 
AWESOME STORIES

OMR

(One Minute Read)

### By

### Pat Ritter

© Copyright Pat Ritter \- 2015

Published by Pat Ritter.

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Each week in 2011 I attended the Pomona Writers Group. The facilitator asked us to write a story about a topic he chose. These stories less than 500 words are OMR (One Minute Read). I hope you enjoy reading each one.

Norah's Mistake.

In last year's Gold Coast Magic Million thoroughbred yearling sales, a filly was purchased for $60,000.00 and won this year's race worth $1,000,000.00. This is what dreams are made of. How did this happen? Was it a twist of fate on behalf of the purchasers or was it meant to happen? Did God have anything to do with the win?

God has been blamed for many events which have occurred since time began. What about the recent floods in Queensland. Did God order the rain to flood Queensland to make people more resilient? Or was the flood caused by the weather?

According to Christianity, God instructed Norah to build an ark and bring into the ark two of all living creatures? At the time God decided to wipe out mankind from the face of the earth because of great wickedness caused by the people and he wanted to make a fresh start on humanity. Norah followed God's instructions, built the ark and housed 45,000 animals.

It rain for 40 days and 40 nights. Every living thing on earth was wiped out. After the waters receded, the ark came to rest and waited eight months while the surface on earth dried out.

Finally after an entire year, God invited Noah to come out of the ark. He was pleased with what Noah accomplished and promised he would never again create a flood to destroy earth.

What was the moral of the story? Was Norah blameless and not sinless? Noah pleased God with his whole heart and as a result was an example to his entire generation.

What would have happened if Noah didn't build the ark and didn't house 45,000 animals? Do you think God would've still gone ahead to rid the earth of all mankind by letting it rain for 40 days and 40 nights? I don't think so.

There is certainly a deep lesson to be learnt from what Noah did. We're influenced by other people and particularly the people around us to do what they want? On the other hand do we control our own thoughts and do what we want? This is the lesson.

Now back to the purchase of a horse at the Magic Million Sales. If I had the money to purchase such a horse and race it in the Magic Million Race I think I would name it Noah's Mistake.

Word count: 401

Chameleon.

When we think about the word Chameleon – I think we all have a little in each of us. Take for example when I was a child. I remember my grandmother's words of promise to give me my grandfather's watch when I turned 21 years. Did I receive the watch – no – my elder cousin received it and come to think of it he deserved it because he was the first born. My grandmother needn't have promised me the watch if she had no intentions of giving it to me in the first place. She certainly changed into a chameleon.

There are a thousand stories in the reservoir of my mind when people have promised me the world and came up with nothing. At the time it hurts to think something had been promised and not delivered. To trust the person on their word without results throws a childhood into disarray and effects the growth into adulthood. People can be cruel or are they changeable like the Chameleon?

When I was 6 years old, my mate Peter lived a couple of houses up the road and regularly visited our home to ride my parent's pushbikes. There was a black one and a pink one. Peter always rode the black and never at anytime did I refuse him. Time went on and eventually he purchased the black bike from my parents.

One day I went to his house to ride the bikes and when I asked to ride the black one his reply was, 'no – it's mine now.' At the time I didn't understand or realise what he'd done; however thinking back on the experience I now realise he changed into a chameleon.

Fifty years later Peter contacted me. It was the first time I'd heard from him since our childhood. He wanted to know if I had a year one class photograph. In fact I had such a photograph. His reason for contacting me was because he wanted to know the name of each person in our class.

Over the following weeks I researched archives in Brisbane and discovered the name of each student and sent him the list. He lives in Adelaide.

Later that year I visited him in Adelaide to reacquaint ourselves and to catch up with 50 years. After matching each name to the student in the photograph I asked what his intentions were. I thought perhaps he may want to contact them or have a reunion. Instead his answer was he was going to do nothing more – all he wanted were the name of each student.

Nothing had changed over 50 years. He remained a chameleon and faded into oblivion.

Word count: 446

Train Ride To Remember.

Many years later, as I again stood on the station's platform with the departing train gathering speed behind me, the memory of that distant day of tears returned.

It was so long ago and to think back now it only seemed like yesterday when my grandmother and I boarded the train from Roma Railway Station to Charleville. It was Sunday evening, the football team Roma Wattles defeated Charleville at the local football grounds.

At 18 years of age Arthur Beetson, who was to go on and become one of the greatest Australian representatives in Rugby League's history, captained the Roma Wattles side. His toughness and speed with the natural talent of a footballer won him the best and fairness player for the match.

Charleville footballers were made up from all walks of life; shearers, policemen, council workers, and any other young male wanting to represent their town. They were proud to be playing for Charleville.

In those days steam trains were the major form of transport between both country towns. Each railway carriage was separated from one another with every seat occupied. They seated up to one hundred and fifty passengers. In our carriage we sat nearest the aisle almost in the centre. Players celebrated their loss by drinking beer. There never appeared to be an end to it. My grandmother hated anyone who drank beer and I suppose it was her reason for not liking my father.

More the players drank beer, the more they shouted and sang, some happy others saddened by their loss. Their voices out doing one another until the only sound heard were a loud roar from drunken footballers.

A fight broke out between two of them, each punching at one another's faces. They rolled into the aisle falling onto the floor beside where my grandmother and I sat. We couldn't do anything but hold onto one another. I held my grandmother tight with both arms wrapped around her shoulders. She began to cry.

I looked into her eyes and saw fear, 'what are we going to do?' she whispered. Others began to fall into the aisle and punches thrown at bodies, war cries echoed through the carriage. It was bedlam and out of control.

'I never wanted to come on this train. I told your father how terrible the footballers played up when drinking. Would he listen – no – he wanted you with me. What should we do?' Her words forced me closer to her by the threat of bodies forcing their way nearer to us.

If I was superman, no doubt I would have used my powers to stop the fighting instead I hugged my grandmother. What else could a nine year old child do at the time with tears rolling down his face and his body twisted in fear?

Word count: 473.

Matilda's Waltz

The title Matilda's Waltz reminded me of a book I'd read named Matilda's Last Waltz written by Tamara McKinley.

Before I read this novel I must admit to not reading many novels. It instantly devoured my mind. I couldn't put it down until I'd finished it. It was a true Australian story of intrigue and storytelling at its best.

The story began in Outback Australian with the major character named Jenny who inherited Churinga Sheep Station after the sudden death of her husband. Prior to his death she had no knowledge her husband owed the sheep station.

With nowhere else to turn she goes to Churinga Station to find a harsh, unforgiving place but with its own quiet beauty. It also had its secrets.

Jenny's new neighbours seem reluctant to talk about Matilda Thomas, Churinga's former owner. But the longer Jenny spent on the property, the more she became aware of her predecessor's lingering presence.

Jenny discovers Matilda's diaries and finds herself drawn into a tale more shocking than she could possibly have imagined. And the deeper she delved into the past, the more Jenny wondered whether inheriting Churinga was a blessing or a curse.

With twists and turns mixed in the storyline Jenny finally discovers the truth from the word of a dying priest. Father Ryan tells Jenny, Matilda was her mother and died giving birth to her. Her father placed Jenny into an orphanage and left her to be raised by the nuns. On her 26th birthday she inherited Churinga Sheep Station.

On hearing this news from the dying priest tears filled her eyes. Pain turned to rage, then sorrow. She lost all sense of time and place as she stared through the tears. Then the faint, distant chords of an orchestra drifted back to her and she thought she saw a woman in a green dress, waltzing with her handsome husband. They were smiling at each other, lost in happiness.

They turned towards her and Matilda whispered, 'This is my last waltz, Darling \- just for you.'

Word count: 345

**The One Reason Why I'm Not Rich**.

In one word, gambling, I am a gambler. My parents gambled, their parents gambled and most of my relatives and friends gambled. If there were two flies crawling up a wall, a wager was laid to bet which fly would first leave the wall. I knew of no other way of life. It was exciting and the adrenalin rush was unbelievable. To win was the rush. To lose was disappointing.

I've never been a drug user, but I can imagine the comparison between the two. Endorphins in the brain must almost explode into ecstasy when a person is using drugs. My brain certainly went to dizzy heights seeing a horse win a race after I waged a bet. It wasn't the money invested, but the thrill of winning when the feeling of excitement fluttered through my body. It was better than having sex. I couldn't stop shaking with excitement and pleasure, and that Toyota feeling of stretching your arms wide and jumping in the air always took over.

I think it may have started when I was a child living in Roma. Around Christmas each year the Ambulance Service, QATB as they were known then, had what they called a chocolate wheel in the main street of Roma. The chocolate wheel stood on a stand – round in circumference displaying numbers on the outside of the board. Each number was divided by a wooden peg. On top of the board, apart from the wheel, a piece of leather strap stopped on the number after being spun by the operator.

People gathered in the hope to win the prize of either a leg of ham or a can of ham for Christmas. They purchased a ticket for a prize and waited for their number to be spun on the wheel.

Tickets sold for a shilling and I purchased one ticket. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. The ticket I purchased was number 56. This time it stopped on number 56. I won. The initial feeling of winning a prize was the best feeling I had ever felt in my ten year old body. It became a drug and I wanted to have that winning feeling again and again.

If it was possible to stop gambling at ten years of age and deposit the amount of money in a bank account I've wagered since then, I would no doubt be rich in wealth alone. Unfortunately, I continue to gamble and like the druggie am waiting for that adrenaline rush to have that affect not only on my mind but also on my body and you never know one day it may return.

Word count: 451

A Story Centred On A Key.

All through my life I have been gravely concerned about something terrible that happened during my childhood. I've often wondered how quickly habits are copied by children from their parent's behaviours.

For instance, my grandmother, my mother's mother, was a wonderful person. She'd hug me when I needed comfort and told me wonderful stories to soothe my mind.

One habit she passed down to me was seeing things through rose coloured glasses. Everything was always better than it actually was. It wasn't telling untruths but close enough to it, more exaggeration than telling the true story. My mother possessed a similar habit and therefore this habit passed onto me.

As I grew older this habit became strongly engrained into my mind, so much, that when I was in trouble for any misdemeanour, a defence mechanism popped up to protect myself from getting into further trouble. This defence mechanism at times was a blessing and at other times a hindrance. I had learned well from my mentors.

In my early twenties I joined the Queensland Police Force. Suddenly my thoughts were mangled to such a degree at times I couldn't disseminate between what was fact and what was fiction. One important role of a police officer is to bring wrong doers to justice. Thereby arresting them and presenting them before a court of law.

Sometimes the person would plead 'guilty' and other times defend their innocence. Unless the police officer had a photographic memory or recorded each second of the arrest and circumstances, many questions were asked by defence counsel about the arrest. In my case I possessed this defence mechanism of protecting myself from 'getting caught out' as I'd done all through my life. Many times this habit was embarrassing.

