 
# A PATCHWORK OF STORIES

### Edited by Lynn Fowler

# ***

This book is © copyright 2018 Birdcatcher Books, and each story herein is © copyright its author. Except for fair use in reviews, no part of this book may be copied in any form without express written permission from both Birdcatcher Books and the author.

Published 2018, by Birdcatcher Books

http://birdcatcherbooks.com

Cover image from <https://pixabay.com/en/patchwork-quilt-loggia-2198451/>

## CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PATCHWORK by Christine Johnson

SMALL MATTERS by Wendell Watt

THE SHOW BUSINESS DOOR by Wendell Watt

ET by Antonina Mikocka

THE CLOUD CATCHER by Alicia Bruzzone

AMELIA'S TALK by Brian Lee

MOMENTUM by Karen Ginnane

GREAT EXPECTATIONS by Sue Kingham

THE CONTRACT by Catriona McKeown

IN THE WINDOWS by Christopher Ringrose

TRIGG BEACH by Christopher Ringrose

DEAD POSSUM TEA by Louise Hopewell

JERROLD by Raine Wicks

STASIS by Danica Fuller

AN ACT OF FLOWERS by Virginia Suckling

FIRST LINE by Imogen van der Meer

THE PHOTO ON THE NIGHTSTAND by Imogen van der Meer

A BIRD'S EYE by Jane Lingard

TRIPOD HERO by Melanie Cranenburgh

MY BRAVE NEW WORLD by Laura Brown

LET'S TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE by Tim Stoney

A TIME BEYOND FORGETTING by Grace L. Sutherland

I WAS THERE by Margot Ogilvie

DON'T CALL ME FLORENCE by Alanah Andrews

ALSO FROM BIRDCATCHER BOOKS

## INTRODUCTION

In 2018, Birdcatcher Books ran its fourth annual Short Story Competition. The stories in this anthology are the best out of the 77 entries received.

Stories in the competition are judged individually, with nothing but an entry number to link them to the author and his/her details. Because of this, some authors have more than one entry in the anthology.

First, second and third prize winners from each year's competition are invited to become judges for the next year. Two of the winners from 2017 took up that offer (the third was going to be overseas, and will be a judge for a future competition.) Each judge assesses the stories on the basis of plot, characterisation, style, originality and reader appeal, awarding up to 20 points for each category, with a possible total of 100 points. The scores are then added and averaged to determine the placings.

No theme was set for the 2018 competition, and as a result the stories in this collection vary widely in theme and genre. Some will cause you to cry, some will cause you to laugh, and some will cause you to think about issues.

The authors also vary, from young students to retirees and from fledgling writers to widely published established authors. Part of my vision for Birdcatcher Books is to help new writers to launch on their writing journey, so I am particularly delighted to have them represented in this anthology.

I'm sure you will enjoy reading this book. If you do, please take a few moments to give its authors an extra boost by leaving a review on your favourite site, or sending us one to put on the Birdcatcher Books website.

Lynn Fowler

Publisher, Birdcatcher Books

October 2018

# PATCHWORK

### Christine Johnson

## CHRISTINE JOHNSON

Christine Johnson lives in Sydney. Since 2012 her short fiction has won prizes and been published in numerous anthologies. In 2014 she completed her first novel and received a grant from Amplify your Art (administered by Accessible Arts on behalf of the NSW Government) to work with a professional editor improving the manuscript. In 2018 she has won first prize in Positive Words Short Story Competition and Second Prize in the Trudy Graham/Julie Lewis Literary Awards. Another story has been selected for the Geelong Writers Anthology. Commissioned to write an 8-part drama podcast, 7 Seconds, the series is headed towards production. She is working on a second full-length novel.

## PATCHWORK

Everyone gathered at the house, stunned as stones. They sank into chairs, sighed, communed in low voices and broken sentences. Everything had happened so quickly. One minute Catherine was there, her usual energetic, chatty self. Now she was gone.

John felt he'd never get used to it. It was only three mornings since disaster struck, and each one the same. After a night's welcome oblivion he woke, forced to confront reality. He reached out to the trough made by his wife's body, only to find it vacant but still obvious, there on her side of the mattress. He tackled head-on the dawning in him of a world where his wife was absent, vanished forever. It was like jumping into a freezing ocean, sinking into bottomless depths. Thinking, _Oh my God, here I am again. She's dead and I'm alone._ He wanted to press his face into the pillow and sleep, always.

But then, he was forgetting Luke. His son needed him. He forced his eyes open and dragged his reluctant limbs out of bed. Stretching, he steeled himself to get through another day.  
Now he shuffled around, uncomfortable, out of place in his own home. One finger returned over and over to scratch the skin of his neck, chafed by a too-tight collar. Being here at such a time dressed in a suit and tie felt bizarre. It reminded him of that other, happier formal occasion when his heart pulsed with love and pride watching Catherine, so radiant, glide towards him. When he lifted her veil and saw the warmth in her glance, meeting his.

Today was hot, not suited to the formality of dark dress on show amongst family and friends crowded into the small space. Summer: the worst time for a funeral. Not that there could ever be a good time. An acceptable time to lose a wife, mother, daughter and every other role Catherine once fulfilled for those present.

Despite the turnout, John's grief crept close and isolated him. He remained dazed by this unexpected blow to his life. It hit with such power that startled points of light danced before his eyes, a great ringing threatened to fill his ears. Raw sensations came at him from all directions, emotions he never knew existed. From quiet desolation to sheer inner chaos, he sensed himself fraying at the edges. I'm threadbare, he thought. Yes. Catherine would have understood that.

John glanced around the room. The clothing hues those at this event wore were grim and gloomy, associated with bereavement. Nothing like the colours Catherine favoured. He imagined her tilting her head to one side, her eye assessing an excess of black, grey, navy and dark green. A slight frown, before her eyes lit up. In an instant, she'd supplement those dark shades with generous dashes of scarlet, azure, emerald, cream and gold. Bright choices cleverly made.

"To highlight a chosen theme," she'd say with a smile.

That was Catherine and any creative idea she came up with. It would be sure to toss aside the words dominating today's story. Sadness, shock, tears; they played little part in her cheerful and complex fabric concoctions. Even elements of her funeral service focused John's thoughts away from the intended, towards what Catherine's interpretation would have been. The mention of heaven jogged his memory back to an early piece of work she'd completed. A rich, blue fabric background covered on top with bold eight-pointed stars. When she finished it, she stood and held it up to show him. He recalled her smiling face, the tone of her voice. "I know what I'll call it. It's like gazing up into an Endless Night Sky, see?"  
She said it made her whole, as if she had reached up into heaven. John ached at that sweet recollection. Then, sadness returned. He felt dismembered.

Later, his eyes shifted to the wreath laid on top of her coffin. It was like the detailed leaves and flowers Catherine had stitched out of multiple scraps into an exquisite ring. The circle made an impressive highlight for the centre of a quilt made for a friend moving overseas. "Friendship Surrounding Time and Distance," she said. That was what she called that one.

John remembered the care she took. Every pattern was personal, stitch-signed and dated. She always gave them names.

