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I�m thirteen, in the horse paddock off to the side of the farmhouse, and my brother and I are shooting cans off the fence with the farm�s .22. Dad is off somewhere in the upper paddocks, rounding up a few of the cows ready to calf, and my stepmother is fussing with her mother in the kitchen. My brother and I have been fighting all day, and I am not sure if giving us the gun to shoot cans off the fence with was such a good idea; but we both seem to be a bit calmer and focussed on the task of hitting those pesky cans. Its my turn to shoot cans but my brother is reluctant to hand it over and insists it is still his turn. We�re squabbling when a flock of sparrows flies over the house and above the horse paddock, zooming within hair�s breadth of us. My brother raises the gun and shoots, hitting two sparrows that drop like stones from the blue, blue sky. I stand; devastated that he would be so unremittingly callous. �Why did you do that?� I yell at him, my eyes blinking back angry tears. �Because I felt like it� - his response, cold and bitter. I walk off, heading into the orchard, trying to figure out how I got to have a brother who is such a bastard. I couldn�t understand how he could be so cruel.

�Tracey�s a big fat piiiiiii-iiig, Tracey�s a big fat piiiiiiiiig! Oink Oink, watch out, it�s Tracey coming this way. An earthquake, an earthquake!�

Every morning, for two years at the bus stop I listened to them taunt her, scrunching myself down behind the bus shelter to avoid facing them, and to avoid seeing her stiff straight back holding her up so that she didn�t cry. She would never, ever let them see tears. I would never, ever speak up against them in case their taunts turned on me. Tracey wasn�t that big really, but her flame red hair and pudgy face were more than those kids could avoid. I had been blessed with long blonde hair and unusually blue eyes � an Viking girl, with a spare tyre. I wanted to say something, I did so want to, but instead I just scrunched down and trained my eyes on the building site across the road in the hope of glimpsing the spunky workman that was sometimes there. I was glad when we moved away and I had to catch a different bus.

Images, blurred, on the tv, reflecting horror and injustice. Snide remarks in the tearoom, whispers in the locker room. A father telling his son that he will never amount to anything. The need for power and control by the subjugation of others. The wielding of a whip on the horse�s back to make it go faster � a world of misery and cruelty, right at our dinner table.