Ned the Judge's Son

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please read my short story, Ned the Judge's Son.

Submitted: January 06, 2014

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Submitted: January 06, 2014



A courtroom is a mockery of a place. The judge sits higher than everyone else. Why does the judge have to sit higher? No one is better than another person, people are born equal, and it should be that way for the rest of our lives. We, in the gallery, sit on a row of little “school children” chairs; there are glasses of water, in abundance, a young lady, dressed up, typing, and all those important, big people who remind me of my first day in kindergarten, with their mums’ making the better lunch.

The judge is a snappy, stern, mean lady, in middle age. Somehow she is angry at the same time as being spoilt. She has the air of someone whom doesn’t get said ‘no’ to often. She sits with unnecessary posture like the whole thing is a big show. She is desensitised – I do not like her. She’s not a thinker. She is not so special, yet she is the centre of attention.

My court case is on now. I am not a bad person. I make mistakes. Stuff seems to happen to me. I recon it is because of solitude, and loneliness. My case is on now. I am not a pervert. I recon there is always, in people, a duality. Sometimes people have no peripheral vision; they see you as a bad creature even though you are really an exceptional, good person. This hurts lots; imagine having a healthy ego – in the sense your self-esteem is balanced – and then you are suddenly roughly sobering brought down – and you see the truth in their wavering image, about you. You cannot help it. No matter what you do, grovel and endear people to you, you have always got the way you are perceived. Evil, crazy, out casted, and, a pervert.

If I was a soldier I would be above all that, I’d be loved by all. A son of the nation. But I am not that. And I don’t want to be that. Regarding going to court, I have to walk a very thin line, because, always, through time, in the context of living life – slowly, slowly, gaining wisdom; gradually – little differences, normal everyday conflict – in these innocent-to-most-people encounters, perceptions can be plainly misperceived, can mean a lot to a person as sensitively socially placed as I.

The judge has a slightly – knar, an obviously – too loud voice, that peaks at all manner of ear piercing cries. She wears a thin black robe of expensive material. It must have cost a fortune because of the thickness, and the expensiveness. She wears half glasses on her nose.

Her kids at home hate her. She doesn’t say much (at home). But her presence is felt. Her ever-observant, scornful eye castes its gaze on everything, every daily life-matter. She cast her eyes on piano practice. She casts her eyes on whether her daughter’s hair is properly brushed. There is no room for slack presentation. Outward appearances, impressions are everything. “What impression will Leonora get if your hair is not brushed, Milly?”

Her son is sick of it. His starting to put up a façade. He has to keep up these stoic, manly, cruel – masculine, and, hurting – outward façade, always projecting outward, never getting release -.

One day, I took an LSD tab. I shouldn’t have taken it, because it had a picture of this mean black-robed judge, on the blotter paper. This LSD tab allowed me to have a conversation with the judge’s son, who was mentioned in the aforementioned paragraph, as being a little disgruntled, persecuted, to be truthful.

His name was Ned. He appeared in his emblem school blazer. One thing I noticed about him was he had a charm sensitive trick; he met your eyes. His lashes swooped upward cheek-brushing and he met your eyes. He was a sturdy physique behind his school blazer; and had thick jet-black hair.

“I have three options, Yarndi,” he said.

Aww, howl, old Neddy, your mum is a formidable hound judge, but find peace within yourself. “Nonsense, Ned, there are never, only three options,” I said.

“I have only three options, Yarndi,” he repeated. He said it with such a sorrow, I shook.

“I have only three options, Yarndi,” Ned said, for a third time.

“Your mum might be a bitch, Ned,” I re-joined, “but your mum don’t define your choices in this world.”

“I have only three choices, Yarndi,” Ned’s eyes were cast on the grubby table. They were tortured, sympathetic with pain. They were sleepy eyes with a ring of darkness. And, stretching out of them, were black lashes that expressed sensitivity. Behold! Ned – with the black lashes. Behold! A judges withering contorted son, not feeling comfortable within yourself, are you?

And then, the LSD, allowed me to go into his mind. I saw that Ned’s mum and, no word of a lie, this engrained too, and grasped nerve fibre parasitically, had a permanent (permanent) detrimental effect on her son. I saw Ned was never going to get over this habit of constantly projecting himself outward.

“I only have three choices, Yarndi.”

“You have plenty,” I said unsurely, deeply distressed for poor Ned. Seeing his mind, as alluded to in the aforementioned paragraph made me empathise with the blighter.

He looked up at me with those disarming eyes.

He wrote his choices on a nearby napkin.

•I could do everything my mother wants me to do; a good job; always keeping up appearances; bitter and unhappy in my work.

•Become a criminal, always, for a whole life time, rebelling against my mother.

•And commit suicide.

Just then, the LSD tab, made me see the whole of Ned’s life, from this point forward – the future.

Ned became a criminal. He became an outlaw. The best damn outlaw Australia had ever seen. An outlaw and a travelling man, a womaniser and a “good with his hands” fighter. He’d travel from town to town always catching the cops unawares ‘cos he moved so much.

He once nearly got busted. He robbed a bank, and a cop car just happened to drive past. He legged it and legged it and the cops could not even catch him, in a car. He was that fast. He moved to another town, on the old staple interstate drifter, the Greyhound, before the cops knew what hit them. This random geographic spotting of the country the cops had never seen before; Melbourne, Adelaide, Sydney, Perth again, a robbery at the Westpac in Canberra.

Ned became very celebrated, known and infamous. He was a revered bushranger auspiciously maybe foolishly christened Ned by the judge in her inveterate robe. People started to call him the invisible man and the infamous trotting wolf. Ned lived out his life, a long time away from the judge’s matronly-bosom home, rebelling against his hawk-eyed mother.

He was back, at that table, at the pub, in his emblem school blazer. His piercing black eyes flashed up at me, flashed away, and then met mine, fixedly (always with the eye meeting, you bushranging bag of fluff and crate of feather dusters), "I wanted to be a criminal, just like you Yarndi, and I wanted to be just like you!"

"Damn Ned, you bloody well done that. You’re the infamousest violentest criminal in the history of time.” Ned really had gained a lot of trust, respect in my eyes.  I added: “Suffice to say, you've done well for yourself."

"I wanted to be just like you, Yarndi."

I was touched. He said he wanted to be like me, that is why he pursued his life path. But I thought I would better draw to light the fact he was a towering statuesque criminal, and I was a petty, what they call, serial pest. "Bloody hell, Ned, when I stood condemned, condemned at your mother's court, I was there for possession of a knife."


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