Tidying up to prepare for today's assembly made John shy away, aware how much of Catherine still existed in and around the house. She was so much a part of his life. He believed he'd seen her, what she did. But now he felt he'd hardly understood one half of the scope and depth of what she added. Her smile alone was enough to melt stone. She surrounded him, occupying the space like one continuous cluster of designs and patterns impossible to avoid.

He made a mental note. At some future time he needed to confront this. But today defeat tore at him. He clenched his teeth, bundled up whatever came to hand and heaped it into a corner. Placed chairs in a semi-circle, their resolute backs facing the lot. Hoped that would do the trick.

A circle of silence surrounded him in the kitchen as, thoughts elsewhere, he peeled cling wrap off plates of sandwich triangles, cut slices of cake and warmed miniature sausage rolls. These were provided by family members. His dull mind had only concentrated far enough to buy a few packets of biscuits, sweet and savoury. The occasion didn't seem one to party over.

Fragments of conversation drifted towards him as he took two plates and made his way as host around the sitting room.

"So many years together, never argued, always loving and supportive of one another."

Sorrowful heads nodded.

"A perfect marriage," someone else ventured.

John knew this wasn't true. Why would it be? Why place him in a fairy-tale loss, not the real situation he faced here and now? His grip tightened on the plates he carried. These were all he had, to offer in reply.

"Here I am, still alive," said Auntie Mavis.

"What's that?" asked Uncle Jim, leaning his good ear towards her.

"Alive! Twice her age and more, it should've been me taken." Seeing John approach she lifted her voice, trying to end on a brighter note. Her ancient hand plucked a biscuit from the plate he offered. "Well, she's with the angels now, dear."

"Yes," he said, only wishing he could believe it.

"Where's Mummy?" four-year-old Luke interrupted.

"With the angels," said big cousin Nicola, becoming the stand-in mother.

_This may become a permanent position,_ John thought, as he watched her take his son's hand and lead him to toy-filled distraction elsewhere. _Not an easy position to fill, either._

"Well, when is she coming back?' Luke persisted. That one is harder to answer.

John returned to the kitchen to collect more food before moving off again. He knew eventually his route would bring him to Catherine's mother. Here she was, looking stricken as before - a stricken gaze he sensed was unlikely to ever fully fade. Food was the last thing she wanted or needed. John braced himself for the words he sensed were coming.

"I can't believe it, John. Just the other day she was sitting here, sewing. And now..." Her desperate eyes scanned his face. Helpless, he continued on his way.

He loved Catherine's grasp of womanly arts, worlds away from his masculine self. Sewing was her forte. Memories of shapes, colours, fabrics and techniques crept up on him. They carried images of her with them. Her patchwork provided a tactile comfort that surrounded them both. It had always been there, reassuring, normal.

John felt himself getting caught up in the web of associations that trapped and clung to him earlier when he tidied the house. He wanted to put Catherine's things aside, out of public gaze. Still they sat there, even if concealed. Her influence and choices were writ large upon them. The uniqueness of her missing person embraced him. It was more than he could bear.

Escaping to the kitchen he pulled a beer out of the fridge. He yanked at his tie, wanting to pull it off, change into everyday clothes and take flight. Escape. Down to the pub, share drinks with his mates. In the past Catherine accompanied him sometimes. There was nothing of her there now. The layout of the place was unconnected to any design she'd invented. Despite that, she'd always fitted in, her laughter buoyant, her smile speaking across any distance. Another thing he loved about her.

But where she shone was in the company of others who sewed. They did it often. Friends, they came together to work on projects, either individual, or large-scale pieces to celebrate certain events. Her marriage to John was one occasion she and her sewing partners worked towards. He remembered Catherine explaining the pattern she chose. "Circles," she said, "interconnected circles, Once Unified Never Broken." It was clear she was thinking of the wedding rings they would exchange on the day.

He recalled dropping in at her parents' house on his way home from work. The big day was drawing close. Watching Catherine sewing it was obvious she'd won the respect of the party.

The skill with which she used her needle! She could laugh and chat, even around a mouthful of pins. She worked with painstaking precision at her own stitches while playing hostess to everyone else. He observed her enjoying everybody's industry, giving decided snips to completed threads, keeping a quick eye out for any needs arising among the group. Considering and matching cloth, passing thimble, scissors, or thread, she was always at the ready.

John's admiration for Catherine that evening made him believe their future was secure. He looked at her and it occurred to him, like patchwork, she radiated being settled, locked into a place, and fitting. She was one distinct piece, contributing beautifully to a larger whole. In her element, that was how John saw her, happy and full of life.

The memory brought him back to the present with a thud. Thinking of Catherine working away made him realise he now faced many of the questions she'd approached in her craft with such creativity and gusto.

What goes where? One choice rather than another, what would be the final effect, the final impact? Futures come in all kinds. John knew that. Organising to move forward, bringing things together, Catherine was a dab hand at that. She'd want it to continue, for him and for Luke, now she was gone. That, at least, must force him to hold his fragmented self together.

When he went back into the area where everyone was sitting, the inevitable had happened. The men had congregated in a huddle. Their talk was about everything but Catherine's all-too-recent departure from this world. The women were gathered around Auntie Mavis. To his dismay John saw she had somehow discovered Catherine's work-basket. The pile of incomplete fragments and larger sections he'd tucked away out of sight were scattered everywhere.

"Well now, look here. I believe this was in the making before they even met," Auntie Mavis said. "There, I knew it." Spectacles balanced on her nose she pounced, forefinger pointing. "There, there and there! Those pieces of green check, they're from a shirt Uncle Jim used to wear, visiting over at our house."

She looked around, triumphant. If there was one thing Auntie Mavis prided herself on it was her perfect memory.

"That's a good many years ago," Catherine's mother said, unconvinced.

But John saw Auntie Mavis was already fossicking, moving on.

"And here, see? That old curtain fabric I gave her when we redecorated. I never could understand her wanting it. Still, pity it'll go to waste."

As the women continued to scrutinise these scraps of Catherine's unfinished works, discover remembered leftovers, clothes and curtains, John turned away. He fixed his memory on those projects Catherine completed. What lived on in him was her exhilaration, designing and creating. In his mind's eye he saw the profusion of themes and dreams she wove. He recalled the process of choice, the collecting and coordinating of fabrics and templates. Her growing excitement as she stitched towards an end in sight. Her pride in concluding and telling the story she'd set out to realise.

Solitude pressed down upon him as he thought of those patchworks she'd completed. He almost envied them. All those bits of fabric, granted a second chance, not left to be alone. Catherine fashioned them, reincarnated them into something whole again. Over the past days the only way he'd coped was by reducing his frame of reference down, shortening it to now, this minute, his and Luke's immediate needs. He'd shrunk, become a scrap. Perhaps, surviving this way for a while, he'd be able to return to a reality where the past was bearable, the future workable: a patchwork yet to craft.

For now John only knew he felt lonely, and frightened. Without Catherine the sunshine had left. Laughter departed. He longed for her touch, her smell and voice. The words she always had at the ready as his best friend, his one true love. The ways she found to make him feel strong, able to face whatever lay ahead.

