Young Writers Society

There has always been smoke in the air, as far back as I remember.

Scary smoke when I’m four and it’s summer. The Grey Bush fire clouds turn into black billows as they reach the houses atop of our hill. Flames too red and the sun too bright. The garden hose is thundering on our roof, stopping embers. It is as loud as the radio. Mum waits for evacuation orders from its speakers. It is too hot to hide under blankets. “Turn it off” I scream covering my ears “turn it off, turn it off!” I should be coving my nose. Next door has already packed, but the roads are blocked so it’s not much use.

Later playing at the beach, age seven or eight. It is the first day warm enough in spring. The headlands are glowing, with a white mist rising from the back burning. We run from the white foam of the waves giggling, too cold to swim. Instead we build sand castles, decorated with black charred drift wood and white pippi shells. Seagulls try to steal our picnic.

I took matches from the gas stove when I was 10. Melting sweets stolen from the Lollie jar, above a pile of stics and twigs, we knew we shouldn't. We were hidden under the house were we were forbidden from, because of the funnel webs. Yet we had a watering can next to us, by then we knew well enough. My brothers and I got dust on our trousers and the stink through our hair. When we got thirsty and went inside Mum quireied "why do you lot smell of smoke?" 

"We haven't been burning things under the house" my elequent three yearold brothers says too promply. I knew we'd had it.  He wouldn't join in the next thing we did. 

I remember its autumn, my twelfth birthday party. The leaves are raked away and a bucket of water is on hand. We sit around the fire playing musical chairs as the wind changes direction. Damper, marsh mellows and sausages over the coals. Singing "fire's burning" as the flames flare and the embers drift up on grey streams to join the stars, before snuffing out. We stay up, talking in the tent, which is musty from campfires before.

There is tobacco smoke on the veranda, when granny comes to visit and the silver tin fills with cigarette buts. There is other sweeter smoke from behind a building, at a party. Plastic smelling gas from my brother’s smoke bombs made from ping pong balls. Musk and jasmine incense in the crystal shop rises from the statue of budda. My attempts to follow a recipe set of the fire alarms, red and blue dish cloths flap at them till they fall silent. Dad smoking freshly caught fish for the Christmas party, where the barbeque produces charred steak and burgers.

It persists even in winter, when I hang out the washing. The streets fire places are alight, disappearing the branches which fell in the storm.

There is always smoke in the air, never let it be that of war.