Over the past few months I’ve made some choices to break the rules and while my low risk rule breaking has felt good, kind of empowering, it has raised some questions: when is it OK to break the rules? Is it OK to break the rules if you won’t get caught? Is it OK to break the rules if you’ve assessed the risk and think the rule is not applicable in these circumstances? Is it OK to break the rules if the rules are unjust? What happens if everyone breaks the rules?

It happened on a girls’ weekend away. The last day of our weekend involved cycling to, and walking around, Point Nepean National Park. Point Nepean has a wide walking path, with a low fence protecting the forbidden areas. Signs dot the fence with warnings: “Dangerous currents” and “unexploded Bombs” and “please keep to the track”. Old army fortifications dot the peninsula, scattered amongst bushland and giving way to views across to Point Lonsdale. The two points are known as Port Phillip Heads and form the narrow and dangerous entrance to Port Phillip Bay.  We’d stopped to checkout Cheviot Beach, but still no sign of Harold Holt whom I suspect of breaking the rules that day he disappeared in 1967.

We needed a place to sit and share a bubbly to celebrate the weekend. Conditions were perfect:-very low tide; sunny but not roasting; enough breeze to keep the flies away and a solid bike ride and hike behind us. The taste for champagne and anxiety about finding “the right place” was building. Climbing to the tip of Point Nepean we came across a grassy knoll sited atop an old gun emplacement battery. With fantastic views and enough space for all of us, it was unfortunately located on the “bomb side” of the fence.

Even though I fancy myself as the leader of these weekends, it was Beth who went under the fence first, telling me later that she didn’t see the Bomb sign, only the dangerous currents warning – and obviously there were no dangerous currents at that time. This assessment supported by the fact that there was another group already on the beach, blatantly breaking the rules. It didn’t take me long to follow Beth, even though I’d seen the bomb warnings. My cognitive behavioural therapy training pitching the questions: What is the worst that can happen? – Answer: We could get blown up. Q: How likely is it that this will happen? A: Not very.

For Rachel, the lure of champagne and the need to join in outweighed the risk of breaking the rule. Kate struggled with her belief that the rule probably had a sound basis in terms of protecting the environment, and what would happen if everyone broke the rule?   Erin heard voices from the past warning her about doing the wrong thing.

One by one each of our group weighed up their assessment of the risk or the moral dilemma in going under the fence. In less than 5 minutes all scrabbled under the fence despite varying degrees of physical capability (sore knees, arthritic wrists, reduced flexibility) to enjoy a sublime picnic on the grassy knoll looking over to Point Lonsdale.

Just as I began to relax and think we might not get blown up, ranger Kate came striding up the hill towards us shouting “You’re in a restricted area, you’ve just gone under the fence right where there’s a sign saying keep out, you’ll need to move now”. We all scrambled to our feet, secretly very pleased that we’d managed to have our picnic before being discovered, apologised and wriggled back under the fence. Ranger Kate charged on in search of the group of walkers down on the beach.

All of those feelings that come with being brought up a good Catholic girl and being caught red-handed welled up inside me, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a good call to break the rule that day. My feelings were vindicated upon reading that one of the traits of a good leader is knowing when it’s OK to break the rules. That is the challenge, when is it OK to break the rule?    My rule breaking is not of the kind that will get me executed in a foreign country or drowned at Cheviot Beach. Perhaps we each have our own rule breaking barometer and for me that’s a glass of champagne with excellent company on a grassy knoll.

Helena Davenport was from a notable American family living in Atlanta at the time of President Theodore Roosevelt’s term. During her twentieth summer, she left her home to embark upon a great journey, at the time for Helena to mix with the European society from which her family originated, to find an adequate match.

Before embarking upon her journey, Helena expressed to her mother that she would be happy to have any man deemed suitable and would behave in a way that made her family proud at every occasion. However, her only condition was that before her marriage, she could visit Africa to see the exotic land just once. The family agreed.

In 1902, she departed by steamer bound for Cape Town – a detour before Europe. Her mother Elizabeth and Aunt Davinia were her chaperones. Because of that, Helena felt quite safe and cared for, but she thought to herself, “I need a volunteer to take me to see the African animals. Better still, a knowledgeable guide who knows what he is doing.”

After their arrival in Cape Town, the women were invited to dine with the American ambassador. At supper in the grand dining room, the Davenport family women sat beside a South African game hunter by the name of Johannes de Koster. And because of that, they found their very man who would take them on an exhibition to see the African wilds

After three days of preparation, they found themselves sitting atop elephants riding through the wilderness, until finally they came across a pride of lions. Johannes cocked his great firearm as the elephants were quietly halted behind the trees separating them from the lions.