The afternoon was drawing to a close. Its quietness crept into every room through the open windows. Its advance made John uneasy. Just as the house seemed to collapse around him with a sigh, disintegrating in a hopeless way, living within his head was no longer comfortable. Once it was full of fertile ideas, information and intuition. Now it seemed incomplete and empty. People were preparing to leave. John saw them gather up things. Work as couples. Felt the massive gap opening within him even more.

Little Luke skipped towards him. Seeing each small step his son took brimming with potential, John welcomed an instinctive, inner leap. Here was one precious thing remaining that he could lift into his arms, fold close to him. He scooped him up and hugged him. Luke pushed him back, leaning away.

"Can I go to the park, Daddy? Nicola is."

Nicola's parents gave the nod.

"Sure," John said, with a pang. "It'll give Daddy time to clean up."

The front door closed.

John went to the bedroom. He lay down. His suit was sombre against the accumulated happiness of their wedding quilt. Turning the smooth surface of his wedding band on his finger, he let his left hand drop to one side; explored with his fingertips the delicate outline of the stitched, never-to-be-broken circles.

"Catherine."

The woman fundamental to the design of his existence, drawing all parts together. She was and always would be the only one ensuring all fragments of his world connected; made its patchwork whole.

Tears came at last. They swelled and ran down his cheeks. Stitch by precious stitch, his pain, unravelling.

# SMALL MATTERS

### Wendell Watt

" _Small Matters" won Second Prize in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## WENDELL WATT

I live in Sydney but enjoy travelling to bush and wilderness areas. Writing takes me on further to worlds of my own so between reality and imagination I get double value! My articles, short stories and poems have been published in newspapers, journals and anthologies.

## SMALL MATTERS

Right, I think, as I drive over the hump of the hill and down. Right! This is it: the river, sweet and smooth, flowing out of the forest, the ocean savaging the shore, the cabin overlooking it all.

I know I have Cathie to thank for this. I suppose I should be grateful. Yes. It was a surprise, that's all, when she informed me, oh so sweetly, one afternoon, "I'm going away to Melbourne for a week with the bridge club. You'll be OK, won't you?"

A week! Dare I say "No, I won't."?

Never.

She has bridge and I have photography, but photography involves more than my camera. It means good times together in the outdoors, walks and bush picnics and companionship. Why she would want to sit for a week hunched over cards with a bunch of women in a stuffy city room is a mystery.

I risked, "Just bridge, for a whole week? Why go all the way to Melbourne for that? Won't you be bored?"

"No! And we'll have breaks, do some sightseeing as well. You could go somewhere too. Take your camera."

I countered faintly, "Since we both retired, we've always gone away together."

"Ah, David love. It's a big competition week."

Ah love. Sweet talk. I always fall for it.

***

I have lived in Tasmania since I was ten years old yet had never been to the island's north west coast. I searched online and found a cabin by the sea and booked it quickly before I could change my mind.

After Cathie left with her impractical optimism and book of bridge moves, I gave the garden enough water for a week, loaded up the car with my cameras and lenses and filters and laptop and mobile phone and food and clothes in order of priority, and set off by myself.

I had been warned that the cabin was connected to electricity but that there was no TV, no internet, no wi-fi, no mobile phone reception. No problem. Photographs are to be the point of this holiday and I fall into an easy routine.

***

Up early each morning in the dark, I grab a quick breakfast in the kitchen at one end of the living room. Then, loaded with camera and lenses, I seek out the dawn.

Morning takes me east, inland, into the rainforest and river. Shots of low sun slanting through trees. The patterned bark of sassafras. Soft ferns. Leatherwoods in flower and, as the sun moves higher, invaded by bees gorging themselves, profligate creatures making the most of summer. The forest is cool and dim, clean-scented with dew. The cathedral silence lightens me. My tread falls easy.

Back at the cabin I usually forget lunch and play around on the computer with my photographs until late afternoon.

Dinner is easy, steak, potatoes and salad and a glass of red wine. Then I rug up and go off again, this time to the shore which faces west into the sunset.

Cloud and setting sun. The sea roaring at beach and cape, unchecked since the last landfall on South America. The sight of this ocean takes the everyday out of me; leaves me awed and breathless. The beach braces against its power, stands up to it, swallows its speed and aggression until finally the attacking water lies down exhausted under rings of foam.

Alone, facing the ocean, the taste of salt on my lips and the gusty air filling my lungs and my sight fixed on what the camera is seeing, like the bees I turn profligate.

Each day is a gift, the mornings in the forest, the evenings by the sea, the days spent in the cabin with the laptop editing my images: cropping, changing contrast, adjusting exposure.

According to Cath I am a perfectionist. I'm not sure if she means it to be, but I take it as a compliment. I hope to earn money and fame, lots of both, with my photographs. Nothing has happened so far, but now, with these, it might.

Cath's image sometimes blurs my computer screen. Is she winning, losing, missing me? My solitude is not a loneliness and we are not joined at the hip like certain people I can think of but still – I wish we were together here. She completes my days, laughs with me at simple things that otherwise might have grown too heavy, enjoys her own silences and mine and, besides, is a better cook than me.

***

Driving south back to Hobart and home, vowing to return, David's view of the road was overlaid by visions of the future. He would be praised for this week's photographs: they'd call him the new Peter Dombrowski; books would be published and single framed pictures put on sale at astronomical prices. He would be invited to conferences and seminars to talk about his work and his methods. Cath would be proud of him and regret that she hadn't joined his odyssey on that distant coast, touched so lightly by humans. And next time she would come with him. Lost in dreaming, he drove right into the path of a loaded logging truck turning into his lane from a side road.

He remembered nothing of the next few moments, which was a kindness. His mind cleared when he realised that someone was trying to open the car door, shaking it, calling "Mate, are you OK? Mate!"

He opened his eyes. The car was strangely twisted. His sight was blurred. He sat frozen and couldn't speak, wondering why he smelt petrol.

The stranger forced open the door, pulled at him roughly and dragged him out. He couldn't walk. His right leg felt oddly askew and then the pain kicked in. The man kept on dragging him away, back, and back, regardless of his agony - David wanted to scream, "Stop!" but still couldn't make a sound - back and back until he was heaved off the road and onto the verge, bundled and deposited on the ground like a load of unwanted rubbish, suffering small pains from the prickles in the grass and the tiny sharp-edged stones and the larger pain of his leg, and then everything was overcome by a great woof in the air as if a giant was breathing and the car burst into flames with a brilliance so intense that he closed his eyes again. When a blast of heat engulfed him, David hugged himself and decided to die.

Still urgent, the voice hassled, "C'mon mate, wake up. Help's on the way." David's car had hit the trailer load of logs and not the truck's cabin. The driver, uninjured, had a satellite phone and had rung the logging camp. He had saved David's life. But David hated him. He wanted to die.

