Lustre

 

The delivery of the body for the wake at Block 11 was an old Chinese ahma, as shown later by the smiling photograph that was mounted before the casket when she was brought into the Void.

The small turn-out surprised, perhaps a dozen mourners in all. It had been a modest, quiet life no doubt, and likely she had outlived many.

In a couple discreet passes along the walkway looking the lady couldn’t be recalled in that quarter. Reflexively, one steeled oneself a fraction scrutinising the portrait, hoping the individual had not been one of the regular neighbours.

Often people from other blocks, other estates even a kilometre or more away, came to the Void at 11, for the space offered there, it had been explained. This had now been compromised since the new health centre had appropriated a large part of the area.

The casket looked a heavy item in dark, highly polished wood, but it was not enclosed there that the deceased had arrived at the Void.

Returning from the morning teh the day before the seating & canvas awning was still being arranged, a Chinese company involved that had never featured at the Haig before. The absence of crosses signalled a Buddhist affair, which was soon confirmed with the colouring & script. Across on the other side of the grass a 10-12 seater van had pulled in beside the recycle bin, a small group of men waiting in attendance. After the rear door had been lifted open one of the men, an older chap, went down on his knees before it. From within on a trolley a bundle in the most vivid yellow gold cloth emerged, for which the kneeling man spread his arms wide and bowed his head. The bright colour positively dazzled and the bundle seemed to stretch two metres, rising up as if a large mammal of some kind from the sea was contained.

A dutiful son one could more easily understand like that here, rather than this old man who needed to be helped to his feet afterward. It had been a beautiful marriage, clearly.

            The night before Zoro in Montenegro had announced another death over there, this time a maternal cousin in her late 80s. A day or two before an earlier message had arrived from Zdravun, telling of his visit to the mourning house to offer his condolences.

            Forty-five years ago Cousin Danica had been met 3 - 4 times. In the early ‘80s she had worked in a little kiosk by the water and once Zdravko’s younger brother had accompanied for a farewell dinner of her son for his national service. Parents, especially mothers, were terribly anxious in such circumstances, where sons were sent to far flung corners of the country.

            Danica was the eldest child of Aunt Saveta, who when she lost her father to the mines in Amerika, soon after lost her mother too when she married grandad Rade. Grandad had insisted the child be left behind in the birth clan; even a couple hundred meters away little contact had been allowed.       

Another of the astounding facts of that harsh former life high in the karst.

The response that followed the announcement of Danica’s passing had been learned long ago from the earlier generation. It was the only thing that could be decently managed. A particularly striking form of words.

Laka joj crna žemlja.

The black earth light on her.

The rich alpine soil in the plateau on Uble was indeed black. Finer folk along the water below tagged the mountaineers from whom they bought their foodstuffs dirty. Šporki Ubjani. Down near the water the soil was friable; at the heights more black and heavy.

Not for the first time, the thought arrived that in the old days, in the poor mountain settlements like Village Uble, the dead had routinely been buried with the dirt directly shovelled onto the body of the deceased. 

Of course. Naturally. What else?

And not just in the Montenegrin mountain refuge settlements of course.

The clods were difficult to bear. Partings were harder. The Montenegrin hill people were famous for their graveside keening, drawing literary types like Goethe and Vuk Karadjić to the gravesides.

One wished for loved ones, for any deceased grieved, that lighter burden of piled soil. Not the heavy dirt the people turned over all their lives in the narrow fields.

Gold leaf for the Pharaohs would hardly have glinted more brightly deep within the dark burial vaults of the pyramids than that cloth arriving at the Void, received into the arms of the grieving widower.

Publication news: The Sound of Music - Packingtown Review

Another publication to announce, music theme here, which could only be taken in some divergent directions by this writer.

A short sequence of 3 micros (760 words), free on the site, —

www.packingtownreview.com/issues/25/radonic/music.html

NB. In some regions the link brings up security alerts. Googling Packingtown Review seems to overcome that. #25 Spring 2026

Publication: Gettin’ On - Blood+Honey

Another flash of mine has just been published by an U.S. online magazine called Blood+Honey, where they like grit & edginess. Gettin' On gives a wee touch of that from the world of the former British possessions on the Equator. 

A junkie tale here from a more permissive Singaporean era! 😊 Originally penned 12 odd years ago.

