars. He personally devoted one Saturday to driving me around some historical sites in neighbouring Germany.
Having settled in lodgings, I memorised how to pronounce my new address. I learnt basic greetings. Armed with dictionaries, I took elementary Dutch classes and tried reading a simple Dutch novel. But I remained heavily reliant on the kindness of others to get by. Fortunately, most people spoke English.
My colleagues engaged with me by all switching to English, discussing subjects of mutual interest. The travel observations and tentative research findings I offered in return seemed shallow. I missed the nuance and word play that a shared first language enabled.
Holland’s excellent public transport system took me to its major cities, where I visited some exiled West Papuans I had contacted, and accessed state archives and university libraries. Buses took me around the cities.
Once, while I was waiting at my local bus stop, a woman in her seventies joined me. I gave her the customary ‘Dag!’ – or ‘G’day’ – to acknowledge her presence, and she responded, ‘Dag.’
But then she spoke again. In Dutch.
I didn’t catch it, but smiled back, quickly averting my eyes.
She said something else, apparently not a question. I considered telling her that I couldn’t understand, but supposed the ‘exchange’ was over.
However, she resumed talking. She talked past the point where I felt I could interrupt her to say, ‘You lost me at “Dag!”’
If she had expected any reply, she hid her disappointment. Perhaps she just wanted to talk.
The bus came. We swapped brief, well-meant goodbyes.
– Daphne Delores Winter
Leaving
Can I sit here with you?
A shrug
Yeah, go ahead
Your breath is weighed with exhaustion, defeat
You OK?
You’re not yourself, different
I’m good
I want to say, ‘I’m here, I see you’
Leaving behind
Running away
An accumulation of baggage
Do you want to talk?
Silence is underrated
Proximity necessitated
If you need space … time to reflect
I must respect your boundaries
I wait, hoping you’re ready
Ugly, uncensored words spill from your mouth
#@^&*%^^##@!
I listen, I nod
I’ll always be here for you
If you need me
You can find me
Thoughts need time to gather, arrange, exchange
The gift of time, precious yet precarious
My bus is here
You stand, reach for your bags
Your flimsy seat falls backwards
#@#@)%*
You allow me a parting embrace but won’t let me catch your eyes
The bus roars you away
I swallow the engulfing black fumes
I return the plastic garden seats to my porch
Here I’ll sit
Motionless
Resigned to wait
– Olympia Koziaris
No Shelter Supplied
Don’t supply a bus shelter
here in Autumn Street
Must bring your own chair
to sit in cold, rain or heat
I agree, a bus running late
is certainly not a crime
Good idea to bring a chair
because it is never on time
Seems both, the bus company
and city council don’t even care
Too bad if your old and frail
not one single seat anywhere
Some rude drivers tooted horns
and we did get lots of stares
As me and my old mate sat there
on our two, old plastic chairs
We slowly boarded the bus
both of us in excruciating pain
Tripped as driver took off suddenly
giving us a look of disdain
Slowly, we made it to our seats
on our faces were looks of despair
Proudly we looked back at our seats
left on footpath for others to share
Later on, we caught the bus home
and could’ believe our bad luck
We could see our plastic chairs
going into back of a garbage truck
Seems Bus company and council
who couldn’t loosen their belt
Didn’t approve of two old pensioners
offering them some help
We live here, in the Lucky Country
but I find it very hard to understand
Why, in an Autumn Street at bus stop
us old pensioners are expected to stand
– Stanley Billing
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