***

Death, refusing the invitation, left David struggling in a swamp of pain. Later he was aware of kind words and kind hands but still there was pain, pain, and then nothing - nothing - until faint sounds fluttered and gradually grew louder and became the sounds of crying. He opened his eyes and saw her, Cathie, red-eyed, face swollen, brown hair tangled, weeping in great desperate gasps beside his bed where he had been neatly stowed. "It's my fault. I should have gone with you. Watched out for you." Yes, of course, it was all her fault, and he was comforted to see her and angry at her desertion and he turned his head away from her and pushed his face into the pillow. All her fault.

He slid away once more into a kind of uneasy unconsciousness which was nothing like the restful sleep he longed for. Through a dark fog, her fault, of course.

***

"Absolutely necessary," they said. So his shattered leg was amputated. This was the worst loss of all.

"Eat," Cathie said.

"I'm not hungry."

"Talk."

"Don't want to."

Anger, at what life had done, how it had pushed him from elation to despair in one terrible moment, and anger at Cathie became a necessary companion to his days. It gave him the energy to fight the doctors and their demands, and the strength to defy hope.

"Walk."

"The crutches are clumsy."

His eyes were blank, closed to anything she or the world had to offer.

"Think about getting a new camera."

"Couldn't handle it."

"C'mon love. You could."

No, he couldn't. He had lost everything, his leg, his photographs, his camera equipment and the agility to use it, his future, that transcendent week by the forest and the sea.

Days were too hot or too cold, sunshine was too bright, shade too dim.

"I missed you," he growled.

"David, I wasn't there. But it happened and I love you and you need to get over it and forgive me."

What was there to say? Nothing. He merely set his face to stone and faced the wall. There was no space in his mind for forgiveness.

***

"David, you have only lost a leg. But you have everything else. Only a leg, David."

"What? ONLY a leg? How could you say that? ONLY?" Rage turned his face red and his love to ice.

***

Cathie continued to care for him dutifully and helped when he finally consented to be fitted with an artificial leg. But even as he gained mobility and independence, he remained closed and silent. She in turn retreated.

Her resentment came gradually, beyond guilt and pity, but quickly grew from a small shoot to a sturdy tree. It comforted her and seemed to be the only weapon she had to fight the hurt. Her mother had told her once, in a rare prophetic burst, as if she had known that someday Cathie might need to understand, "Resentment hurts the giver more than the victim." But her mother was dead now and Cathie stuck with it, her private source of power.

***

Days pass, and days, and more days, days withered by anger and hurt.

But despair must end, in one way or another. Cathie returns to her bridge sessions, leaving the house each time with relief and a terse "Goodbye, David, see you later," while David is left alone in a void of chairs and tables and other wooden possessions. Outside is a blue world bright with spring which entices him into the garden but he will go no further, he will not pick up the new camera Cathie bought for him, will not consider the possibility of driving again.

He will not go further.

Not yet.

Not quite yet.

***

One night my sleep slides over into vivid dreams.

Morning takes me east, inland, into the rainforest and river. Shots of low sun slanting through trees. The patterned bark of sassafras. Soft ferns. Leatherwoods in flower and, as the sun moves higher, invaded by bees gorging themselves, profligate creatures making the most of summer. The forest is cool and dim, clean-scented with dew. The cathedral silence lightens me. My tread falls easy.

I am there. My heartbeat slows to the pulse of the forest.

The shore faces west into the sunset. Cloud and setting sun. The sea roaring at beach and cape, unchecked since the last landfall on South America. The sight of this ocean takes the everyday out of me; leaves me awed and breathless. The beach braces against its power, stands up to it, swallows its speed and aggression until finally the wild water lies down exhausted under rings of foam.

I am back at the sea near the river and the promontory. My lungs fill with clean air, I can taste salt, hear seabirds and the thunder of the surf.

As I wake, my whole body is stretched with happiness.

My mind has grown sick of my fret and is telling me to get up and out again. To go back and accept my life as good. That I can. I wonder why it has taken so long.

Sunshine floods the room. On the breakfast table, Cathie has set a small vase of fern fronds picked from the bush behind our house.

"You would definitely like the rainforest," I murmur.

"Eh?"

"Perhaps," I begin. "Cathie..."

"Yes?"

I clear my throat, pick up my cup and put it down again. The morning light draws sparks from the fern.

"Perhaps we could go back to the cabin where I stayed when you were away ... If you could drive us... We..."

I take the spoon and stir my coffee one more time and lift up the cup.

"We... Would you come?"

Would you come?

The words float slowly to the floor, unanswered.

Her eyes are blue, like sky reflected in water. Someone once told me that all blue-eyed people are descended from a single ancestor.

"Cath? Would you...?"

"David..."

"... with me?'"

Cathie's answer I think surprises even her. "I'm going up to stay with Sarah for a while."

"Our daughter? In Brisbane? For how long?"

"I don't know."

The rest of the world seems normal. Outside, a magpie tries a morning warble, other birds bicker in the undergrowth. A dog barks; a car grumbles by. In the kitchen the smell of coffee and hot toast lingers.

Up north is a forest and an ocean and a happy camera.

All that is everything else. Small matters compared with this, with Cath.

Time puts up a stop sign and waits...

... until the words creep out, "Cath, it wasn't your fault."

She catches her breath and puts down her cup, gently.

# THE SHOW BUSINESS DOOR

### Wendell Watt

" _The Show Business Door" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## THE SHOW BUSINESS DOOR

CANDY

Candy joined the queue at the end of a very long line. So many people here. Too many. She tried to stay positive as the queue crawled along a depressing corridor which felt unkempt, unloved, unlived-in, and smelt of dust and slow sunshine falling on old wood. Outside water lapped on piers and seagulls squabbled. Inside sound was muted and broken only by whispers.

She was early, but not early enough it seemed. At home Mum had called her to get up in good time but she had lingered, groggy with sleep and nervousness, gathering strength to get up and face the day. She had long decided that amateur shows would never be enough; she wanted the big-time. And here it was, audition day: when Candy Camelot would begin her run to conquer the world.

The ad had called for applicants, men and women aged 18-30, for the chorus line in a coming musical. The applicants should be trained in both song and dance and able to act. So here they were, a mixed lot wearing a selection of leotards, T shirts, loose pants, singlets. Candy felt charged by this because she had gone one better; she had dressed to suit the show. The musical was a bitter-sweet story set in Parliament House, a helter-skelter tale of Prime Ministers ascendant and descendant, of plots and insults, lies and hard truths. Funny and sad, so the blurb went. Candy had decided on a semi-formal look, white top and black pants, showing the audition judges that, indeed, she had followed their advice and "Come prepared."

Finally she registered; finally she was called into the audition room. As she entered, she ran her fingers across the open door's wooden face.

***

DOOR

I am a Door. Not any old door; a special one. I stand between the ante room and the audition studio and I have seen it all, the tantrums, the jubilation, the confusion and the tears. A unique position to occupy. You can't call me handsome; although they do keep my brass knob shiny, I need a new coat of paint. However, you must agree that I am privileged. I see both sides of people, the private and the public, what they want to be and the truth of what they appear to be.