I wanted to do something about it. The key I used to open this door was to learn always to _tell the truth_. At first, it was hard to break the habit, but as an instructor once told me if I was going to succeed, I needed to work at changing it and it would take three weeks to change any habit.

She told me each time I was about to exaggerate, if I didn't tell the truth, then I should immediately stop and tell the person the information I told them was untrue and recorrect what I'd said. I worked hard to break this habit.

I am pleased to admit I no longer carry this habit in my mind and found the _key to tell the truth_ at all times opened the door to make me realise it is always better to tell the truth than to exaggerate. I am a great believer in karma. If you do the wrong thing then expect it to come back and bite you on the bum.

Word count: 473

**The Last Word**.

If ever you wanted to know anything in our family than Aunty Mickey was the 'go to' person. There wasn't anything that Aunty Mickey didn't know from the correct way to tie your shoe laces to the latest gossip.

She was my mother's sister, bless her soul. She passed away only a couple of years ago and I bet she had the last word even when she met St Peter at the Golden Gate.

Memories instantly flow back at the sound of her name. Visions form in my mind remembering her features, thin face, brown mousey hair, trimmed short, blue eyes bulging from inside her eyelids when her temper rose above the normal level. She had a fiery temper and was a pocket rocket.

In my early teens she became my surrogate mother after my parents decided to abandon me and move interstate. I lived with Aunty Mickey and Uncle Vivian and their children, two girls and a boy, throughout the remainder of my teenage years. Their home was my home and the memories I hold will remain forever.

Many times I heeded her advice. She always told me I was stupid to do the thing I asked her about. Like the time I wanted to purchase a car. She was against the idea and put her two bobs worth in.

In those times I attended college at night and to return home I had to hitch hike a ride with whoever would pick me up from the side of the road. One night I received a ride with this fellow who told me after I was comfortably seated in the front seat of his car, 'I've got a gun under the front seat and if you try anything funny I'll use it.' That was the final straw that broke the camel's back. I wanted my own transport.

Without consulting Aunty Mickey I purchased a car suitable for my means at the time. She didn't say a word and was pleased to ride in it whenever she wanted to go anywhere or for me to take her.

Three years ago she lost the love of her life, Uncle Vivian who passed away from a heart problem. When I visited the home to pay my last respects, her comments were, 'he was going to die anyway. He had a bad heart.' She even had the last word on her husband's death bed.

It was difficult for her to cope without her long time friend and husband. She moved into a Nursing Home. For a reason I can't explain I wanted to visit her and I was too late to tell her how I loved her dearly and to thank her for how she'd enriched my life. She'd passed away before I could tell her.

Unfortunately I couldn't attend the funeral. When the clock chimed the time of her funeral, I developed a huge pain in my stomach and needed to visit the toilet. For four hours I sat on the throne and couldn't move because of diarrhoea. Aunty Mickey had had the last word.

Word count: 519

The Gate.

Unfortunately this gate didn't swing like any other. It dragged along the ground. With years of torture from cattle crashing into it, a bar missing and others bent in all directions. How it kept any animal from escaping was anyone's guess. At times it didn't.

Actually I felt sorry for the gate because if it had a mind of its own no doubt it would have wanted to be repaired. So, being a kind person as I am, I decided to bring it back to life? Unscrewing the hinges from the top of the gate it gave way with a sigh of relief. How it survived this long was anyone's guess. The top bar was mangled and twisted.

Normally these gates had three steel tubes equally spaced from the top to the bottom running along the length. One was completely missing whilst the other two hung by a thread. I laid the gate on the ground to decide how to repair it. What a task. Perhaps it may have been better to purchase a new one rather than repair this old one. I wanted to repair it and bring it back to life.

Taking a sledge hammer to it as it laid spreadeagled on the ground I continued hammering it with all of my might. A slight dent here and there and after more bashing with the sledge hammer finally the gate again looked like a gate; the exterior of it anyway.

There it lay bare with only two bars running from left to right across. At least now it had straightened a little more than it had when swinging from the post. When repairing other gates I always stood them upright to take an eye view of the straightness and shape. My eye was better than a tape measure to measure the distance from corner to corner. If I saw it was straight than other people who looked at the gate would also see it was straight.

To make it stronger I welded three pipes running along the gate between the top and bottom in equal distance. To finally complete the task I welded upright bars from top to bottom in equal distance.

The gate was now reborn with the strength of Samson. With a coat of silver-frost paint it rose from the ashes of death and now happily swings from the post at the cattle yard where it should last for a few more years.

Word count: 412

How To Mend A Broken Heart.

My mother once told me, 'you'll know when the right one comes along.' She always had an intuition of what was about to happen. What is stranger than my mother's intuition is, only recently, I had been thinking of my first love or whatever it was. And now this story has been given to us to write.

Let me share with you my first love, or perhaps it wasn't love – it may have been something else. Whatever it was broke my heart. I honestly thought I was going to die. The thought of not being with this person shook the earth below my feet. I felt devastated and hurt. Every bone in my body ached and I kept asking, 'why me?'

There was little to do in our neighbourhood where I lived and one afternoon I decided to go for a walk. Entering a park a girl around my age walked toward me. Our eyes met - hers brown and sparking. I couldn't take my eyes from her, she was beautiful.

I stopped and wanted to speak with her and couldn't. The cat had caught my tongue. Nerves twisted and turned in my body.

'How are you today?' Her sweet voice echoed in the air. I was gob smacked. Why would this beautiful and delightful girl want to speak with me? We chatted for a time, exchanging names and where we lived. She asked me to walk her home.

Her Irish parents greeted me with warmth and care and wanted me to stay for afternoon tea. Was I in a dream or was this actually happening, I thought.

From the day we'd met we continued to see one another either at her home or mine. By this time she'd met my family and it was deemed she was part of my life.

Life couldn't be any better for a fifteen year old teenager who thought he'd found true love. We'd been inseparable for fifteen months. By this time I turned sixteen years of age. Actually I thought I was in love, but at the age of adolescents I really didn't understand what the term 'love' actually meant.

One afternoon I introduced 'my love' to my 'best friend'. Their eyes glued together and within a week I was told me get on my bike and move on. I felt the world had ended. How could my best friend do this to me after I introduced them?

I remembered the words told to me by my mother, 'you'll know when the right one comes along.' Obviously this first encounter with the opposite sex wasn't the right one.

Anyway eventually I did overcome puppy love and found the right one.

Word count: 456.

The Troubled Man.

Bundy Quicksilver staggered from the public bar of the Railway Hotel. It was closing time. Each night he visited his watering hole to catch up with his mates. On this particular night his mates left at six o'clock stating they were going home to their wife and family. Bundy couldn't understand why after an hour of drinks they wanted to go home. His session had just begun.

At eight o'clock he looked at his watch through blurred eyes to see it was almost time to leave. The next he remembered was the barman shouting, 'last drinks gentlemen.' He couldn't explain how the past two hours went so quickly.

His trusted steed, the iron horse, Hillman Minx was tied to the hitching rail as he almost fell while stepping from the kerb. The police station was across the road so he thought he'd better act right. They'd be on the lookout for drunks driving their car home but Bundy was sure they wouldn't catch him because he was one of them.

The iron horse knew its own way home, thank goodness, because Bundy had little sense of how he arrived home. He found his house in darkness, and thought no one was home until he almost fell up the front steps and stumbled falling to the floor. Picking himself up, he staggered into the bedroom and the bed lamp illuminated. Ada, his lovely wife shouted, 'don't think you're sleeping here tonight – you're drunk. You sleep on the lounge'.

Bright and early next morning Bundy committed his daily ritual by emptying the contents of his stomach on the back lawn. He'd slept in the clothes he'd worn the day before and vomit splattered over his new shoes. His mouth felt as though birds had built a nest and his head thumped as if someone was banging a hollow forty-four gallon drum.

Ada wasn't happy. When Bundy walked into the kitchen to the smell of fried bacon and eggs, he almost vomited.

'You come home drunk tonight; I'm taking the kids and leaving. I've had enough', she shouted. Bundy couldn't believe the words his wife blurted out to hear them clearly.

'Is there a problem with my drinking?' He wanted to know.

'You come home drunk every night and I don't know where you are half the time. I've had enough, and enough is enough.'

A cold feeling overcome him, 'I PROMISE YOU NOW, I WILL NEVER DRINK AGAIN.' He told her.

Bundy kept his promise and never drank alcohol again and that was thirty-four years ago.

Word count: 430.

Chasing The Sun.

It was a time when the Beach Boys sang about surfing and celebrations. Lester and Danny, my mates from those days wanted to chase the sun with their surf board. They'd been mates since childhood and I felt I was the third wheel. At times I felt I would never fit in and to tell the truth I doubt that I did. Until one day they wanted a set of surf board racks made to carry their surf board on top of Lester's car.

My expertise was welding and making anything from cement trowels to surf board racks. This was a time before surf board racks were publically manufactured. Instead of carrying the surf board on top of the car, half of it hung out of the back window or if you had a panelvan, it was carried in the back.

Surf board racks, simply made, were two rods, usually the domestic straw broom handle, fastened by a locking devise to the gutters on the roof of the vehicle. It was ingenious at the time and never in my wildest dreams would have thought the idea would spread world-wide.

I manufactured four couplings and fastened them to the gutter on either side of the roof on Lester's Austin A40 Sedan. A triangular steel plate held them in position, together with a threaded steel rod passed through a tube welded to the plate. When tightened, the triangular steel plate locked into the guttering of the roof on the vehicle holding the roof rack in position.

To complete the surf board racks, the handle of a straw broom minis the broom head, was passed through steel tubing welded on top of each coupling. It looked fancy and all there was left to do was lay the surf board on top of the rack and fasten it to both wooden handles.

Leslie and Danny chased the surf that summer without me. I continually felt I was the third wheel and they weren't too keen to have me along. On their return from their escapade they abused my workmanship because during their trip the surf board racks broke and they lost their surf board.

With the speed of the vehicle together with the cylindrical force against the roof racks holding the surf board caused the roof rack couplings to loosen and break from the guttering of the vehicle.

Looking back on the event some fifty years later I may have been slack in welding the racks to the proper standard or perhaps it was I knew they were more interested in going with themselves rather than have me chase the sun with them.

Our friendship didn't last past those years and I wonder why?

Word count: 456

My Uncle's Donkey.

When we received this story to write, I didn't have the slightest idea on where to start until I checked on Google. To my surprise after typing in 'my uncle's donkey' in the search field revealed a novel 'My Uncle's Donkey' written by author Tohby Riddle. Before searching the name I'd never heard of the title of the book nor the author.

Eagerly I read the notes published by the author and was astonished to read the idea actually came when he had a 'silly' conversation with his then three-year-old niece. The author told his niece he had a donkey in his apartment where he lived. This lead to questions and sparked the imagination from each of them. She laughed at his answers. This small collection of words became an idea for a book.