“Have no fear ladies,” said Johannes. “The elephants are accustomed to gunfire.” He took his aim and shot dead one of the magnificent lionesses.

As the hunting party gathered up the recently killed beast, Helena looked in wonder at lionesses muscular body lying limp across the arms of the men carrying her back as a prize. It was then that Helena heart a faint crying noise.

“What on earth is that?” she asked Johannes.

As bravely as a hunter with a gun would, Johannes approached the source of the cry near some long grass. He then put down his rifle and picked up a tiny lion cub by the scruff of its neck.

After a year spent in the salons of London through their various connections, Helena’s chaperones had sourced an appropriate partner for marriage, which took place the following spring. Her match was a fortuitous one for her family, as now her father and father-in-law were connected as well as trading merchants could be. As the business was complete, it was time for Elizabeth and Aunt Davinia to make preparations for their return to America. Helena would stay in her new home in Liverpool, England.

As Helena searched her rooms for any items that should be returned to Atlanta, she came across a photograph taken in South Africa. Johannes had arranged for a studio portrait to be taken of Helena with the lion cub. She smiled fondly as she looked at the image of the surprisingly calm young animal sitting on her knee. Her smile widened at the dress, which was more appropriate for a carnival than a formal English drawing room; however, Helena had no time to object as Johannes had specially arranged delivery of the dress and hat for her to wear in the photograph. Helena looked searchingly at the the photograph before hiding it back in place. Then she gathered up some items to return to her old life in America with her departing mother and aunt.

Downstairs, as she spied her husband she could not help herself as she asked:

“George, darling. Tell me, how is your trade developing in Africa?”

The first boy I ever kissed thought I was a Muslim. Maybe. We’d both been attending a model Untied Nation forum for for senior students, hosted by the local rotary clubs at a rather posh boarding school. My partner and I had drawn Iran. Timewise, this inter-school social event occurred soon after the first Gulf War and despite the air of studiousness that got me picked to represent our school, the gravity of that fact was completely lost on me. As has so often been the case in my life, I was just excited to dress up.

We didn’t go full burka. Our ensemble relied upon a cobbled together hijab with niqab, which left our eyes clear. I remember a lot of fiddling with bobby pins, which in itself, I would’ve thought was a dead give away.  You never see real Muslim women faffing about with their head wear, to me they always appear serene and well groomed. I’m sure that they have bad hair days just like the rest of us but you’d never know it. As a woman whose locks are prone to what I call ‘hair haze’ in just about any type of weather conditions, I’ve thought about this quite a bit.

As we arrived, there was a thrilling little twitter of awareness that the Iranian representatives had arrived.  Well, I like to remember it that way. But there was an undercurrent of curiosity, that sense of excitement that comes when a group of kids are thrown together with minimal adult supervision. A number of our fellow delegates sidled up and murmured words to the effect that it was so wonderfully enlightened that we’d been allowed to participate. We were either completely convincing or all those other nation states attending were just as sheltered and white bread as we were. Or possibly, already so completely indoctrinated by that one wouldn’t be so rude to mention uncertainty or outright call bullshit.

Anyhoo, it turned into one of those annoying 2 day affairs that if you’d had any balls, you’d find a reason to bail the next day. Some type of political brouhaha or natural disaster that would have you on the first plane out of JFK. But politeness prevailed and Iran stayed for the bain marie buffet, despite our dietary requirements and general misgivings about continuing our charade. We’d let our hijabs had fall back and removed the veils across our mouths so we could eat. Obviously, our research hadn’t covered dining with westerners.

Apart from eating together, there was no attempt to make us dance or participate in any lame bonding activities, thank goodness. We endured that weird interaction that comes with people you don’t know from a bar of soap – which is bad enough as an adult – let alone as a teenager trying on multiple brave faces, all the while spending far too much time in the hall of mirrors. I realised at this time how insanely boring occasions like this can be and later, came to realise just why it is that alcohol is regarded as social lubricant. When you ask what to bring to someone’s party, no-one ever replies with, have you got any lube? Just bring that, thanks, that’d be great.

Later, a group of us stood outside, sheltering from the fluro glare of the hall in the shadows of a covered walkway, killing time until our parents picked us up. The walkway led to another of the boarding school’s auditoriums and we could see ‘Out of Africa’ on screen in the distance.