Those waiting to audition for a show come first to the ante room to register their names. They file in, pushed by reasonable or unreasonable hopes. When I am opened and they file past me to face the auditions on my other side, I am often surprised by the change. The tentative ones may shed their tight nervous skins and blossom forth with a joy in their own talent that I would find spine-tingling if I had a spine. And sometimes, when the tough strutting ones pass me, they can collapse like punctured balloons or become so stiff that, either way, you are embarrassed to watch. Or, on the other hand, the tough ones stay tough and the nervy ones stay nervy. I never know how it is going to work out.

Of all my days, the one I most clearly remember began like any other day with auditions: the registrations, the demonstration of a dance, a few trial runs and then it was on for real. Three judges, two men and one woman, sat ready to choose the lucky ones who would bring the crowds and make lots of money for the sponsors.

A single piano note. The lines of young people ready. A silence. Push up those chins and extend those arms. Relief when the piano soared into a trill, rolled over and reached into the tune. As they danced, the floor rocked and a few gold coins gleamed out of the dross: that young man with such agile confidence on the left, that girl who moved with powerful grace at centre right. And one in the second row, Candy; a gentle girl, polite, with long corn-coloured hair tied into a pony-tail, who had stood out among the others in the ante room. So focused, so confident. Surely with that intensity, she had talent. And yet, in the studio dancing, although each of her movements was emphasised and loved, she bungled some steps, checked herself and lost the verve she had started with. Come on Candy, do it. Good technique. The judges will like that. And your wise dressing suits the show. She ended in a flurry of lost beats and stumbled catchups. The tassel of her hair drooped. Ah, Candy.

The song auditions were held after lunch. I waited. She entered with her head high and her hair loose and alive with light, ready to give it to the world. The piano stood on the far side of the studio from the door, a long way for some but our Candy's walk across was easy, a mix of natural and contrived, a bit showy but not too much. A true stage walk. She was born for it. Go Candy, give it to them! She stood beside the piano, drew back her shoulders, clutched her music (didn't she know her song?) nodded to the pianist and began. The judges sat motionless, frowning slightly, lips pursed.

She gave them "I'm gonna wash that man ..."

Good enough voice but she had chosen an old song everybody knew and she didn't sing it as well as the stars, of course. You couldn't help comparing. She would have had more chance with a piece less famous.

Auditions over and the group dismissed, the judges sat with takeaway coffee and conferred. They haggled, disagreed, agreed, chose a few, came to number 22. This was Candy.

"There's some talent there but I'm not quite convinced."

"She would rub up well. Seems willing."

"Very young."

"She's eighteen."

"Unsophisticated."

"In a year or two perhaps."

"There is a spark about her."

"She needs more time."

Dusk was falling before the group was called back into the studio again. The light was coloured with the setting sun; rays slanted through the windows and turned dust motes into sifting gold and gave the drab room an unreal glow.

It had been a long day. Everyone was tired but faces were tense. The numbers of the successful ones were announced.

"Five, nine, thirteen, fourteen, nineteen, twenty – (I saw Candy stiffen) – four. Congratulations to these people. Would you please stay back? To those of you who didn't make this first cut, it is not personal. It means only that you were not suitable for this musical. Each one has a different story and needs different people. So keep on trying, all of you. We wish you luck and hope to see you back another time."

I wondered if my Candy went home disillusioned. Watching her, I thought not. The way she stood proud, steeling herself.

***

CANDY

Candy's dance teacher had told her once, "You have to develop a very thick hide and never give up. If you want something and try hard enough, it will come." Yes? Candy doubted that. You might be flat and stolid on stage, totally awful, and still want to be the 21st century's Judy Garland. "Wanting" and "getting" need be in no way connected. But dreams were easy, they were like soft delicious fruit over which you could linger, tasting the flavour of conviction and certainty.

She remembered her teacher's advice: "You fail once, you try again. And again. If you want it enough."  
If you want it enough. And she had, but failed. Try again. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered, why the stage drew her so surely, why she needed to draw others into the web of her own desires. She was addicted to it: you came on stage, the hall was dark, you stood spotlit and felt an immense expectation and goodwill from all those invisible people out there and you wanted to embrace them all, you would do anything for them. But the trouble was that once you started, you felt yourself shrinking, your throat would tighten, your muscles grow tense.

Let it flow, she thought, don't try so hard. Try again. She had seen a video recently in which a young woman had started to sing in the middle of a shopping mall. Her audience was curious, enthralled, captured; they all joined in the song and soon the whole place rocked with music. Candy's next thought was born in a thicket of reluctance. You can do that too. I couldn't. You'll never know if you don't try. You might get in the paper or in Facebook.

You'll never know if you don't try.

She caught the bus to the city and walked to Pitt St Mall.

Lunch time. She wondered where to stand. The mall was definitely no spotlit stage with a willing audience focused only on herself. In flat tired sunshine, workers in business suits funnelled in from somewhere and moved quickly to somewhere else; shoppers straggled through, carrying full shopping bags and empty purses. A few people relaxed on the seats under trees. All absorbed in their own concerns. No one seemed to be waiting for diversion. Or wanting it.

Candy moved into the shade near the arcade and stood there bludgeoned by the background hum of a busy city. No theatre, or even audition studio, was ever like this. If she stopped to think, she would be sick. She shut her eyes, opened her mouth and began to sing. Forced bravado into her voice. Strong, make it strong, she thought. Beat the traffic noise.

"I'm gonna wash that man...." Her voice trembled. She breathed more deeply, pushing out the notes, "... gonna wash that man ..." and she began to dance, stepping to the rhythm, swaying, moving her arms to match the song.

When she opened her eyes again, people were still hurrying by, some pretending not to see her, some checking her out but warily, as if she might – might - be a little mad and about to do something even more appalling than singing and jumping around in the mall, which was evidence enough. A couple – bless their hearts – stood and watched her, smiling. Two people were a start. But where to go to from here? Heat drummed up from the pavement. The air was stagnant and full of petrol fumes and dust. This was certainly was not like the video she had watched and that, Candy realised now but too late, would, must have been a set-up. Here she was, stuck in the mall, wanting to die but still, in spite of everything, continuing her act. "Waste no time, make a change," so come on, you people, like me, please. Someone called, "Put it in a box, love." Someone else, "Go and get some lessons." A ripe tomato hit her left cheek. Soft and squashy. Candy wiped the mess with her hand. Her fingers dripped with juice. She looked up hoping for ... something....

And saw two guardian angels hurrying down from the other end of the mall. They were dressed as policemen but could only be angels in disguise. She was certainly in need of rescue and not only from tomato throwers. Something had to happen or she would be marooned here forever, too self-conscious to cease her act, too self-conscious to run away. She stopped singing as the saviours came close and she smiled, already practising the words, "Yes, I'll lay a charge of assault." Serve the tomato thrower right.

Close up, the policemen were tall, very serious and absolutely unangelic. One was older, stout, his pouchy face veined with red. When Candy looked straight ahead her line of sight targeted the middle of his chest. The other was young and shorter, but not by much, slim, skin taut and smooth, but stern – or trying to be. An air about them both as if it was she who had committed a crime. Singing a song in Pitt St Mall?

"Do you have a busker's licence?" the older one asked.

"Uh. No. I'm not busking."