Free on the site (1.1K words),

https://www.bloodhoneylit.com/fiction/gettin-on

Obit

It stayed in the mind pinching & nagging, the kinda thing that all too often happens to writers, catching them unawares, while minding their own business. Really, there was no call to stick your nose in there, especially such sensitive matters. This though did stick fast, through the latter part of morning and again on the bus getting out for lunch. Darn thing. Coming on so much so in fact that one was actually forced to go back in the evening to buy another copy of the newspaper. The morning paper was always given away afterward to one of the uncles or aunties interested to flip through the pages; even wrapping paper was better than junking in the recycle bin. (The suspicion was all refuse was actually burnt in the Republic. The mess of junk people threw into those blue bins made anything else impossible, even were there a will.) One certainly didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, nor more importantly the grief-stricken living. But, by golly! What the heck was that? At bottom very much an important question. An Obit 4 inches x 6. When photos of the departed accompanied text in the English language newspaper the pics were invariably super flattering. Flattering shots of 70year olds, 90year olds the same. The incidence seemed to be more common on these shores. One only flicked the pages of course at the tail end of the morning ritual. All of the paper was dealt with summarily, but esp. Biz, Obit, Sport & Life. (One must say, the paper in question did hold quite compelling pieces occasionally, not all of them syndicated. A psychiatrist who had been head of the local Institute at one time was truly first rate.) The particular smiling deceased here had stood herself at the foot of a curving wooden balustrade, perhaps 10-15 years before her demise. Possibly she had been a handsome woman in her pomp; it was difficult to tell. Lustrous dye, high heels. Silver bracelet and good trim. But it was the dress that was the thing. Taste, aesthetic judgement was not evenly distributed at the creation, of course. One versed in fashion could describe the article more satisfactorily. Rich baby pink the first thing, classic Barbie tone. A mermaid effect was created with ballooned shoulders and tightening at the hip, where a large, flowering rose at the midriff shed large petals along the trunk and down to the ankles. One leg swung over the other and the foot mounted achieved the inverted cone. The colour accent continued through hair, lippy, fingers & toes. It was only the hands that gave away the age. There must have been a long zip behind; in front the dress seemed pasted on. In any circumstances highly overblown and in this particular usage especially. (Galas at the upscale clubs, weddings & the like, perhaps could be imagined.) The rhyming stanzas attached confirmed Christianity, hopes of reunion, the higher world & eternal life. Even in the case of the prosperity gospel, such a presentation seemed problematic. That attire could not have been chosen for the casket; it was difficult to conceive such a thing. And this was certainly not to say the heart of gold beneath the fabric could be questioned. Only, the journey, the life passage—stringing the dots together toward the final, earthly outcome and the aspiration… One was not to judge. The role of the scribe was often disagreeable, like that of the messenger. Only a polite question raised here, finally, centring on this class, this culture & society that could produced dissonance of that sort. (Not at issue this or that individual case.)

 

Publication news: Soaring - Airplane Reading

Another air travel piece of mine has just been published by the guys at Airplane Reading, who share a serious interest in the subject matter.

A short-short again (400 words), freely available on the site here, —

https://airplanereading.org/story/579/soaring

All best

PR

Chrysalis 22_May26 - 350

 

 

 Not every single guy would react like that, but there was no doubt about it, give this one particular chap a bakery, one raising crisp, fresh loaf on site, good variety and some pride in product; add pastries, cakes, pies, croissants, tidbits, &etc, all of the same high standard, what you automatically found was all the girls therein—for this one particular, not so very special kinda guy—all the girls serving there suddenly, as if by magic, appeared the sweetest, most scrumptious and completely delectable sorts imaginable. Transformed into lovey-dovey, heart-piercing-melting-confounding desirables. As if the weirdest spell had been cast. Put same out on the street, on a bus, at a bar, passing beneath an umbrella, going out on the town, nothing whatever like effect, according to this particular guy. It was something of the gingerbread house effect that had been evoked in the schoolroom couple generations past, that vividness & overpowering compulsion. Similar was found at markets, fruit stalls, delicatessens, occasionally behind chemist counters, for this particular guy. (Nurses of course, but that was common.) Not so much cafe baristas, waitresses, checkout chicks & shopgirls. Not evident in kitchens and less so again offices and even dance halls & concerts. Decidedly much less so, at least for this certain kinda guy, with his own curious kinda wiring. The gym might have been supposed, yoga, library, lecture hall, cooking classes, whatnot. Mistakenly. Broccoli, carrot, even turnips, potato & onion displays could better set the scene and serve the purpose. Clothing stores another no-no; carefully lit bookshops & galleries unpropitious, even where compelling portraits & still lives graced the walls. (A painter friend of his, excellent and committed female artist, had taken offence at the account of a gallery visit once, where a patron there had been described as a far greater and more captivating work than anything on the walls.) This odd connoisseur wondered about porn & fashion victims. Were his own reactions so very rare? Surely there were others similarly constituted, the chap always continued with his point, like a dog at a bone.

 

 

                         Candied Bakery,  

Spotswood, Melbourne

 

 

Another Thing of Feathers

 

The dead pigeon yesterday going along Crane Road to meet Kieran startled, a vivid white full-breast, head and open eye turned inward to the pavement, against the grey of the steel utility box standing 1.1-2m high. Right there suddenly touching distance, the delicate texture of its feathers apparent in the pass. The numerous dead on the pavements of the last few weeks had been gotten by with far less sting. Around the middle of April, after a preparatory media campaign, the culling of the crows by the shooters had been resumed, with the poisoning of the pigeons ongoing.