Speaking about a donkey living in an apartment, as a book, on our recent Christmas Tour with Sinclair Tours, I was seated beside an aged lady who loved to talk. Could she talk? Our bus was nearing the town of Cooma when she asked me what I did. I told her we bred miniature horses.

'What do you do with them?' She asked in her inquisitive voice.

'We invite them inside the house and each has their own small lounge chair to sit and watch television.' I told her with a straight face.

Her hand went to her mouth, 'Oh – you're telling me lies, you don't do that.' She was aghast by my comment.

'No I'm not – each miniature horse has their own chair and when we have our meals they sit at the table with us.' I continued to share with her. She almost called me a liar until the owner of the bus whispered in her ear he had personally seen them sitting at the table eating their oats and chaff.

My imagination went wild seeing these small horses only 34 inches in height sitting in their lounge chair watching Mr Ed on television and whinny with laughter at the jokes. This poor woman didn't know what to believe and later asked me if she could come to my home to witness such an assembly. I invited her.

By the end of the trip she didn't know who or what to believe but thinking about what Tohby Riddle wrote about the conversation between he and his niece to plant a seed for a book 'my uncle's donkey', I think a book could be written about 'my miniature horses and what they get up to'.

Word count: 426.

Sophie's Unicorn.

It was in the fifties and I reckoned my grandmother was the greatest cook in the whole wide world. I was either ten or eleven – I'm not certain, however I clearly remember my birthday party and the cake my grandmother made. This birthday would be remembered for a number of reasons. Not only from the gathering of school friends and relatives who attended, but for the delightful and elegant birthday cake she made.

She'd spent hours preparing the filling for the cake of mixed fruit; flour; butter; milk; eggs and all of the other ingredients. Her speciality was not baking the cake but how she decorated it to become a masterpiece of elegance and delight. This particular cake affected my life forever. The base was round and coloured blue – my favourite colour. Green grass made of marzipan icing – thick and hard to hold and glisten in the light. My name and a _Happy Birthday_ written in dark blue inscribed with more marzipan icing.

Appearing on the second level was a bright coloured blue unicorn lying down gazing out from the centre. Its eyes seemed to follow you whenever you moved. A huge horn projected from its forehead. This moment was surreal; I couldn't understand why my grandmother had made a unicorn. Covering the unicorn was another layer of cake resembling a stable with straw bedding made from marzipan icing.

If ever a person was gobsmashed, it was me. I couldn't believe that anyone would make such a glorious gift. It should never be eaten, I commented. At first when I saw the cake I must admit to being a little bemused about the unicorn. I couldn't understand until my grandmother enlightened me with her story of Sophie's Unicorn. Her words penetrated my mind to remain there forever.

If ever I wanted anything in life, all I needed to do was to touch the tip of the horn of Sophie's Unicorn and my wish would come true. This was like having a genie in a bottle. There was one condition in touching the tip of Sophie's Unicorn. My thoughts had to be for the good of others.

Ever since the first time I touched the tip of horn of Sophie's Unicorn, a magic entered my mind to do a good turn for a person rather than a bad one and to treat people how I wanted to be treated and this is with trust and honesty.

My grandmother was a wise person.

Word count: 416

The Dawn Service.

This is the first time I attended The Dawn Service. It was at Imbil and from the large gathering almost half of the surrounding community attended. This day left a huge sorrow in my heart of reasons why I haven't attended one before.

A couple of times a year I visit my elderly aunt. During my last visit she handed me a folder, 'you may be interested to read about your grandfather. This is a record of his army service.' It was the first time I'd seen his army service records.

My grandfather, Thomas Daniel Wilson number 2752 was a private attached to 49 Infantry Battalion. He enlisted on 4th July 1916 and soon afterwards left Australian shores. On 7th April 1917 he was wounded in action whilst flighting in France. After rehabilitation in England he returned to France where he fought to the end of the war.

Up until the time my aunt gave this folder I didn't know anything about the history of where my grandfather fought and thank goodness he survived because had he been fatally injured I wouldn't be here to share this story with you. At the time of joining the armed forces he was 21 years old. His whole life had been in the bush and gladly he used his bush instincts to survive. I can't imagine what he went through at such a tender age.

This Anzac Day is the first time I've thought about my grandfather. I decided to attend the dawn service at Imbil. I did it in memory of him. At the time of his death I was two years old and therefore didn't have the opportunity to have him as a grandfather only identifying him in photographs. Little did I realise after sixty years I've found solace and comfort in knowing my grandfather fought in World War 1.

When the last post was herald by the bugler my heart swelled with joy and a tear trickled down my face. My thoughts at the time were of my grandfather fighting the enemy on France's shores, across the other side of the world. I am a lucky person to have him as my grandfather and feel proud he represented and fought for his Queen and country.

During the service, a poem was read of a grandson asking his grandfather his story of the war. Listening to the words put me in vision of asking my own grandfather about the war and like the words of the poem most of the story would have been hidden and only the good of man would have been told.

Thank goodness we had soldiers like my grandfather who fought to protect their country and to know his grandchildren would benefit from those days he fought the enemy in France to give us the freedom we all now enjoy.

Word count: 479

Wait For Me.

Stanley stood on the dock to see the ocean liner pull away from the port. Sophia stood on the deck waving good-bye. It was a chance meeting when Stanley met Sophia. Friday night Stanley didn't have much to do and decided to visit a nightclub in Brisbane. He wasn't a nightclub person however after what his mates had told him it was the place to meet the opposite sex.

People were dancing when he arrived so he decided to go to the bar and have a drink. 'Pot of beer, thanks mate,' he said to the barman and handed over a five dollar note. As quick as a flash the barman returned with a pot of beer and a few coins in change.

Why he was at the night club he didn't know. He'd rather be at the top pub at Nundah where his mates hung out but they reassured him he would meet his dream girl tonight at the night club in Fortitude Valley. Did they know something he didn't know?

His eyes scanned the audience in hope he may sight this dream girl. What a stupid thought, he didn't know who she would be or what she looked like. It was a pig in a poke to use a term he often used when unsure of what he ever wanted from life. Take a chance; he told himself, you never know if you never have a go.

As if the sea had opened up to let Jesus walk on water, a beautiful blonde stepped into his sight. Perfume tickled the hair in his nostrils, his eyes glued to the sight of her. What a woman, he thought. She wouldn't be interested in me, he pondered. Without glancing away she approached him and stood beside him at the bar.

'Hi there,' he muttered almost too frightened to say anything.

'Hi there yourself.' An American accent flowed from her lips. Stanley couldn't believe this person spoke to him.

'I'm Stanley.' He stuttered and shoved his hand out to shake her hand. Their eyes met for the first time, hers ocean blue, his green.

'I'm Sophia.' She whispered close to his ear. Stanley felt an instant shudder go through his body.

'Can I buy you a drink?' He asked gaining more confidence. She nodded. 'What do you drink?'

'Whiskey and water.' Was her reply.

Stanley ordered the drink and before it arrived they were in deep conversation. Sophia was on a world tour and stopped over in Brisbane.

They talked throughout the night. Stanley had never met anyone like Sophia before and now believed his mates were right he went to the night club. As the dawn broke the horizon, Sophia said to Stanley, 'Wait for me.'

Stanley was in love for the first time in his life.

Word count: 473

Have A Heart.

When I was eleven years old I worked part-time, mainly on weekends at a small grocery store in Roma, a country town west of Brisbane in which I grew up as a child. Thinking back to the period, the corner grocery store was then the modern Coles Supermarket of today. When the customer entered the store a huge counter trapped them from selecting the items they wished to purchase.

My role to select the items from the shelves behind the counter requested by the customer, place them on the counter in front of the customer and ask for the money to purchase them. When the money was handed over I deposited it in a cash register. These cash registers almost took up an entire section of the counter.

It was a Saturday afternoon, the store was quiet; the owner asked me if I wanted to choose an ice cream from the freezer. Ice creams were housed in a tall green coloured canvas 'shippers', we called them. This one had a cane frame, insulated with felt lining, covered with canvas and fitted with rope for fastening and carrying. Dry ice kept the ice cream frozen.

I undid the rope to open the lid and saw to my surprise a new type of ice cream. I knew most of the ice creams by name because if the customer wanted one I knew which one to get. This ice cream was recently delivered. After selecting the ice cream I placed it on the counter then quickly refastened the rope of the 'shipper'.

Holding the ice cream in my hand it was something I'd never seen before and for sixpence was a good choice.

'Is this a new ice cream?' I asked the owner.

'Yes, it came in yesterday and I want you to test it so you can tell people what it's like.'

I ripped the paper from around the ice cream, held onto the small wooden paddle between my fingers, and had a good look before I decided to test it. It looked different to other ice creams I'd eaten. I finally crunched it between my teeth. First the taste of chocolate, thinly coated, the inside filled with vanilla ice-cream. We never had an ice cream like this one before and my taste buds liked the combination of chocolate and vanilla ice cream. It melted in my mouth.

'What do you think?' The owner asked.

'It's great – what is it?'

'Hav-a-Heart', he replied.

Fifty years later Hav-a-Heart continues to sell; far more expensive than sixpence.

Word count: 429

Between A Rock And A Hard Place.

_No son of mine is going to be a copper_ , my father spat; _you've got to swear to arrest your own mother or father._ Ever since I can remember all I ever wanted to be was a policeman, not only a policemen but a detective. I was half way through Junior in high school and wanted to apply to become a police cadet in the Queensland Police Force.

Without my parents consent there was no hope until I turned twenty-one years of age. In the day and age of parental control there was no way I could convince my father otherwise. I was in between a rock and a hard place. In those times you did exactly what your parents told you without argument. They were the law.

From that faithful Sunday afternoon when I approached my father about my request the matter was never mentioned again, either by him nor me. Without his consent I was up that proverbial creek without a paddle.

My ambition to become a policeman didn't waver the least over the following six years. In my dreams each night filled with creations of being a law enforcement officer. At last I turned the age of consent and eagerly presented to the local police station. At first when I sighted the officers in uniform little bubbles of hope almost burst with pride to serve the community.

In those days to join the force one needed a grade eight (scholarship) pass, 20-20 vision, healthy and a need to want to become a police officer. I thought, _that's no trouble – I'll pass with flying colours._ Not only did I fail a spelling test by obtaining 3 out of 20, I also failed an eye test. An officer advised me to see an eye specialist and purchase a grade 8 spelling book and memorise the words. Alas, I was again between a rock and a hard place.

For three months I memorised each word in the spelling book. An eye specialist cleared my sight by issuing a letter of approval, so I again fronted for another entrance examination.

On this occasion I passed with flying colours and was admitted to the Queensland Police Barracks as a Probationary Police Officer. After four months of training I was officially sworn in as a Police Constable.

At the swearing-in parade my parents attended and I didn't know whether to arrest my father but reassured him if he broke the law he would be arrested.

Throughout my career spanning twenty years I did become a detective and many times I was in between a rock and a hard place but somehow escaped.

Word count: 449

Charlie's Ghost.