"Oh – h?"

"Just singing."

"You can be fined, miss."

"For what? No one's given me money."

"For busking, I said. Do you want to argue?"

"Um."

"Well?"

"No."

"We'll walk you to Market St. Then you go home. Right?"

"Right."

As they walked away, Candy heard a woman call, "Get a proper job, girlie."

***

DOOR

I remembered Candy. Something about her. She was luminous, and that light within her if tended should grow stronger. I hoped for that.

Finally I stopped hoping. She did not return to audition for another show and her name was never repeated in this place where gossip was rife. I would hear it all, on one side of me the boasts of the young ambitious ones, on the other side the chatter of the judges, the ones who had already achieved exposure and fame. The thread of expectation which had brought a delicious tension to my days fell slack. The stage-struck young ones came and went and I lost my interest in them because they were all different and yet all the same. Hope, effort, failure or success repeated itself over and over while I was stuck between endless repetition and was not even given a fresh coat of paint or a rub on my tarnished knob. Endless signatures were signed and endless dances danced and songs sung, and with nothing to look forward I consoled myself with the memory of my lost Candy dancing, tossing her tasselled hair.

I don't know how long afterwards it happened. At the end of a busy day, most people gone home, the building quiet and light drifting from the rooms and letting a dusky dark seep in, I heard the cleaner, her noises growing louder, coming close. The footsteps with the uneven ring of the trolley wheels and the occasional clang of a bucket were familiar sounds which bookended each of my days, and were company before I settled in darkness for the night.

Now she enters the ante room and switches on the light. I have to look twice through the sudden dazzle before I see her face. She is the cleaner of course, with mop and other gear, but unfamiliar – or is she? A new cleaner, never seen her before – or have I? She is thin, her face tired, her mouth a sorrowful inverted U. A sad bent lady.

A hesitation, then she moves past me into the audition studio, leaving her equipment behind and brushing her hand across my face. I remember a touch like that from long ago. This is Candy, her disappointed self, in the place where her dreams began and – possibly – ended. After long years she is back. In this room, which has always been a sifter of dreams, her sorrow shows.

The studio is a desert, almost empty save for a table and a few chairs. Candy turns on the spotlight; it flares into life and tunnels down from the ceiling to the centre of the floor and the room becomes a stage. I watch her, this woman who has suddenly straightened, her body become taut and poised, her face grown young again. The hair is dull and greying but ponytailed still. She has changed of course. Don't we all, with time. But it is my Candy, my own girl, remembering.

Now she squares her shoulders, strides to the centre of the stage and stops at rainbow's end under the light. Then, doing nothing it seems but standing, out of air and willpower Candy becomes a pompous man who wants to impress. She grows taller; her chest puffs out, she takes a breath, throws her head back, loosens her lips and begins....

The song she sings comes from "Parliament," the musical she failed to join. It is a Gilbert and Sullivan spoof.

"I am the very model of a Member of the Parliament. I make the laws and break the laws and fall upon my fundament."

Candy Camelot the Star is smug, self-righteous, self-mocking. She moves in time, not actually dancing but stepping and pausing and bowing as gracefully as a clumsy fellow would.

"I travel far; I travel wide, and make some money on the side. Do nothing that has not been tried already and, I say with pride, to govern I know all the rules, and never cast my lot with fools."

Her voice soars; it arouses all the songs ever sung in this room so that they each and everyone join hands and celebrating drum their feet in time. The sounds rock the walls and shake the floor and shiver every splinter in my body.

"I am the very model of a Member of the Parliament." She bows low and holds the silence.

The whole structure of the building shakes in applause. Candy stands tall and opens her arms to it.

And smiles.

I (as always) am rooted to the spot but cannot stop trembling.

Do not, please, laugh at me. Do not say I cannot feel like this because I am just a door. Know this, please, that I am a Show Business Door, and that anything is possible in show business.

And know this, you knockers, let my message ring through all the lines of those people sticking out vulnerable necks and bracing themselves for the moment of judgement, know that whether you become a star or life and time deal you a different hand and you stay anchored in one place like me and with no hope of change, or like talented Candy whose dreams have never come true or whose ambition was never fierce enough, know that there will come one transcendent moment when you will be able to say, _Nothing has ever been as good as this._

# ET

### Antonina Mikocka

## ANTONINA MIKOCKA

Antonina Mikocka is a Melbourne-based psychologist, health scientist, and writer. She was born in Poland and moved to Australia in her mid twenties. She has been writing fairy tales, fantasy and science fiction for as long as she can remember. Her creative writing for children was published by Polish periodicals. In English, she has published nearly 100 research papers in international and national journals, but also numerous short stories for adults in a variety of genres. Her historical piece, Secrets, set during the Warsaw Uprising of 1944 was published in Mosaic, the 2017 anthology from Birdcatcher Books.

You can learn more about Antonina's writing on www.antoninamikocka.com

## ET

"The view from the hotel window was breath-taking," she murmured. They said all the codewords sounded as innocuous as this one, the commonplace observations an accidental eavesdropper would fail to recall.

She glanced around. It was only late afternoon yet the outskirts of the little town ahead of her were deserted. She felt a sudden surge of panic. What if she had chosen the wrong way? The instructions were so obscure, and she had never been here before. She then checked herself. She needed to appear calm and so she slackened her pace.

"The view from the hotel window was breath-taking." She repeated the phrase both to memorise it and to distract herself from thinking of the task ahead. The "th" in "breath-taking" troubled her. She had lived in England long enough for her Eastern European accent to mellow but at the moments of agitation her Slavic heritage resurfaced.

How embarrassed she was, she now recalled, when she reported to her first audition in London. An old Victorian theatre, a walking distance from Westminster. She smiled at the memory. Everything was a walking distance then, for she could not afford a bus fare. The panel had observed her miserable attempts at playing Ophelia in an alien language with some sympathy but also not-so-well-hidden superiority. How she envied their perfect intonation, the comfort in expressing their thoughts as they wished, with every sentence so perfectly put together. They spoke like their Queen, with elegance and coolness.

And yet it was she, an immigrant from behind the Iron Curtain, who was the chosen one, trustworthy enough to be given the codeword which opened the only door that mattered.

"The view from the hotel window was breath-taking." The last word now sounded closer to how an English native speaker would utter it.

Part of her acting career had involved imitating other people's accents and a few years back she would have considered her task trivial. But over the years her memory and attention had weakened. Here and there the long-forgotten Yiddish words sneaked in out of the blue, creating a bizarre linguistic blend which could only be understood by her nearest. English became a challenge yet again.

Now the stupid sentence evaporated from her memory. She stalled, glanced around again, now more anxious than before. No one was around, no one to remind her what she was supposed to remember.

