theloop until the anchorreached the bottom.It wasabout 40m deep. Everyone sat quietly checking and double-checking his equipment;the tension and anxiety showing on all their faces.Thetime had come and everyone pulled his masks over the faces and toppled backwards into the water. Once under the water all noise seemed to drown into non-existence except for the rhythmic breathing of my mouth-piece.I quickly got the feel ofthe water and was soon swimming deeper.Small clumps ofcoral emerged under me as I kicked softly with my flippers. A large pompano raced past me as I reached the coral. The col ours were unimaginable, with reds, purples and blues thatI hadn't see before.The intricate webs ofseaweeds waved in the current,trying to catch as much sunlight as possible. A small clown fish darted from a rocky crev ice to the safety of a blood-red sea-anemone,its sting ing tentacles waving invitingly towards the other small tropical fish. I swam deeper and further, checking my watch every five minutes or so. The time seemed to fly in this weighless world ofthe underwater. Once my time was up,I slowly began the ascent to"re ality".I watched the bubblesfloatup with me.They were oblong in shape and silvery grey asI tried to catch them. Ilooked up to see how far I still had to ascend.I saw the light rays probing into the water and being fractured by the choppy surface. My head broke the surface and all the sounds of"reality"burst back into my head.Forjust afew minutesI had been in another world with different plants and animals and scenery and bestofall-nosound. ANDREWMULLINS VISITING HOURIN HOSPITAL Ding,ding,ding! "Doctor Bauer, please report to the dispensary. Doctor Bauer,please report to the dispensary. Thank you." The familiar sound of the hospital's announcer can be clearly heard in the otherwise silent entrance hall. There are people everywhere, all shapes and sizes, mingling pathetically dragging their feet and biting their nails. They crowd around the elevator doors, and sit on the threadbare chairs in the waiting area,pretending to read magazines.They sit and wait,and mill around,jumping away quickly to make a path for passing trolleys, beds and wheelchairs and then looking on at the sleeping bod ies with anxiety,trying to guess whatis wrong with them. Oh, yes! Too many people! Too many grave faces! To many ringed eyes! And too much deathly silence! No one says a word,everyone just looks straight as it they are in a trance. They just look straight and sigh. They walk around like zombies, like dead people, pale and grey. One might argue that they are not walking for it is hardly even a walk, it is almost as if their feet are not touching the ground,as if they don't even have feet, as if they are some undead spirits just floating, floating across the room on their deep thoughts and anxieties casting a blanketofunnatural,creepy silence overthem selves. Dinggg! The elevator doors ride open and are almost hidden by the sea of bobbing heads pouring through them.Ijust manage to squeeze my way through before the doors close behind me.Then,from behind mecomes a chanting of voices as all the people in the cramped elevator call out their respective floor numbers to the man closest to the buttons. They chant them out like machines, lifeless helpless machines in a dreamlike world of their own.I don't blame them,I think,"This place is evil."It turns peopleinto machines;its dark and gloomy atmospheretransforming the people whobreathe it into lifeless, obeying robots, I think to myself: After I've been in and out ofhere for afew weeks I,too, will have turned into a machine.Suddenly the chanting stops and I quickly emerge from my pool ofthoughts only to realize that everyone in the lift is looking at me... "Ummmm,"I say,"Ohhh ... Oh yes, sorry, seventh floor, please!" The man closest to the buttons pushes the button with the figure seven printed neatly onto it and everyone in the lift immediately turns away and proceeds to look straight ahead again almost as ifthey are trying to bore a hole right through the lift door by staring at it. Dingg!The liftjolts to a halt and the doors slide open.I rush out, turn left and look behind me as the glassyeyed machines march out of the lift in single file and float down their respective corridors. The potent smell of disinfectant and medicine start to tickle my nose,passing through my nasal passages and pack around my brains.I can feelthem stagnating there, putrifying my brain and dissolving into my thoughts.I think to myself,"This is when it all begins. This is the beginning ofthe end." And then I suddenly realize and see those machines, those poor helpless, confused trapped souls,and then I understand. I walk down the corridor, trying to look happy and to greet all the passing nurses.Iturn rightand face the door. This is the visiting hour,this is where it all begins. I open the door. I walk in ... F. CRABBIA Form 4R ONE STRING OFRUBBERY BUBBLED WEED The stars in the abyssmal sky provided the only light as I trudged, half crawled,through the mud.Its long feel ers ofsand gripping and pulling me ever deeper into its mouth,like an amoeba surrounding its prey. As I reached the edge ofthe lake,the water tightly lap ping at my feet beckoning me like a rabid dog,I slowly pulled myselfsilently into the water.Thecold surrounded my body and the icy temperature sent impulses ofalter native currentclambering up my spinal cord to my brain, carrying the message'cold'.My bodyflinched and with determination I forced my muscles to contract and re main still. After swiftly paddling through the ominouslakeI pulled myselfup onto the beach like a beggar heaving.Silently I removed all my clothes and threw them into the lake. Now I matched the colour ofthe sand dunes,and while the water slowly trickled down my body and onto the sand I crawled up and down the sand dunes relying on my stealth for protection. A twig snapped behind a sand dune and I realized I was walking on the razor's edge. Recovering from panic I buried myselfunder the fine white sand with my scarred hands.Slowly acrouched,stalking figure appeared above horizon.Ashelowered himselfoverthe dune,his hands Kearsney Chronicle 1994 47
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTc3MDU5Nw==