I always thought that I’d recall every glance, each tiny step, every slither of witty repartee that would lead to my first kiss. But oddly, all that stands out is that it was drizzling and next thing I knew, this random boy had me up against a wall whilst Meryl and Robert lolled about beneath a tree. Apart from being my first, it wasn’t even a memorable kiss except for the fact that I every time opened my eyes, there was Africa.

And eventually, I realised that a number of boys who were supposed to be watching the movie, were watching my first kiss instead. Completely mortifying, in theory but there was a little reverse voyeuristic thrill going on, if I’m completely honest. I don’t even know how this bizarre little interlude was wrapped up  and the crap thing is, I can’t even finish this piece up by saying I never even found out what country he was from.

Because I’m pretty sure he was a boarder who was supposed to be inside watching Out of Africa and was outside instead, flirting with girls who may or may not have been Muslim.

Once upon a time there was a little ginger cat called Doris.

“Mi-yow?” she practiced as she questioned her reflection. What kind of feline are you? Come ON Doris!

“Mawwwww. Purrrhhhhhhhrrrr. Krrrrrrr.” Goddamnit. What the fuck was that?

Doris hissed at herself, flailing her paws in the air as she splayed across the chaise lounge. It’s hopeless. A cat who can speak, but can’t meow. I’m some kind of freak, maybe I should just join the circus!

Everyday, she endured the same morning routine. Get up, get dressed, then get undressed. Cats shouldn’t wear frocks or brush their hair. I mean, lick their paws. Gahhh! This isn’t meant to be so hard! Stop overthinking it, Doris. Just BE. Where are your instincts, woman?! Why can’t you be more CATTY.

Because of this inability to connect with her authentic feline nature, Doris often found herself despondent, and the only thing to raise her spirits was a tiny rainbow umbrella that she enjoyed twirling in her paws until the hypnotic rainbow swirl made her so dizzy she would have to retire to her boudoir for a cat nap (every little thing counted towards reaching cat-hood, she supposed). Doris’ recurring melodrama meant that she spent far too much time inside, rather than outside where she might actually meet ‘normal’ cats from whom she could learn something useful.

That is, until the day she met Chad—a sultry Burmese fella who Doris caught staring at her through sparkling chartreuse eyes at the open window.

All of a sudden “meeeee-OWW!!” lept from her throat. Whutttt? What IS this?

“Hrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhh” replied Chad. “Hrrrrrrhhhrhhhhhmmmm hmmmm”.

Well HELLO.

“I AM a cat after all!” Doris declared (but only to herself, for animals shouldn’t say such things out loud), purring solicitously as she nudged against  handsome Chad.

I fell into the perfect family the year I spent in Denmark. They were straight from the pages of Hans Christian Andersen: Far was the local lighthouse keeper; Mor was the local post mistress; the son was a royal guard at the Queen’s palace, complete with bearskin and sabre; and there were three blonde daughters to round it all out. There was a cat (indoors), a dog (outdoors) and a family of hedgehogs who shared the dog’s water bowl. Home in Melbourne, my stepmother liked to call me a cunt; my dad was either stoned or drunk on cask red; and I would go months at a time without seeing my mum. My stepmother’s four cats (indoors) regularly pissed in the house and no-one ever thought to clean it up.

The perfect family lived in a centuries-old farmhouse attached to a barn that a generation ago was a piggery. An orchard on the farm produced apples and a fresh Christmas tree every December, when the ground was covered in snow and the lake was frozen solid. The perfect family gave me a room of my own and 11-year-old Joan (pronounced Yo-ann) put yellow post-it notes all over house for me, each one written with the Danish word for whatever piece of furniture the note was stuck to. When I was Joan’s age, police had kicked our back door down and shone flashlights around my bedroom while I lay shaking under the covers, because dad was threatening suicide again.

20 years has passed since I saw my perfect family. Today I was asked what I would do if I only had six months to live, and why I hadn’t done that thing already. As well as publishing the memoir I am currently editing, the thing I would do is visit my perfect family. When I lived with them as an eager 15-year-old exchange student, Mor taught me how to make frikadeller; passing on the necessity of burning one’s hands with melted butter to ensure the meatballs formed the right shape, molded between the palm and a spoon. At home in Melbourne my stepmother, a cook for a living, gave my dad and I food poisoning on more than one occasion.