"Silly, silly old woman," she scolded herself. They forbade her to discuss the task with anyone from outside the group, so it was for the best that the road remained empty, the windows in the little shops on both its sides dark. The town was quite picturesque, with its two-storey multi-coloured apartments crowning the shops. They snuggled side-by-side comfortable like old friends. She stopped by the pottery store to admire a teacup and saucer collection. The china was snow-white with a painted blue butterfly spreading its dotted wings inside each cup. She wished she had her glasses on. She must have left them at home. She sighed at her forgetfulness and continued her journey. A tumbleweed rolled over the cobwebs as she crossed the vacant marketplace. The edges of the greyish plastic spread which covered the empty wooden stalls rustled in the wind. She imagined how full of life this place had to be on market days. Was it Sunday today? No. That could not be, for the small medieval church she had just passed was locked. How odd this town felt. How lonely. Her heart ached for the friendly nursing staff. They were her family now. She decided she should forgive them for making her forgetful. Who could blame them for being kind-hearted, for finding the lost words for her each time she struggled to articulate something, for filling the hollow sentences with the raisins of language.

"Try harder," she told herself. She remembered she was supposed to cross the town, stride towards the big oak and follow the road to the beach. There he was to await her. She would offer him the codeword and all her worries would perish. If only she could remember the sentence.

"The window was dark blue," she tried. Why didn't she write it down? They said that wasn't allowed but what was the point of sending a senile woman to carry an important message? How irresponsible of the group's elder to allow that. The group had survived through the centuries and their work could now be destroyed because of her faulty brain.

The message was crucial, she remembered them saying. It meant life or death. They said everyone needed to walk there on their own. It couldn't be helped.

They said everyone. Perhaps she wasn't special after all? She frowned. No, that couldn't be true. Only a few, carefully selected people belonged to the group.

"Just follow the path the feet of our brothers and sisters have hardened and give him the codeword," the elder said.

What was the codeword? Something reassuring. Oh, why couldn't she remember? Her hands started to shake from annoyance. All these years in the nursing home had led to this. If one is encouraged to play cards and read trashy novels all day long no wonder their brain turned into an old stocking. They said only the chosen ones were given the codeword to find the path straight away rather than wander aimlessly for ages, lost souls in this world and another.

Oh well, she couldn't do much about her memory. The vital bit was to locate the place and meet the man. Surely, he would understand her difficulties. He was meant to be sympathetic.

The breeze wafted the distinct smell of the sea. She felt she was now nearing her destination. The main road ended and she found herself on the esplanade. In the distance, the algae-coloured waves beat against the shore.

"Better have it over and done with." She increased her pace. If he was not there, she might be on her way back in just a few minutes. They were to serve macaroni and cheese for supper. Her stomach rumbled.

Why was she here again? And who was the man she was to encounter? She ran out of breath and stopped to rest. The beach was as empty of any living beings as the town. She glanced up into the skies hoping to spot a seagull but failed. What a strange place this was. But the beach was white-sanded, broad and inviting. She used to live by the seashore, before the war, before her blood tainted her as the undesired.

"Are you lost?" A young athletic man of about thirty with a halo of golden locks broke her daydream. His tan torso glistened in the ochre of the evening. He tossed his surfboard aside as he approached her, water dripping from his loose grey shorts.

She then realised she was sitting on a rock, her bare feet pasted all over with the wet sand. She couldn't remember when she removed her shoes. She smiled at the stranger. He grinned back, his whole face brightened by it.

"I was supposed to meet someone but my memory is failing me. Do you happen to know where I am, young man?" Her throat tightened as she recalled when she had last felt so lonesome.

Mother hid her in a small compartment under the floor. It was to be for a short while, and Mother was to get her out afterwards. But she didn't. She was nowhere to be found, not then, not ever. Hunger made her brave and she left her hideout. As she stepped out of her apartment block, the streets of the ghetto were as deserted as the town she had just wandered through.

"I'm guessing you were to meet me. Were you not told to give me a message?" He laughed, showing his perfect pearl-like teeth.

"Oh yes! I remember now. I was to say something."

She grinned in return. His laugh was infectious.

"Perhaps a codeword of some sort?"

"Yes! Something about a house, some nice place." She tried to dig out the stubborn memories and felt perspiration trickling down her spine.

"Perhaps a hotel?" He chuckled again.

"Yes, of course! The view from the hotel window was breath-taking!" Relief spread through her tired body. "But what does it mean?"

"It doesn't mean much to me, but they insist on believing one needs a codeword to cross over. I welcome everyone with pleasure. You see, all who find the path are welcome. You don't need to validate a ticket or bring a passport. They think that if they put you through some kind of ritual you have a greater chance of reaching me. They mean well, I guess."

"Will you take me home now?" she asked a bit impatiently, for her skin was covered with goose bumps from the chill of the twilight.

"Of course. Forgive me. I'm a chatterbox. Here, take my hand. The path is a bit slippery." He extended his arm towards her.

"Is it far?" she asked.

"Not too far, and I think you're gonna like it. There are some friends there waiting for you."

"Oh, that's lovely." She squeezed his hand, comforted.

"But what is your name, young man?"

"You can call me Et. It's short for Eternal but I never use it. Too pretentious."

# THE CLOUD CATCHER

### Alicia Bruzzone

" _The Cloud Catcher" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## ALICIA BRUZZONE

Alicia Bruzzone writes for her own amusement, even if no one else finds her funny. She is not above laughing at her own jokes or writing about herself in third person, but does agree talking that way would be weird.

According to google she is 66 years old and currently lives in Brazil, but as she doesn't know Portuguese and her Spanish is limited to Dora the Explorer and Old El Paso ads, that's probably not true. Though she's looking damn good for her age.

Her works feature in a dozen or so anthologies; which look really pretty on her bookshelf and make her feel a little bit special.

When she's not writing she's probably reading or running around after her kids. Her husband has learned to fend for himself.

## THE CLOUD CATCHER

The pleasant buzz as a customer hummed to herself while inspecting the menu made a smile leap to my face.

"Rosie, you're late," I commented, swiping my fringe from my face where I've been bent over a sandwich press, trying to scrub off accumulated burnt cheese.

Rosie looked up with surprise and grinned back at me. She always managed to be trapped in her own world when I approached. Today she had a floral scarf tied up as a headband while her dyed blonde locks spilled from a fountain ponytail. A few scrapes of orange paint hid in her blush, and there was a blue swipe above her sculpted brows. As I was most likely covered in coffee grounds, we made a fine pair.

"Got carried away with the renovations again. I can't believe I've been here two months already, and I still haven't tried everything on your menu." Her fingers drummed the counter as she squinted at the chalkboards behind the counter.

I sneaked a peek at my watch while she was distracted: only ten minutes until closing time, but I felt like an early night.

"I'm about to finish up, you help me mop the floors and you're welcome to anything left in the display cabinet."

"Deal," she smiled, and I walked around the counter to flip the wooden 'Open' sign to 'Closed' and locked up the glass doors.

***

Rosie brought a chipped fingernail to her lips in contemplation before she grabbed a sun-dried tomato and roasted eggplant focaccia from the display case, sitting herself in a corner booth as I went to make coffees. The workload might be insane in my café over the lunch rush, but I would never regret access to an industrial coffee machine.

I selected myself a decadent piece of pecan pie, before looking down at my expanding waistline, tight in my old jeans. Sighing, I grabbed a fruit salad, making two trips to take my food and the coffees over to join my friend. We'd clicked the first time we'd met as Rosie habitually forgot to eat during the day, much the same as I did.