What is it about comedy? Naturally its there to make us laugh and when I view the television programme _Two and a Half Men_ , I can't help but laugh. Its stupid comedy however there is something that tickles my funny bone and suddenly my stomach tightens and laughter explodes from within me.

Over the time I've been watching the programme, probably about two years, each week I've seen Charlie Sheen, the main actor in the show, progress from a likeable character to one of disgrace as evidenced by his off-screen antics. It's disheartening to see an actor of his ability and stature fall from grace. Who could forget the disgraceful display he exhibited in his well publicised one man shows.

Now the produces of the show _Two and a half men_ have sacked him – 'his show' as he called it. 'It will not succeed without him' he commented or shouted at the reporter. We'll see!

Ashton Kutcher replaced the character in the show. He's the husband of Demo Moore who was once married to Bruce Willis. What a tangled web there is in Hollywood.

Before I watched Charlie Sheen in ' _Two and a half men_ ' he was a fine actor performing in movies, television but for a reason only known to him, he changed. He went off the rails and crashed. Could it have been the money? For one session of _Two and a half men_ it was reported his earnings was $1.5m. His notable father, actor Martin Sheen, showed disgust how his son behaved this way. He almost disowned him at one point.

I look forward to seeing if _Charlie's Ghost_ appears in future episodes of _Two and a half men._ Or, can Ashton Kutcher emulate Charlie Sheen on screen and make me laugh. Both men are different actors. Perhaps Demi Moore will get to be a surprise special guest in the show – who knows.

Although Charlie Sheen is no longer in the show, in my opinion I don't think the show will be the same without him and there will always be in the background _Charlie's Ghost._

Word Count: 354

Shadows.

'We going to the movies?' my cousin stated.

'What's on?' I asked.

'Cliff Richards and the Shadows in 'Summer Holiday', it's supposed to be a great movie. Anyway, I want to see Cliff Richards.' He replied in an excited voice.

Danny was twelve years old and I ten. Cliff Richards was top of the charts on the local radio with hits from his movies. His band 'The Shadows' played electric guitar, base and drums.

Cliff Richards was the major actor in the movie with members of his band playing cameo roles. The movie was initially set in London. Cliff Richards played a mechanic and wanted to drive a double-decker bus with his friends from London through Europe on a summer holiday. Throughout different stages of the movie Cliff stopped the bus and started to sing. Miraculously his band 'The Shadows' were like a shadow followed him around the countryside. They appeared from behind trees playing their instruments.

These were the days when ten year old boys, such as me and many others enjoyed rock and roll music. I remember reading about Cliff Richard when I was that age. His music interested me and I would feel comfortable listening to songs sung by him. They were sweet and innocent.

Before 'The Shadows' began their career they were known as 'The Drifters'. Cliff Richards changed his name from Harry Webb to Cliff Richards and his band became known as 'Cliff Richards and the Shadows'. The reason they changed their name from 'The Drifters' to 'The Shadows' was because at the time in America was a group named 'The Drifters' and they didn't want confusion.

Who could ever forget when 'The Shadows' released 'Apache' an instrumental by Jerry Lordan, which topped the charts for five weeks? That year I commenced High School and everyone I knew who played a guitar tried in vane to play 'Apache'.

Another great hit Cliff Richards performed with his band 'The Shadows' was 'Bachelor Boy'. This song must have been an omen for him because at the ripe of age of seventy plus he remains a 'Bachelor Boy' and 'The Shadows' remain his shadow.

Word count: 360

The Bomber.

He was a true blue Aussie – red hair with freckles and always carried a bright smile. Johnny Reid was his name. In 1974 he commenced the 'Bomb Squad' being the only member. At the time I was Plain Clothes Constable with the Armed Hold-up Squad. The Bomb Squad office was next door with a single desk and what appeared to be rubbish scattered around the room. Each piece of rubbish was useful to the only member of the Bomb Squad. It meant nothing to anyone else.

Before his appointment, Johnny undertook rigorous training with the army bomb disposal unit. He was dedication with his position always uppermost in his mind. At his home he had a police radio. As soon as he'd hear of any bomb threat, he was on the job.

On one occasion I had the unenviable task of attended a bank hold-up with him. A radio message broadcasted across the police channels about a bank hold-up in progress at the Bank of New South Wales.

'I'll drive,' he screamed at me and off we went at a speed far in access of the sixty kilometres per hour allowed on the road. We arrived as the Bank Robber was making his escape. He threatened staff he would let off a bomb if they didn't hand over the money. Shaking from the drive in under eight minutes, I was relieved when Johnny bought the Police vehicle to a screeching halt in front of the bank.

In the meantime the Bank Robber escaped but not far enough away from the bank. What happened next should be recorded in the annuals of police history as a sign of not what to do.

Johnny saw a male running from the bank and assumed it was the bank robber. He gave chase calling out to this person to stop. This person kept running. Johnny discharged a couple of rounds of ammunition from his police revolver into the air. The person seemed to run faster.

The chase was on with Johnny gaining on the would-be robber and myself trying to keep up. The hunted person stood behind a lamp post and called out to his chaser, 'don't come any closer, I've got a bomb and I'll blow us up.'

By this time Johnny secured a position on the opposite side of the lamp post to talk with the man to get him to give himself up. My position at the time was one street lamp post away but I could see and hear what was happening.

'Don't come any closer or I'll pull the plug.' I heard the man behind the lamp post call out.

Without blinking an eyelid Johnny said, 'if you've got the guts - do it.' There was an explosion. Money and body parts spattered everywhere. And that is how Bomber Reid got his name.

Word Count: 478.

A Long Long Time Ago.

A long, long time ago a baby was born on the 16th June 1903. Hannah Francis Gibson was her name. She was born in Cunnamulla, aboriginal name _stretch of water_ because it was situation on the banks of the Warrego River.

This baby was the eldest child of Joe and Hannah Gibson. Joe was a shearer and in 1891 was one of the major instigators in the well known 'shearers strike'. It was during this time Joe changed his name from Ryan to Gibson in order to continue his shearing in the area. He'd stolen the identity from the person Gibson who was employed as a shearer. How he did this, no one knows.

Joe and Hannah had another three daughters. After the birth of the final daughter, Hannah died leaving Joe to cope with raising their four daughters. Hannah Francis was ten years old when her mother passed on giving birth to her baby sister.

Joe couldn't cope alone with his daughters, especially the recent birth and gave his daughters away to the folk of Cunnamulla 'like a litter of pups'. Mary, the most recent baby was taken by relatives to live in Warwick. Hannah Francis would never see her sister again.

Hannah Francis went to live with a family who owned the local drapery shop and there worked from dawn until dusk, minding children, washing and ironing, looking after the shop and any other chore her fostered mother would care to give her.

When she turned fourteen years old she left Cunnamulla to work on a sheep and cattle property named 'Wirrigin' an out-station on the massive station, Dyvoner Downs forty kilometres west of Cunnamulla. Here she worked as a kitchen maid tirelessly scrubbed wooden floors until bleached; boiled clothes in a copper; ironed with a pots iron heated on the huge stove, provide wood for the stove and the many chores required as a kitchen maid.

When she became an adult she left 'Wirrigin Station' to return to Cunnamulla. World War 1 finished. She met a handsome returned soldier Daniel Thomas Wilson and after a short romance they married. Tom, as he wanted to be called was a shearer. Together they raised seven daughters. When the daughters completed school, Tom and Hannah decided to leave Cunnamulla and move to Brisbane for the sake of their children to give them a better life.

Their lives were happy until World War 11 arrived. They were living at Ascot, a suburb close to the airport of Brisbane where the Japanese planes flew over and threatened their lives.

After the war Tom contacted cancer and passed away. Hannah and Tom were married for thirty years. Hannah decided to return to the country and there fell in love and remarried. She outlived this husband after another thirty years of marriage. Hannah Francis Langley was a loving and wonderful human being, warm and considerate. I should know because I am her grandson.

Word count: 497

Waves.

What makes us as human beings excited to the point of ecstasy when endorphins rush to our brain and overfill it with joy? When I have a wager, my mind erupts into pictures of winning money. I see myself throwing my arms in the air, a huge smile on my face and a heart almost bursting from my chest. Throughout my life these waves of hope have happened each time I've place a bet either on a horse in a race, taking a ticket in lotto or even placing a bet with keno. My mind overflows with thoughts of what I would do with the winnings.

After a lifetime of wagering in the hope to win that BIG PRIZE, I continue to ride my waves of hope. Each week I've got to continue for without these waves of hope I hold no chance at all in collecting the BIG PRIZE.

Only a couple of weeks ago at the Cooyar RSL Club I placed my usual wager of six numbers on keno. Whilst sitting and watching each number light up – five of the six numbers were there. I only needed number 2 to win the huge prize of six numbers. Over and over in my mind I repeated number 2, number 2, and suddenly number 2 came up. All six numbers were there displayed on the television screen. All I could say was 'yes' and punched the air with my fist.

My heart pounded; my mind almost exploded when suddenly I realised I'd ridden my waves of hope and at last won a BIG PRIZE. In my excitement I instantly wanted to share my news with someone; I saw Pam playing the poker machines. 'That's good', was all she replied and returned to playing her machine.

The game I play is six numbers at a cost of 10 cents per game with a keno bonus. Each game shows a bonus of either a standard game from two to a bonus of ten. This game was a bonus of two; I won twice the amount of prize money. It costs a total of $20.00 for 100 games. This win gave me a dividend of $360.00.

In this instant my waves of hope worked however in many cases it hasn't worked. Do I give up – not on your Nellie? I'll continue with my waves of hope and hopefully win the BIG PRIZE either in lotto or keno. You may ask why I continue to believe in my waves of hope to win the BIG PRIZE. Why not! Life is too short and I've been gambling using my waves of hope ever since I can remember from the age of ten years old.

In that time I've never won the BIG PRIZE however there are still many years left. My waves of hope will carry me through and it _will_ come true just like the keno win.

Word count: 487

Never Give Up.

Napoleon Hill stated in his book _Think and Grow Rich_ the words – _Every adversity carries with it the seed of an equivalent or greater benefit._ Many years ago I was browsing a bookshop and a title of a book flashed into my zone. This book was titled ' _Never Give Up'_. I purchased it and took it home to read.

The author wrote the book to help others who wanted to give up on life. It was a strong message of hope and resilience. His story began when he was a qualified barrister practicing law in Melbourne. It was during the early 1980's. He owned his own law practice and the lion's share of his clients came from the Melbourne underworld. More times than not he'd win their court case and they'd be exonerated.

One thing lead onto another and he became involved in money laundering. Members of the underworld gave him money to launder through casinos. Life couldn't have been better; he had a wife and family, a highly regarded law practice, and drove the latest BMW.

Eventually the money laundering stopped and to keep up his gambling habit, he stole money from the trust accounts of his practice. On losing the trust account money he was arrested and sentenced to seven years imprisonment. He lost his wife, children, law practice and his BMW.