The reasons why I hadn’t been back to Denmark, to visit the perfect family who shared so much with me, are all the reasons I’m writing a memoir in the first place. How do I explain my dad’s three marriages to Mor and Far, who celebrated their silver wedding anniversary when I lived with them? Will Jesper, who bought the farmhouse for his own family when Mor and Far downsized, understand that until the age of 30 I’d never lived in one house for longer than 12 months at a time?

The things the perfect family gave me – togetherness, tradition, simplicity – both delighted and destroyed me. I hadn’t known families like that existed outside fairytales. It’s not surprising, really, that, despite being a lesbian, when I met the family of a boy who liked me, I jumped straight in and married him. His family offered me the same thing the perfect family had. They gave me my innocence back.

When I came home from Denmark I lost all control. This time it was substance abuse, mental illness and abusive relationships I fell into. It took many years and a failed marriage I was convinced was going to save me, to regain some of that control. But I just couldn’t make it stick, and when I left my husband, his family and all that they represented, I went spinning once again. I wasn’t built for perfect family life. Innocence wasn’t mine to hold onto.

If I only had six months to live I might call the perfect family; but I won’t be visiting them any time soon. My family now is me, my girlfriend and our two dogs, and I am proud to call them my own.

Kelly’s memoir The Art of Corpulence and Forgetting is about losing innocence, and is currently in the ‘up draft’ phase. You can find her at @kayeebeee.

I seem to have spent all of my life committing to commitment.

This is the thing I have trained myself to be good at. This is the thing I made myself into, to prove them wrong.

As a child, people spent a lot of time telling me I didn’t commit – that I never finished anything. And I suppose it looked that way to them. Certainly, I believed them.

I started knitted scarves, only to undo them and start again, in a different colour or a different pattern or a different width.

I started uni courses.

I started jobs and friendships and art works and conversations.

I never finished any of them.

When I found a person to commit to, I never finished that relationship. This is the life I built, to prove them wrong.

If you asked me, now, what I am good at, I’d say I’m good at exploring. I’m good at wondering. I’m good at thinking. I’m good at introspection.

I’m good at knitting, too. I’m good at beginnings. Lacking commitment to finish gave me plenty of practice.

And I’m good at discovery.

But I recognise that the process of discovery looks a lot like lack of commitment. To me, the two things seem anathema.

While I was committed to a relationship, I lost, it seems, the ability to explore anything other than her.

I lost my curiosity about me.

When I began to write, I felt like myself for the first time in years. I began a novel. I finished it. I began a short story. I finished it.

Suddenly, I wanted to finish everything. In the pages, I discovered myself. I committed to myself. I had to finish what I started, so I could know who I was again.

And in making a commitment to myself, I lost my commitment to her.

I finished something.

I proved them wrong.

FIN

J-L Heylen has a series of lesbian science fiction books beginning with “Wisdom Beyond Her Years”; a steampunk series; and two short stories, all available as eBooks on Amazon, Smashwords, iBooks and other major electronic distribution channels.

She writes blog posts on writing, life, and science fiction at www.jlheylenauthor.com and can be found on facebook at www.facebook.com/jlheylen.

Once upon a time there was the father of a small boy. The boys name was Tom and he lived in a city famous for its industrial smoke and murders. The father was an employee of the local steel mill and daily sent miles of metal through heated machines in a window less factory.

The father and Tom Lived with Amy who was the fathers much younger wife. They leased a small property near the mill, there was no plumbing, and this meager plot of land and the father’s small wage supplemented an adequate life.

Everyday after cleaning the house, washing the food and tending the animals, Amy would routinely force herself to vomit in the bathroom. She was detached and lived in fear, for, every night her husband would beat and rape her.

Tom’s growth as part of this picture went unnoticed. He was a baby, then a child. As the years progressed the layers slid neatly in place and Tom grew, fathoming piece by piece what was happening to his mother. Toms resolve fortified and the dependent child made steel to save his mother.

Because of that steel, it allowed Tom; a very intelligent boy to hatch a plan that would see the end of the tyranny and Tom would get his mother back.

His plan to destroy his father depended on the completion of a project to make a bomb. Tom had all he needed, as leftovers from the war were not hard to find.

He inserted a bomb inside one of the chickens his father would have to kill.

On the planned evening, Toms father returned from work, and headed down the back, to fetch a sick chicken and ends its life.

Tom waited; smoking one of his dads cigarettes and watching with Joy as finally he appeared, chicken under arm.

Tom activated the bomb and bits of his father splattered over the lawn, the dogs promptly cleaned him up

The End