The Lion Sleeps a work of Fiction by glowworm (kirsten k) ìLibbi, with an ëií, had always been a lion deep down. She practised the roar of the jungle down the backyard with her golden friend Combo who just usually made pathetic whining noises.î It was the best present sheíd ever unwrapped, so heavy she had to sit down to lift it to her lips. It made a sound that made people listen. At home. At school. Especially at school. She had walked around all lunchtime, holding it safe in her case, watching everyone wonder what it was. It was the first time she could remember hearing anyone at school say her name. Libbi, with an ëií, had always been a lion deep down. She practised the roar of the jungle down the backyard with her golden friend Combo who just usually made pathetic whining noises. At school she tossed her mane at the girlsí skipping rope chants, her growl coming alive in orchestra when she ripped into the notes of her song, her tongue and fingers tense, her voice ferocious through the mouthpiece in jaunty purrs and huffs and tones to blow your house down. Libbi could defend her territory and had the scratches to prove it; silver trails on her hips and thighs. Libbi and cheetah-Jason prowled around the swing and held each othersí wrists. Tight. Digging their nails in hard until the pain felt good . At night Libbi felt proud of her torn and tender hands when they screamed under the hot tap. Monday mornings in bed Libbi looked forward to Video Time when Ms Vlahov turned the lights off and Jasonís hands were no longer weapons. His fingers would wiggle in the material beneath her buttons. Soft stomach, skin and sighs. Always that ticklish groove under her undies elastic which made her want to laugh. She wished he was tangled in the mosquito net as she lay on her stomach, heaving and squirming in a strange and clumsy rhythm, blood rushing to her face and legs. She caught her breath quietly, minutes before breakfast. a-l-c-o-h-o-l-i-c. Adults whispered this word knowingly, forgetting that Libbi was in 3rd grade and could spell. She knew all too well what this word meant. It meant dad was really embarrassing at dinner when he knocked over glasses of red wine. It meant Libbi could never speak to friends on the phone or share her feelings because dad would gabble at the wrong times and everyone would know. It meant staying up later than all the other kids at school and sometimes sleeping in past the school bell because dad lost track of time. It meant the same conversation every night around 8 when mum came home. A conversation without enough words. A conversation Libbi pretended not to hear. Libbiís mum called her dad ìthe social butterflyî when they had a fight but Libbi saw him more as a bullfighter, prancing around in a gold and red buttoned coat, waiting for the right time to stick his sword in flesh. When her dad was mowing the lawn, Libbi would eat Tim Tams in his study and pretend to play solitaire but really she put in his computer disks and tried to understand what Work meant: on the screen she could only find words put together, one next to another, as simple as bricks in a wall. Libbi wasnít much of a reader. Books did not belong in her jungle. They did not make enough sound. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * She was always amazed at how quiet the zoo was at this time. Hundreds of caged birds, monkeys, lions, elephants and silence, thick as a sausage, settled on her shoulders. The harbour was black, a grey day threatening tourists with changed itineraries and unfulfilled dreams. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed; the inscription on her grandmaís card this morning. God, if she only knew. A birthday party for one, she had taken the day off school with a blueberry muffin, can of Southern Comfort and Coke, and a CD Walkman. She was missing jazz band practise, In The Mood for the end-of-year concert. Again. Maths teachers full of useless equations - how do they prove these things? - and an English syllabus of Henry James and Chekhov. Libbi preferred to sit watching lions rip meat apart while she devoured Sylvia Plath in huge chunks. As the short slicked black hair and turquoise silk dress came into view, Libbi admitted it wasnít really a party for one. A juicy, delicious kiss smelling of Vanilla Slice. Meg. Wavering and thin-skinned, passionate in short bursts and never able to make up her mind, Meg was fast and slippery as a fish. Meg quickly handed her a tiny box but didnít watch as she opened it. A silver ring with an engraved catís head, a bit big. To Catwoman, the card said. Libbi kept it on her middle finger. The Platypus Exhibit was something of a misnomer. In the dark coolness of the fake night Libbi had never seen one; they were not fooled by the lights and glass walls. She could only hear Megís breath as she was pushed to the wall, Megís chest fluid against hers, moving like she always did when they got stoned and danced to Nick Cave. Megís fingers were tiny and deft, and seemed to fit so right, and her hair and legs and jawline so soft. Youíve got a tongue like velvet, she laughed, and sucked fingers. One by one. Meg put her palm over Libbiís mouth as she tensed and was filled up and tasted sweat; Megís unique form of shock treatment. The platypus still hadnít emerged but the school kids on excursion from Wagga Wagga had found an exhibit more interesting to look at. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * She had lied. The car had broken down. Where? Where? Pacific Fair. Yeah, thatís good. Shopping. ThreeÖfourÖfive hours late. RACQ man took ages to get there. Small electrical problem, replaced a part, not too expensive. She had wanted to please her, lavish her with love. Rationalising her world away in a frenzy of give-and-takes, equations, pay-backs, if-this-then-thats; solutions had seemed simple at the time. The rent money would be replaced in the morning as would Cathieís bank balance, the printer, the camera and the notes in the pottery tin on top of the fridge. Libbi just had to keep tryingÖfor once in her life, she wanted to finish something. She knew she would win as she sat transfixed by the lights and sound, sapping energy from the people and machines surrounding her. If anyone deserved the Big One it was her. Credentials: Almost a BA.. Retrenched for the 2nd time. Nearly 24 and still in Doc Martens. A partner close to fed-up. She was full of compromise and generous heart, inviting Cathie along. Jupiterís on the Gold Coast. Everybody Razzle Dazzle. Hot flushes before menopause. Here comes your lucky break. Cathie said the place had the bad smell of loneliness and losers, and had only seen the tack, soiled red carpet and cheap champagne. She had been content to watch Two-Up, its physicality drawing her in. At least players seem to have some sense of participation, a chance to have a bearing on the outcome, she had said, and then wandered off to the cocktail lounge where she had the one-too-many G&Ts which made her sob and go into the male toilet by mistake. The inevitable wailing on the way home as she shoved the car seat back violently-like she pushed Libbi on the futon sometimes when she was cat-hungry-flailing against perceived injustices. On and on. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Libbi huddled under the striped sheet. Still. Waiting. Silence and Truth. Jesus, sheíd forgotten how. Cathie arrived in the room naked with a huge chocolate Mud Cake and a smile that seemed to split the room in two, lines of teeth stretching the distance further, amber flames flicking her nipples. Libbi whispered it all quickly, never wanting to stopÖno pauses please no pauses oh hush my darling donít cry my darling sorry sorry the lion sleeps tonight never stop hush my darling donít fear my darling oh god Iím sorry the lion sleeps tonightÖ She had never been good at finishing things. Created on Sun, 28 Sep 1997 and last modified on Sat, 13 Dec 1997.

LOUDonline - http://www.loud.net.au - Fri, 10 Apr 1998