Whilst in prison he was protected by prisoners whom he'd previously defended in court and made several new acquaintances. On his release on parole, he and another prisoner whilst drunk armed themselves with a firearm and robbed a liquor store. This time he received fourteen years in jail.

One evening he was lying on the bunk in his cell and thought how his life had changed over the previous decade. His thoughts told him the only person who now was in his life was his mother who had never given up on him. He'd never spoken or seen his wife and children.

He was grossly overweight; depressed and wanted to end his life. Then a flash bulb went off in his mind; a spark of hope for the future he decided at that moment to run a marathon, a distance of forty-two kilometres, in ten years.

His attitude changed. In the exercise yard of the prison, the size of a tennis court, he commenced to walk. He changed his eating habits. He read literature about exercise and healthy eating.

Over the next decade he continued his regime of exercise and diet and eventually on being released from prison completed a marathon. Not only did he complete the marathon he became an entrepreneur and invited world leaders to visit Australia and speak. His story was inspirational in that he NEVER GAVE UP until he reached his goal of what he wanted to do.

Word count: 472

The Lady Killer.

Detective Bundy Quicksilver peered at the elderly lady found dead in the hallway of her home. He absorbed each small detail to piece together the jigsaw of how this tragic homicide happened. Around her neck a thin cord, obviously used to strangle her. Congealed blood was on her right hand on the webbing in between the thumb and forefinger. Her mouth open indicted torture suffered at the hands of her killer, gasping her final breath.

Money was stolen from the cash register from the store, how much was not known, because the only person who knew was now dead. How was this killer to be found? It must be someone who knew her, or a regular customer at the store. With part of the jigsaw puzzle worked out there were many pieces yet to be discovered.

By chance, or could it have been great police work, a male person was apprehended while spending fifty cent pieces at a hotel. Detective Bundy Quicksilver commenced to question the suspect. They drove to the suspects home and there discovered a travelling bag and on searching the bag found many more fifty cent pieces and other coins.

After hours of interrogation the suspect admitted killing the woman. How he did it was another story. He admitted he went to the rear of the store and found the lady in the kitchen. She had her back to him. Silently he stole past her and went to the cash register. When he pushed the key to open the till it made a loud ring sound. Before he could do anything the owner stood behind him and recognized him by name.

He swung around and punched the elderly lady in the chest forcing her bodily back past the open toilet door. When she landed on the floor her head struck the pedestal and knocked her unconscious. The killer thought he'd killed her and returned to the cash register to empty the contents. When he was about to leave he heard murmur sounds coming from her. He knelt down and grabbed her around the waist and as he did so she swung her arms around his waist.

In his right hand hind pocket in his trousers was a knife with the blade sticking out. Her right hand pieced the blade and blood spurted from the wound. In his haste to finally kill the woman the killer pushed her to the floor. Above his head was a cord hanging from the ceiling to switch the light on, he cut the cord with his knife, placed the cord around the neck of the woman and strangled her.

When he appeared in court, headlines in the local newspaper read, 'The Lady Killer' was caught.

Word count: 458.

His Or Her Misfortune.

Saturday night became one of those nights which I dread to think about. We attended a birthday party at a hotel to celebrate the seventieth birthday of a friend. I didn't mind going to dinner at the hotel, it gave me an opportunity to play my favourite gambling game – keno, but my mind wasn't fixed on celebrating the birthday; instead I wanted to win the major prize in keno.

Whilst waiting for our birthday girl to arrive, I pondered the likelihood of myself celebrating seventy years and wondered if my family would take me to a hotel to celebrate the occasion. We waited for the other guests to arrive. I asked my partner, 'do you want to play keno.'

'Knowing you – you'd probably put it on anyway – put on a game for me then.' She filled out a gaming coupon. My usual game of keno is to select six numbers, at a cost of ten cents a game, also include the keno bonus and play the same numbers for one hundred games. This gave me five hours of entertainment for a cost of twenty dollars.

I placed a similar game for my partner. She played six numbers at a cost of one dollar per game for twenty games for an investment of twenty dollars. She has no keno bonus and the games play for one hour.

The guest of honour arrived with the remainder of the family and we got to chatting about family things, the weather and how everything else in this wonderful world was going.

When I play keno I always place myself in a position at the table to see each game. My numbers are fixed in my mind so if at anytime one of these numbers appears on the scene my mind takes an excited jump of 'come on'! In one game, five of my numbers appeared on scene and I was waiting for the number 5 to be drawn to make it six numbers. The bonus game was showing five times the amount. If the number 5 appeared before the conclusion of the game I would win nine hundred dollars. Alas number five didn't appear so instead I won forty dollars.

A couple of games later my partner turned to me and said, 'all I need is number eleven to win.' Her eyes glued to the monitor she wished for number eleven. It didn't appear. Because five numbers came out instead of six she won eighty dollars. She missed out on eighteen hundred dollars.

Instead of winning a total of twenty-seven hundred dollars between us we won one hundred and twenty dollars. It was his and her misfortune.

Word count: 450.

**A Bush Burial**.

There's an old stockman lay dying. His mates stand around him. Entertainer Rolf Harris wobbles his boggy board between his hands and sings, 'watch me wallabies feed, mate, watch me wallabies feed, they're a dangerous breed, mate, so watch me wallabies feed. All together now, tie me kangaroo down, sport, tie me kangaroo down, tie me kangaroo down, sport, tie me kangaroo down'.

Rolf's voice echoes through the crowd of on-lookers all concentrating on the old stockman lay dying. In chorus they join Rolf in song heralding the life of the dying stockman. Alas the stockman hasn't long to live before he meets his maker. His mind returns to when he was a stockman. At aged ten he realised his dream of wanting to work with stock and travel the outback never setting foot in a city.

He was a true blue Australian stockman from the tip of his akubra hat to the soles of his R M Williams boots. He wore spurs everywhere he went and even slept with them on. There wasn't any part of Australian outback he hadn't been. He helped to open up the Northern Territory with the sound of horse bells, droving cattle with packhorses, turning the lead when a mob rushed at night; and the many mates he'd worked with throughout his life again entered his mind.

It was a free life on unfenced routes through the back country mustering wild cattle to take to market. At night he rode the Nighthorse that picked its way around the mob. He'd sing in a low tone, country songs to pass away the time and to sooth the resting beasts. He was now at the end of the road not much time to reflect on his past life. Would he have done anything different? No – he was happy and content to go to the wide country above.

Echoing in the distance he heard Rolf Harris singing his favourite song, 'tie me kangaroo down' and as it faded he knew he breathed his last breathe. They buried the old stockman where he lay and placed a plague on the headstone which read:

'Here lies the old stockman who died with his boots and spurs on to rest in peace in the bush he loved.'

Word count: 383

Bright Star.

Aboriginal dreamtime tells us on the passing of one of their people their spirit leaves mother earth and joins the cosmos of stars to form a pattern in the sky. Is it a myth or is it true? Aboriginal elders firmly believe their ancestors' spirit form shapes and designs in the sky. Then what happens to our spirit as a non-aboriginal person.

In my case I've been taught if we were a good person on earth we would go directly to heaven. Is it a myth or is it true? In either way I don't think anyone has experienced the feeling of heaven nor has knowledge exactly where it is.

Kerry Packer, Australian wealthiest person once stated he'd died and went to the other side and saw nothing. 'Don't kid yourself', he said to a question from a report, 'there's nothing there only darkness. I should know because I've been there.'

Another time, it was shortly after my mother died many years ago. My sister was nine years old and she asked me where our mother was. Not to disappoint her I pointed to the sky and said, 'you see the bight star. There she is looking down and watching over us.'

This appeased her; however I didn't have any evidence to support the bright star was our mother and further could the aboriginal elders be correct in their beliefs our spirits form the sky above? I don't know. Yes, it may have been a good idea at the time to tell my sister our mother was a bright star looking down on us and to keep us safe. At the time I knew no different whether the fact she was the bright star or not. However, I had no proof and therefore made it up as a lie or untruth to appease my sister's sorrow at losing her mother at such a tender age.

After my wife lost her fight with cancer, my grandson often said, 'look Pop there's Nanna, the bright star in the sky. She's looking down on us.' With tears trickling down my face and hugging him I confirmed, 'yes, it's Nanna, she will always look down on us and keep us safe.'

Whether it's mystical or not to a child's mind there needs to be some hope of continuance with their loved ones. Whether it's a myth or untrue the bright star could in fact be the person we speak of. Who knows? But until we prove different – we may as well appease our young ones by telling them the bright star is their loved one who sadly left us to look down from above to keep us safe.

Word count: 449

Memories From Address Book.

Until the concept of the internet, I'm afraid to admit I never used an address book. When I was twelve years old my mother gave me an address book as a birthday present. Unfortunately instructions didn't go with it and I failed to make an entry.

Searching the inner most thoughts of my mind about memories of an address book can only be prompted when I think about sending or receiving e-mails on the computer. Otherwise my mind is void of such events in my life.

In 2001 I created my website. Each month I published a newsletter. This newsletter contained information about books I'd written included my writing journey. It's interesting to note looking back to the time; it was unethical to elicit e-mail addresses unless the user voluntarily provided their e-mail address.

When I commenced publishing the newsletter to my interested readers, only ten users received it. Future figures rose to a couple of hundred as word spread. This newsletter contained a two page newspaper format. It was attached to an e-mail and sent to group members. The monthly newsletter was included on the website to keep as a reference and for any person to read if they went to the website. This process worked for a number of years with the expansion to users throughout the world. If a user viewed a newsletter on the website they could register and receive the next newsletter via their e-mail address.

Along came Facebook. How did we ever survive before Facebook I would never know? Facebook uses the e-mail address of each member to connect them to their social network. It is the largest address book in the world. Since the intervention of Facebook I've deleted the newsletter section on my website and now directly interact with those e-mail users on Facebook. At first I found there were a few old fashioned users who would rather read the monthly newsletter; however with time these users dwindled and now the numbers have again build using Facebook.

E-mail is our latest address book and I wonder how my mother would feel now after fifty years when she gave me my first address book. Although I didn't use it – the book continues to hold a deep feeling of love in my heart because it was given to me by my mother.

Word count: 395.

I Dare You.

The words ricocheted through my mind and instantly I visualised the television advertisement about the commercial 'Dare Milk'. There have been a number of these commercials produced and screened on television, one of which comes to mind. A couple are seated at a table of a restaurant. The male had a look on his face as if he was about to propose marriage to his female companion.

The camera projected onto the female actress who said to her companion, 'I'm pregnant – your father is the father of my child'. Without a blink of an eyelid the male actor listened and heard the female actress tell him she also had a venereal disease. He was holding a carton of 'Dare Milk'.

Another commercial shows two male actors standing on the footpath – one holding a carton of 'Dare Milk' and the other appeared to be his boss. 'You're fired,' the one who looked like the boss said to the young fellow holding the 'Dare Milk'. He takes a drink from the carton.

