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The lights, the smoke, the endless trail of crawling traffic; it was all too much for you. So, you did what your university professor
suggested years ago, and packed your battered suitcase heading for a new - no, better life. Little did you know that
this
life would
include a crowd of sunburnt, red dirt stained delinquents with a complete and utter lack of interest of anything dramatic. The complete
anti-thesis to your existence, to be melodramatic. Sometimes you dream of the life you could have had on these time crawlingly slow
summer days where the sweltering heat swallows all signs of self-resolve.
You stop your daydreaming to focus on what's at hand; Jordan has found your secret stash of white board pens and is currently
threatening his neighboring friends with them. So much for that relaxing outback life you had yearned for.
“Put down those pens, Jordan, or your sweet mother will know about it!” you yell. Poor Mrs. Morris had so much on her hands
already with her clan of boys.
Instantly, he drops the pens arms up in surrender.
“Now let's get to work, Aaron, start from the birth scene.” You repeat for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
“I name him Jesus. My sweet baby boy has entered this world.” Aaron recites with as much emotion as a leather shoe. Desperately
you try to explain the feelings that occur when a child enters the world but he won't have any of it. Aaron has no interest in portraying
any of the Christmas spirit you are seeking. Looking around the small classroom converted theatre you assess your cast, a merry band
of emotionless, complaining kids not interested in the spirit of Christmas or anything to do with the nativity play. Most were here for the
required community and service hours, others were forced by their parents. Somehow, you feel no sympathy. In an effort to keep your
cool, you cancel the rehearsal for the afternoon and remind everyone to come focused and early for tomorrow's. Maybe it will all be
better tomorrow.
Quickly, they disperse like cockatoos on a shaken gum tree. You take your time on the route home, passing the spread-out cottages
and ancient shops with few tattered essentials in their windows. As a small community, you call out greetings to the locals parked on
their porches enjoying the beautiful outback sunset occurring on the horizon. Night is quickly falling upon the dry spinifex and it is
dark when you arrive at your lonely brick house. Something about the pitch-black night reminds you of the ghost Jordan rambles on
about in class when really, he should be rehearsing his lines. The Mokoi Ghost; if you remember correctly is a distorted figure who
travels on the winds of the night into children's bedrooms stealing them away to his cave in the Canyon near our village. There he
decapitates their sweet dreamy heads and gorges on their flesh. Pleasant. Although it is a stupid legend that only stands to scare the
rebellious and wandering children, you find yourself shivering and crawl straight into your squeaky single bed. Alone. You fall asleep
wishing that the next day would be better.
The next morning you awaken with the sun and make your way to the small school buildings where you work. The students are in
their costumes ready to go. A shocking sight to witness. But even more shocking, for some reason Jill, the village counsel, is
standing and presumably waiting for you. She is dressed to the nines in a beautiful chiffon bridesmaid dress that must have come