When I first viewed these commercials I actually thought they were funny, until I looked inside of the commercial to see what the marketing strategy could be. Obviously by drinking the brand of 'Dare Milk' gave you instant courage to say what was on your mind and dare the other person to tell you their thoughts.

If only by drinking a carton of 'Dare Milk' would provide sufficient courage to tell another what you actually thought of them. 'I dare you' is a challenge to another to either carry out the dare or to walk away. Does it make you a lesser person to ignore 'the dare' and not carry it out? Or do you carry out 'the dare' and hopefully don't make a fool of yourself. It is purely dependent upon the person who either accepts or denies 'the dare'.

Speaking for myself – unfortunately I can't play these type of games because knowing me and my past life experiences if I carried out 'the dare' I would lose. I'm a little slow in the brain compartment. There are many other ways to deny the other person the satisfaction of 'the dare' by ignoring the proposal in the first place. It takes greater courage to walk away from an argument or confrontation than to become aggressive and carry out a stupid act controlled by the other person.

If it means being humiliated and disgraced by not carrying out 'the dare' then so be it for it is easier to carry your head high than to be placed in a position of not having control over your actions.

Word count: 443.

First Encounter.

Do you know how our mind works? I'd love to know because life would be easier to understand. For instance, after I left the writer's group last week and began my journey home, I thought about the title of this story 'First Encounter'. Nothing flashed into my mind to give me ideas of what to write.

Our mind is a wondrous and magnificent appliance to have in our brain. However, this issue of not knowing how our mind or thoughts affect us has left me wondering over many years. It's a bit like intuition. When we think a thought; I know because my mind never stops thinking thoughts, of what is on my mind at the time, the number of times the thoughts actually become true is amazing.

Let me explain. In this case on my journey home I constantly thought about 'first encounter'. The title didn't spark any magnificent channels of vision, nor did it give me anything to start the story, until I began to watch the television programme 'Diagnose Murder'. Each day whilst I have lunch I watch the television programme 'Diagnose Murder' starring Dick Van Dyke as Doctor Mark Sloan with his offsider Doctor Jessie Travis.

On this particular episode, Doctor Jessie Travis was captured by aliens and locked in a cabin in the bush. After escaping from the aliens he wandered through the bush; finally rescued and taken to the hospital where Doctor Mark Sloan examined him. Doctor Jessie couldn't remember anything during his absence and at times when he looked directly into light his memory returned vividly seeing men in space suits.

It was creepy crawly stuff for a large part of the programme until Doctor Mark Sloan discovered Doctor Jessie Travis had been drugged and everything he saw became an illusion. It turned out Doctor Jessie Travis had discovered a new drug which would have revolutionised medical science and pharmaceutical companies may have lost a lot of money. One of the pharmaceutical companies hired a 'hitman' to discredit the character of Doctor Jessie Travis. Doctor Mark Sloan came through again to solve the issue.

Doctor Jessie Travis honestly thought he'd witnessed his first encounter with aliens but when Doctor Sloan explained everything to him, he finally understood it was not aliens he thought he saw but visions and illusions whilst under the influence of drugs given to him by the 'hitman'.

What surprised me about this story is the coincidence of thinking about the title and when viewing the story only a short time later how Doctor Jessie Travis thought he had his first encounter with aliens. It boggles my mind to think a thought could actually turn into the event I was thinking. What are the odds to determine the chances of seeing a programme on television showing a scene as an example of the title of this story of what I about to write. It's either a remarkable coincidence or are there aliens out there?

Word count: 499

Object Of Desire.

There it stood, black in colour, of German design, tough, solid and made to withhold the roughness for a twelve year old boy. The man said he wanted five pounds to sell his pushbike. The boy's throat filled with glee.

'I'll give you a week to come up with the money or there is another who wishes to buy it.' The owner expressed to this excited twelve year old child, eyes bulging from their sockets at the thought of owning this particular pushbike.

If he owned this pushbike he would show it off to his school friends, beat them up the hill where they raced. He would be the king of the kids. How could he buy this pushbike, he pondered. Five pounds was a lot of money. It was a week's wagers his father earned.

With excitement churning through his mind he ran home to speak with his father in the hope to purchase this wonderful pushbike. All he could see was a vision of riding this pushbike to school and showing it off to his school mates. Some had new pushbikes but the majority of them had old broken ones recycled from the local rubbish tip.

'How can I afford to pay five pounds for a pushbike?' his father bellowed in an angry voice when asked about the purchase.

'Can you at least have a look at it Dad?' The son pleaded in hope once he saw the pushbike he may change his mind.

'Alright, we'll have a look at it but I don't know how I can afford to buy it. It's a week's wage.' His father informed him. Father and son visited the pushbike's owner and while the son was immersed in looking at the pushbike and dreaming of owning it, his father and the owner discussed the purchase price.

The owner walked over to the son and said, 'I'm sorry I've decided not to sell the pushbike. I've changed my mind.'

Shock erupted through the veins of the twelve year old boy with a lump in his throat suddenly nothing could stop tears rushing from his eyes. He sobbed. On their way home the father explained to the child there was nothing certain in life and to make it up to him he would look for a cheaper pushbike.

It mattered not to the twelve year old boy for the father had made many promises before and had never carried out one. Although the pushbike was the object of desire for the child, his father for the first time did carry out his promise.

In the following weeks the child witnessed his father rebuild a gent's 28 inch pushbike from parts he obtained from the rubbish tip. After it was painted a bright red and white the child was pleased to have a pushbike he could show off to his friends even though it wasn't the original object of his desire.

Word count: 492.

A Brush With Fame.

It was 12.30pm on 29th August 1989 at Parliament House Brisbane. Top State Queensland was proud to organise the event of the book launch 'Closing The Gap'. The Honourable Brian Littleproud M.L.A., Minister for Education, Youth and Sport officiated.

If ever a dream came true for the authors, it was at this very moment. Who would have thought when one of the authors, a Detective Sergeant in charge of Juvenile Aid Bureau Petrie, a Brisbane northern suburb would became so frustrated with an issue of 'teenagers running away from home' that he and his fellow author wrote and published a book to help all parents improve communication with their teenager.

Three years before the launch, the journey began when the Detective Sergeant couldn't find an answer to 'teenagers running away from home'. His superiors couldn't help. By accident, he enrolled in the local TAFE to participate in a management course. A lecturer, his co-author, taught him a subject named 'Behaviour'. One weekend the class attended a two day workshop on the subject performing role plays in communication, stress, motivation, and conflict resolution.

After the first day of the workshop the Detective Sergeant returned to work. He received a telephone call from a concerned mother. Her daughter was stealing money from home and spent it at school. Instead of passing off this telephone call as a 'family issue' the Detective Sergeant listened to the caller. During the day he remembered the techniques taught to him by his lecturer in communication and applied these techniques to the caller. He suggested she sit down with her daughter and ask the reason why she took the money.

After attending the second day of the workshop he returned to work and received a telephone call from the concerned women he'd spoken to the previous day. She spoke with her daughter about their issues and came to a resolution.

The thrill of helping this caller rose through the Detective Sergeant's mind like a tornado erupting endorphins like a volcano of hope. He couldn't wait to tell his lecturer about finding a solution to his issue of 'children running away from home'.

Over the next twelve months the Detective Sergeant mentored parents and their teenage child each time there was an issue with parent-teenager relationships. Success grew so fast the Lecturer suggested they write a book on the findings. This book became 'Closing The Gap' giving the authors a brush with fame.

Word count: 412.

I Wish I Had Known That When I Was Young.

Hindsight is a wonderful tool to have in one's life toolbox. Imagine if we could look into a crystal ball to see our future. I, for one, would know the winning numbers of next week's lotto or keno.

Memories from an early age; reminds me of what my parents and grandparents did. They wagered their well earned money on betting, may it be on a Saturday afternoon at the races, or playing poker with their friends. My mother loved to have a wager on a horse as did my grandmother who, on a Saturday afternoon bet fifty shillings each way on a horse in each race at a meeting.

One Saturday afternoon I accompanied my grandparents to the Brisbane Races. Before we left home I sat and studied the form guide to pick some winners. We always went to the Flat Section of the course because it only cost one shilling to enter. This day I backed a horse named 'Pete' at the price of 20-1. I won one pound and thought 'how good is this'?

Out of habit I too played the evils of betting. At Sandgate Pier, a holiday spot I visited as a ten year old child; was a penny slot machine. By placing a penny into a slot, turning a small thumb handle, the penny dropped into the machine and if you were lucky you received either two pennies or lost the penny you invested. Naturally being a gambler I lost, however, I never gave up. The machine wasn't going to beat me.

Inheriting the gambling bug at an early age I wagered my hard earned cash either at the races or any other gambling I could find. Was it the excitement of winning which caused me to chase that rainbow in the sky?

Looking back at the time, I think it would've been highly unlikely if I would've listened to any neither advice nor stop from trying to win the big prize. What caused me to continue in this way?

I could blame a thousand people throughout my life who I saw try the same as what I was doing. It was fun; exciting and plain bad luck when I didn't win. On the other hand when I did win, which was fewer times than I can imagine; the risk was worth it.

Often when revisiting these times I shudder at the thought of how wealthy I would've been had I invested the money I wagered into a growth managed investment. If I knew than what I know now, would I have changed anything in my life? I doubt it. I'm still chasing the golden rainbow in the sky and one day I'll reach the pot at the end of the rainbow to collect the prize I so richly deserve.

Word count: 478

**A Most Dangerous Person**.

The message was clear: drop in at 21 Barry Street on your way to work; a father has a baby in the house. There was no mention of firearms; however, for a reason only known to the detective, he slipped his Smith and Wesson revolver into the back portion of his trousers, held tight by his belt.

When he approached the address his Boss was standing on the footpath, 'you got your gun.' His Boss commanded. Immediately the detective felt the cold steel of his revolver pressed between his back and the leather belt he wore and nodded.

They walked side by side slowly to the front porch of the house. The front door opened. A man stood holding an infant child in his left arm and a M1 carbine rifle in the other, 'piss off coppers – I want my wife.' He screamed at the two officers. He looked upset.

Without blinking an eyelid the detective moved his right hand behind his back and clasped his fingers around the handle of his revolver, slowly moving his index finger to the trigger. The man with the gun raised the rifle and pointed the end of the barrel, an inch away, directly in front of the detective's forehead.

'I want my wife.' He screamed at the two officers.

'We'll get her – just stay calm.' Words quivered from the Boss's lips.

The detective stood erect looking directly into the assailant eyes, his fingers curled around the butt of his revolver, his index finger on the trigger, ready to draw the pistol from behind his back at any second.

'Then bloody well get her here now! I want to see her.' The gunman screamed.

'Alright, we'll bring her back.' Both police officers retreated. The last they saw of the gunman he returned inside of the house with the infant child still in his arms.

Within four hours, members of the elite Emergency Squad arrived to try and talk the gunman into surrender, to no avail. The gunman's mother with a policewoman finally persuaded the gunman to surrender and release his child.

When the detective interviewed the gunman, his reason he pointed a M1 Carbine Rifle to the detective's forehead was, 'I wanted to scare you.' He certainly carried out his desire. When the police searched the home of the gunman, they discovered 200 hundred rounds of M1 Carbine ammunition and two .22 calibre rifles and 100 rounds of ammunition.

Afterwards the detective realised how close he had came to death, when the gunman pointed the barrel of the M1 Carbine Rifle only an inch from his forehead. The barrel of the rifle appeared to him at the time to be the size of a cannon. The gunman was a most dangerous person.

Word count: 465

The Caravan Park.

Alone she slept in a rented caravan. Life had dealt her one of those hands which she hoped wouldn't land on her lap for sometime. She was lonely and exhausted. To stay overnight at a caravan park was somewhat beneath her status. She'd fought with her parents and wanted to escape. These domestic disputes had been going on for sometime and her only escape was to leave the family home to see if she could cope by herself. It was a test she wasn't prepared for; only time would tell what the outcome would become.

When she awoke the next morning, stretched, she realised she needed to visit the bathroom. Usually her bathroom was an en suite in her bedroom at home. This en suite was a walk from her rented caravan to a community toilet block, a distance of forty metres. She'd slept in the clothing she'd worn when she booked into the caravan park the previous night. To make matters worse she didn't carry any luggage, only her purse and mobile telephone.

She lifted herself from the soft uncomfortable mattress she slept on, placed her bare feet on the floor, thinking how cold her feet felt. She stood upright and knocked her head on the overhead cupboard. Tears trickled from her eyes. She sobbed but needed to visit the toilet urgently.

Feeling around the floor, she found her shoes, slipped them on, tried to gather herself together by combing her hair with her fingers. She felt dirty and uncouth. Opening the small door, she escaped into daylight.

'Hi there neighbour.' A male voice sung to her.

She looked from where the voice come from and saw an old man waving, 'you okay?' His voice warm and tender, in a way this person reminded her of her father.

She burst into tears, cupped her hands around her face, and sobbed. The old man didn't known what to do, he walked toward her. 'Can I help you?' He softly asked and placed his arm around her trembling shoulders.

Between tears and sobbing she said, 'I've run away from home.'

'Where is home?' He asked kindly.

'Brisbane.' She muttered.

'You are a long way from home.' The old man suggested. 'Come with me and my wife will help you.' They walked to the caravan next door to meet the stranger's wife. After consoling with his wife, she telephoned her parents and later met them at the caravan park.

For the remainder of her life she never forget the kindness given to her by two elderly people she'd never met before who lived at a caravan park.

Word count: 441

The Bookshop.

Unfortunately the local bookshop we are used to visiting and browsing to find the book of our choice is coming to a close. Instead, we now trawl the internet to find an e-book. For those people who do not know about the e-book, it is an electronic book, not dissimilar to a paperback capable of being read from a computer or an e-book reader.

How has the written word come to this with readers? For a start it is easier for the author to publish their book as an e-book. Once the e-book is published, it is sent off into cyberspace for customers to search the internet to choose an e-book to read, by means of a computer, e-book reader, mobile telephone and any other devise to store a book.

It is a simple process. For example: the website www.smashwords.com is a website an author can upload the manuscript, attach a front cover to form an e-book. This book is circulated via affiliated e-book distributors such as – Amazon; Apple; Diesel; Kobo and many others.

Another important fact which helps the e-book is the price. Prices range from free, to whatever price the author wishes to sell their book. On researching this area, two dollars and fifty cents is a medium price for an e-book consisting of three hundred and fifty pages. Any e-book reader can hold up to three hundred and fifty books at any one time.

In the traditional publishing world of books, the author searched for a publisher to publish their work. Not only was this a time consuming way to publish a book, but after the book was published and released much promotion was needed to be carried out by the author.

Another disadvantage for the author publishing with the traditional publisher was the amount of money the author received after their book went onto the open market. Normally the author received 10% royalty from sales which over the years has decreased to 6%.

In regard to an e-book, the author receives 80% of the sales whilst the distributor receives 20%. If the author sells their e-books for $2.65c, which is the average price, the author receives $2.12c per sale. On the other hand if the author was published by a traditional publisher, the book would need to sell for more than $22.00 for the author to receive a similar royalty.

Another advantage for the e-book is; it is distributed across the globe to each country in the world. Almost all countries have the internet and if a customer has the internet they have access to e-books.

There is a strong argument to suggest the next generation, our great grandchildren, would never have heard of a bookshop.

Word count: 455

The Life Of A Carrot.

Terrance and Pat were two small seeds in amongst many seeds, encased in a packet with the words 'carrot seeds' printed in bright red lettering.

'Why are we here Terrance?' Pat asked his friend.

'Hopefully some kind gardener will buy us and take us home so we can grow to become big carrots like our parents.' He shared.

'What are we – exactly?' Pat asked in an inquisitive voice.

'Don't you know?'

'Why would I ask if I knew what we were?'

'We're carrot seeds – that's what we are.'

'Ah, we're carrot seeds – what is it exactly what we do?'

'We're planted in the ground to grow, people eat us.' Terrance tried to explain, 'look Pat that little old lady is picking up our packet.' Terrance shouted.

'Why do people eat us Terrance?' Pat's voice quivered and shook being thrown about inside of the packet.

'Because we're a vegetable – that's why. We're good for people's health - makes them see well?' Terrance related to his friend after they stopped from being tossed about.

'There's light, Terrance. What's going to happen with us now? Have aliens taken us?' Pat voiced with concern.

'No look, this lovely lady is putting us into the dirt......away we go – down into the dirt.' Terrance screamed.

'Where are you Terrance – its dark down here?' Pat was concerned about his friend.

'I'm over here, not far away. We'll grow together and even could end up on the same plate for supper.' Terrance was excited about his future, he knew if his owner gave him a drink of water every couple of days and fertiliser, he would grow into a huge carrot.

'I'm pleased we're close together – I'd miss you if you were on the other side of the garden.' Pat expressed to his friend. They'd known one another since they were small seeds in a pod.

Time went by, eventually Terrance and Pat grew into huge carrots, 'what'd think now Pat, we've grown and almost ready for picking.' Terrance shouted to his friend.

'Yeah, we've grown tall haven't we? When we are picked, would you do me one small favour Terrance?' Pat asked

'Anything, whatever you want.' Terrance agreed.

'Make certain I'm the first carrot eaten. I don't want to be left behind.'

Word count: 383.

Walk Safely And Carry A Big Fish.

Midnight was closing in fast. The detective had had a quiet night by any stretch of the imagination. His afternoon shift was almost finished. He wanted to go home. His patrol ended at the top pub in town.

When he commenced his shift his Boss told him to be on the lookout for a young woman with the words WALK SAFELY AND CARRY A BIG FISH printed on the front of her shirt. A canary carrying a fish was embroidered underneath these words. She was seen leaving a store without paying for a stainless steel mug.

Walking in the front entrance of the top pub his eyes focused on a young woman leaving. Words WALK SAFELY AND CARRY A BIG FISH glared him in the face.

'Excuse me, I'm with the police. Can I have a talk with you for a moment?' The detective implied.

'About what?' The young woman pronounced.

'We received a complaint this afternoon from a storekeeper, a woman similar in description to you, with the words WALK SAFELY AND CARRY A BIG FISH embroidered on the front of her shirt, was seen leaving the store carrying a stainless steel mug. She left without paying for the item. Would you come with me to the police station please?' The officer asked kindly.

'I want a solicitor.' She announced.

'We will arrange a solicitor for you.'

She went with the detective to the police station. A local solicitor came to the detective's office and spoke with his client.

'You've got the wrong person.' He told the detective.

'Do you think I come down in the last shower? How many young women wear a shirt with the words WALK SAFELY AND CARRY A BIG FISH embroidered on the front of their shirt?' The detective implied. 'Do you have a motor vehicle?' He asked the accused.

'Yes, it's parked outside of the hotel.' She replied.

'Then you have no objections if I search your vehicle in the presence of your solicitor and yourself.'

'Go right ahead. I didn't steal anything.' She began to sob.

They drove to the accused vehicle and she was asked to open the boot. It was dark and no light came on in the compartment. The detective felt around the compartment and his hand felt a cold steel mug. He took it from the boot and showed it to the accused.

'You don't need me any longer.' The solicitor replied and left.

'You should have walked slowly and carried a big fish rather than steal this mug.' The detective said.

Word count: 434

Economy – As If People Matter.

Demand and supply has become the highs and lows of the Australian commodities, such as iron ore and recently coal deposits. If sufficient sales and supply is available, everyone wins. On the other hand, if either factor is missing, there is either a depression or recession.

In the early 70's Australia were rich in iron ore deposits. Iron ore was sold to Japan and other countries at $50.00 per ton and in return Australia purchased motor vehicles and white goods imported from these countries at a cost of twenty-five times more than they received for the iron ore.

Australia is and always has been rich in mineral deposits. For instance, the present coal mining boom. Many people I know work in a coal mine, travel nine hours drive from where they live. The demand for work against the supply of wages is economically sound.

For one, the prize is great. People are earning more than triple their normal wage if they work for a mining company. Advertisement on television by the government draws workers to the mines seeking tradespeople, drivers, or labourers. In the future the mining boom will need another twenty-five thousand workers to keep pace with the production of coal as an export sourced by countries such as China and Russia.

How does this economic boom affect people?

Families are affected when their main breadwinner is absent up to three weeks at one time.

Let's take the position of a breadwinner. He or she leaves home to travel nine hours by vehicle to start work in a couple of hours from when they arrive at the mine. The location is miles from any town. The breadwinner works twelve hours per shift, rests for twelve hours, either sleeping or eating and then re-commences their shift. This goes on for seven days.

At the end of their seventh day, they leave work after completing twelve hours working three kilometres underground and drive nine hours to their home reaching it at either daylight or daybreak.

Does it affect family values?

In one case I know, the breadwinner is absent at times up to a month without seeing his wife and children. His wife becomes the double parent and with four male children under the age of nine years, at times, gives the mother certain disadvantages of being a lone parent.

When the breadwinner visits his home, he's too worn out to care and mopes around until its time to return to the mines. Is it an escape? I don't think so.

Economically the family are financially better off when the breadwinner is working and collecting a wage far in access to what the family was used to before the breadwinner worked in the mine. I suppose its like – you can have the cake and eat it too.'

Word count: 474

A Letter From An Old Flame.

'I'll check the letter box.' I called to my wife after I parked the car in the garage. We'd returned from our vacation.

The usual mail – mainly bills and one envelope addressed to me stood out from the others. It was a neat handwriting which I didn't recognize. It had a postmark of Beachmere, a suburb only twenty minutes drive from my home.

Anxious to know what it contained I ripped open the envelope and pulled a folded letter from inside. My eyes fastened to the address and name. It was addressed from a friend I'd known more than forty years ago. We'd been acquainted. She was sixteen and I seventeen at the time.

Isn't it strange how these times of your life come back to bite you on the bum? My sister visited us on our vacation and produced photographs of when I was in my teens. One of the photographs showed me with my arm around the waist of a young girl. 'Do you remember her; she was one of your first true loves.' My sister eagerly told my wife and me. A flush of red covered my face with shame.

The letter was sent by this same person. I hadn't seen nor heard from her in over forty years. She explained she wanted to catch-up-with-me again and hope we could take over from where we left off.

Her husband bashed her throughout their marriage and she'd finally left him.

Memories flooded back forty years. I placed the letter inside my pocket and instantly forget about receiving it. Should I tell my wife?

'What mail did you get?' My wife asked when I met her in the kitchen.

'Bills...and ah a letter from the person you saw in the photo my sister showed you the other night.' I was calm, butterflies erupted in my stomach.

'What did it say?' My wife looked at me with sharp eyes piecing into mine. I didn't feel guilty. It was a long time ago and to receive this letter today after returning home from a holiday like a second honeymoon. It wasn't fair.

'She wanted to catch up with me and hope we could take over from where we left off.' I stated calmly.

'She did! Did she! You can write and tell her you're already taken and no old flame is going to get you back, Right!'

I totally understood.

I never did reply to the letter but it was a great lift for my ego to think a girl contacted me after forty years. Life was more simple back then.

Word count: 439.

Don't Go Out In The Rain.

What goes through the mind of a twelve year old lad whose parents uproot him from the school he attended since grade one? His small world collapsed the night his father told the family they were moving to the city.

Did his parents ask him for his opinion? Not on your Nellie. In those times there was a code of ethics in parent groups - _children should be seen and not heard._

He went along with the course of action decided by his parents and moved to the city. Grade seven was difficult; he found it hard to make friends, they were not like his friends he'd left behind in the country.

Abuse followed \- including intimation, caused him to _fall in with the wrong group._ He was accepted by this group, a special group of lads similar in age whom couldn't fit into school. Each hated school and instead fretted away each day getting up to mischief.

One day these so-called friends decided to break into a building and steal. The lad joined in the fray not knowing at the time the consequences this event in his life would become.

One Sunday afternoon the owner of the building where the break and enter took place, came to the lad's home to interrogate him about the break-in. To the astonishment of the lad, his father stuck up for him to inform the owner his lad wouldn't do such a thing because he was at school. He believed his son when told he didn't do it.

This lad felt humiliated and swore to never wag school again. His father punished him by grounding him for six weeks. Not to leave home only to attend school. He'd lost the trust of his father and had to regain it.

When the lad attended school, because he was absent a lot of the time; he never understood any of the teachings in class.

Science was being taught. The teacher said to the class, 'don't go out in the rain.'

Everyone in the class, except for the lad, chorused 'because you'll dissolve – salt melts in water.'

The lad then and there made a decision. He would gain his father's trust at whatever cost. To recover from his indiscretion, he decided to _pull up his socks_ and apply his mind to study rather than wag school and hang around with the wrong group.

This was a turning point in his life. If he'd followed his mates down their pathway in life, he would have gone in the wrong direction.

These words, _don't go out in the rain_ , became his totem.

Whenever a ping shot off in his mind to indicate something wasn't right, the words, _don't go out in the rain_ , entered his thoughts and immediately signalled him to stop and think about what he was about to do.

Word count: 482.

Life Has Been Good To Me So Far.

To be truthful, yes, it has. I'm retired from the workforce and enjoy each moment of every day more than I can ever have imagined. Early morning I submit details of a page from a book I've written for all to read on facebook, continue writing and publishing a book I'm presently writing. My days are filled with plenty to occupy my mind. It's wonderful to be doing what you want in life. It's a dream come true.

You may ask, 'what is there to write about?' This is a fair question, however, after a lifetime of adventure, career, medical issues, losing my wife through cancer, taking on the role of grandparent; there is a reservoir of information banked to be released when needed.

We are an aging population with expectation to live and celebrate our one hundred year birthday. To reach this milestone, I know, I need to keep healthy and to do what I've always wanted to do. I can see me writing and publishing books well into my century.

To look back on my life, I consider myself to be a very lucky person to be where I am in my life today. For instance, when I was youngster, I almost drowned, and luckily was saved otherwise I wouldn't be here to tell you so. Not long after I turned twenty-one years I was caught in a truck fire which exploded. I was lucky to escape and recover from the mental torment of almost being fried alive.

From early twenty years old to my early forties, I served as a police officer for the State of Queensland protecting the citizens of the State. In my early forties I undertook an emotional and stressful change to my life by having a pacemaker implanted. This resulted in tumbling down a deep black hole of depression for a couple of years.

Rising from the ashes I changed course in my life to become an alcohol and drug counsellor. This direction was completely on the opposite end of the spectrum compared to my previous life as a police officer.

I look back on those adventures and seek solace and peace to wonder how on earth I ever survived. Without experiencing this life's journey I would never be able to write the stories I now write.

My wish in life is to help others. I think that wish has always helped me through life. If one of my books can help another human being overcome their difficulties forced upon them at anytime; I am satisfied to have been a cog in the huge wheel of life.

Word count: 445

The Connection

The art of writing has been around since Adam shared the apple with Eve. Apart from speech, it has been the next best thing for communicating with one another.

With technology, such as the internet, mobile phones, and any other gadget to connect with one another, there is no reason why any person cannot be connected.

Take for instance Facebook. More than three quarters of people living today are connected to facebook. This is a programme to use as a social network linking people together through words, photographs, video, and any other electronic device.

Speaking of myself I have a facebook page. This page acts as a marketing tool to inform readers of various books I write and publish. Recently I developed a Facebook Author Page to illustrate the method I use to write a book taking the reader on a journey of my writing career.

It's a simple process of sharing my story with outsiders who obviously share a common interest in the power of words. The major reason I use facebook and more particularly the author page, is to connect people to my facebook page and in turn hope they purchase a book I've written.

It's fascinating to link to a friend and when they accept or hit the 'like' button on your writing, the message connects with all of their friends on their facebook page.

Let me share with you how I became so engrossed with facebook. Before I registered on facebook, my family were always begging me to register because they were already registered. My reason for not being connected was because I didn't understand the programme.

After seeing an interview with the author of the book 'Facebook – the social network' I decided to see the movie. This movie was one of the best I'd ever seen. Afterwards I went and purchased the book and read it.

Since reading the book and seeing the movie I am an avid user of the programme. It is the best thing since sliced bread and I doubt if there is any other programme available to connect such a broad scope of people in this way.

My grandson is twelve years old. He uses facebook to keep in touch with his friends. To become a friend he sent me a message so I could link his facebook page with mine. Now we communicate through the message system where only he and I share what we write. This is the perfect connection for grandson and grandfather.

Word count: 420

The Promise.

I am an alcoholic. On the 13th January 1977 I had my final drink of alcohol. Here is the story. Often I am asked 'how' I beat alcoholism. It's quite simple – stop drinking alcohol. It's similar if you want to lose weigh – keep your mouth shut. There's a little more to stop drinking alcohol than stop drinking.

The greatest love of all is the love we have from our parents. From as young as I can remember I loved my father and mother, more particularly my father, I suppose because of the macho image. Research tells us from the age of six years we begin our behavioural patterns to guide us through our life.

In my case, my father is also an alcoholic – he'd never admit he has a problem, however, from my life experiences, he is an alcoholic.

Growing up with an alcoholic father played a huge part in the behavioural patterns in my life. I learned to become a people pleaser or more exact, a rescuer. When I look back at the time of learning these habits, I still continue to see my father drunk, abusing my mother and my sisters.

To soothe the situation I'd make my father a steaming hot cup of coffee and see him drink a mouthful of coffee than drink a mouthful of cold beer. It was ludicrous for any human being to do such a thing.

Each Saturday night became a repeat from the previous Saturday night.

He arrived home from the hotel totally plastered and feeling self pity. I continued to serve him the steaming hot coffee and see him perform his usual ritual of drinking the coffee and then the beer.

Growing up with a father like this person who failed to show any love or affection caused me to mirror his actions when I became a father and husband. I played a similar role to that of my father, but did not become abusive or threatening as he had done.

On the morning of the 13th January 1977 my wife gave me an ultimatum, I either do something about my drinking or she was going to leave and take our two children with her. I didn't realise the significance of the ultimatum until I made her a promise. I promised _I would never drink alcohol again_. I haven't touched a drop since that day. It didn't stop me from being a dry drunk.

It took another twenty years before I realised how significant the behaviour of my father's drinking had on my growing up to witness his drunken behaviour.

At aged forty-five years old I learned to change my behaviour I learned from my father's drinking; to become responsible and accountable for my own actions.

Without making the promise to my wife, I would never have enjoyed the life I've had. It would take another lifetime for my wife to again trust me.

Word count: 489

Come Back To Me.

Letter or Monologue:

Cyril we spoke on the telephone the other night, somehow we were disconnected. You mentioned Jean is unwell and you, yourself haven't been in the best of health. I'm sorry to hear this sad news.

Remember the time we met. It was back in 1972, in May of that year. I bought my new wife to live in Stanthorpe. You worked at the Ambulance Station and me across the road at the Police Station.

We'd been called to a farm where a young fellow hung himself. He'd been in Australia only a short time and missed his homeland. I held him whilst you severed the cord from around his neck. We lay him on a stretcher and transported him to the morgue.

We've been friends since that day, thirty-nine years. We've certainly crossed a few dry gullies together since then. Life has its ups and downs and as you would be aware of the many you, yourself have suffered and presently still continue to suffer. I still find it hard to believe you need to inject insulin four times per day to arrest your diabetes. It must be tough.

And poor Jean, you told me before we were disconnected she'd suffered three heart attacks and is unable to speak. This is terrible news. She is your soul mate, Cyril.

My life has gone on since I lost the one and only woman I ever loved. It's been eight years since she passed on after losing her fight with cancer.

Actually, I thought at the time I'd never recover from losing her, but now have met another person very similar in personality. I'm in love again Cyril and never thought it was possible to love two people in one's lifetime. They each are so similar in personality and habits. You'd swear I'd been with the one person for thirty-one years, yes Cyril we were married thirty-one years when I lost her, and then after a couple of years find another person so similar to continue my life. It frightens me at times.

I have a wonderful life.

Come back to me Cyril when you can and we'll finish the conversation we were having on the telephone. If things get too tough think of the many times we sat around the kitchen table at Stanthorpe playing canasta when the temperature outside was below zero. We hungrily ate the pikelets you cooked so well.

Until then my friend remember I will always be there for you and Jean.

Word count: 425