We were silent as we both devoured our food, slowing down enough for conversation as I moved onto dessert. "So, is all your work starting to pay off?" I asked Rosie.

Her face began to glow. "Today was fantastic! Next bit of good weather and I'll know if it was worth it." She beamed as she fumbled to add sugar to her coffee and I forked a piece of pecan pie into my mouth.

It melted in buttery sugared goodness on my tongue. So worth it. I'd made the cappuccinos with skim milk, what more could I do? I knew the answer was plenty, but I didn't have time for the gym. In fact, I didn't have time to sit here with Rosie when I needed to be cleaning up my shop. At least we were closed tomorrow, my one day off. My brother covered when I was sick if he could, but I decided it wasn't practical to keep the place open seven days. Not without turning into a burnt out husk of a person anyway.

"I don't know how you find time to get all this work done," I complimented Rosie as I reluctantly pulled myself from the booth. She'd been on the go the entire time I'd known her.

"It's worth it," she said dreamily, flicking through images on her phone. She'd never let me see them. Rosie had told me she'd give me the big reveal one day, when she was ready. I had snuck a drive by of her house once; Rosie had cement rendered the outside and had an eight-foot fence installed to encase the property. I figured I wouldn't see much after that.

Turning the radio on quietly in the background, I started turning off machines. Rosie began sliding chairs onto the tables, ready to vacuum and mop the small seating area.

I pulled the leftover food from the display case, putting it in a box to take home for Gabriel. There was nothing I made my brother wouldn't eat. The radio buzzed the news headlines as I wiped trays and polished the glass windows.

Rosie froze mid step when the weather update came on. "Did they just say fog?"

"Yeah," I replied, huffing a loose piece of hair from my mouth. "Glad we're closed up tomorrow, I hate driving through it in the morning." The mountains were treacherous at the best of times.

Rosie's face got lost as she dug around her phone and hurriedly tapped the screen. She jumped triumphantly, face bright and eyes glowing. "There's heavy fog tomorrow!" Her fingers clutched the phone in a death grip. She turned on me. "You need to come over. Stay at my place tonight."

I'd never seen Rosie this animated. Or focused. Her welcoming smile was contagious. "Alright. Just let me finish up here and head home for a shower. Want me to bring anything?"

"If you've got a good movie bring it along. I haven't unpacked the DVDs yet."

We finished cleaning in record time; Rosie with a task she wanted done was a sight to behold. She checked I had her address, then made me promise to be there within the hour.

I tried to relax on the drive home, but there wasn't time. I had too much to plan. Clothes, toothbrush, and what movie would Rosie like to watch? Guess I'd just grab some of my favourites and hope for the best.

"You in here?" I called out for Gabriel as I opened the front door, arms laden with leftovers. My twin brother technically lived in the granny flat out the back; with his schedule it never made much sense for him to pay rent on a house he'd hardly be in. My ex-husband had issues with the set up, but Gabriel had been in my family a lot longer than Donald had. I put old feuds behind, genuinely happy to find an oversized lump on my couch with his feet on the coffee table. His schedule was so hectic I never knew when he'd be here or not. The joys of being a pilot.

"Where else would I be when I have a night off?" he grinned, dimpled cheeks pulling as he patted the cushion next to him. His hair was the same raven black as mine, though his eyes were hazel where mine where boring brown.

I leant over to kiss him on the cheek as I deposited the food on his lap. "I'm headed out tonight. Just need to shower and get the grease off."

Gabriel snapped his attention from the television, turning with a muscled arm over the back of the couch. "You have a date? Way to go Jemmy!" He smacked me on the butt.

"Get your hands off!" I declared, pushing him away with a laugh. "I'm staying at Rosie's for the night. She seemed excited to show me how the renovations have come along."

"I have a day off with you for once, and you're rejecting me for a girl's night?" He pretended to be chagrined before the food on his lap distracted him long enough for me to slip into the bathroom.

***

Rosie looked half asleep when she opened the door to me. Which was good news, because I'd forgotten the movie I was supposed to bring. And now I didn't feel so self-conscious about standing on her cracked concrete in fluffy slippers with my flannelette pyjamas on.

She let me in, her hair now loose and cascading down her back to nearly reach her hips. She waved me around the general front room, which she evidently hadn't gotten to fixing up yet. The paint was peeling, the ceiling tiles looked close to falling, and half the skirting boards were missing. I loved her curtains though, old cartoon sheets tacked above the window.

As Rosie quickly toured me through her mess of a house I began to wonder exactly what she had been renovating. Nothing in here looked new or in good repair, in fact it mostly looked like it would be gentler to take to it with a wrecking ball. I didn't understand what she wanted to show me.

Rosie caught my confusion, curling a smile around the worn corners of her mouth. "I'll do the big reveal in the morning. I promise I haven't lied to you for the last two months."

I took her at her word as she set up a spare bed for me in what looked like it might one day become an office. Unpacked boxes lined the wall, but there was plenty of space for me to slink under the covers as she excused herself to bed.

I had trouble falling asleep, doubts niggling my mind over why she insisted I sleep here tonight when all we did was go to bed. Still, it was hard to stay awake after my exhausting day running the café on my own, so inevitably my eyelids grew heavy and I drifted off to sleep.

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!" Rosie squealed, shaking me at some point in the middle of the night. "It's perfect! Get up, get up!"

She wafted a cup of coffee under my nose, and that more than anything got me upright. I opened my eyes to find the room dark, a hall light slicing in through the open door the only way to see. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed the cup off Rosie, checking the time on my phone.

"Is the sun even up yet?" I said. I wasn't being sarcastic.

"Come on!" Rosie squeaked, stealing the blanket off my bed and dragging me by the arm into the hall. "You had to be here for sunrise. Why do you think I wanted you to sleep over?"

I actually had no idea. She handed me the blanket and asked me to close my eyes. I only obliged because she looked like a kid on Christmas, and even half asleep I loved surprises. Wrapping the quilt around my shoulders with one hand so I wouldn't spill my coffee, Rosie weaved me through her house and around boxes, a blasting circle of air on my face and legs the only warning we were headed outside.

Smooth wooden boards creaked underfoot as Rosie guided me, manoeuvring me to the perfect spot. She took my shoulders and angled me one further time before she commanded me to look.

I was clutching the blanket closed with one hand, grasping for warmth from my coffee in the other, and I nearly dropped them both.

It was exquisite.

Rosie's yard looked like a dreamscape.

I dumped the quilt and left my mug on a curling bannister that lead down six steps towards the valley.  
Rosie's yard ran down the side of a gully, the back boundary smack dab in a floodplain. Right now, I think that was why she'd chosen this block.

With the high fences, the fog was trapped. She'd caught a cloud in her back yard.

I took a few hesitant steps from her back verandah, which was gleaming under the dew of morning, the pale light filtering from her windows allowing me to catch the edge of the fog. We were just above it, but if I took a few more steps down I'd be walking through it around chest height.

There was an arch built over the bottom landing, ornate scrolling winding up the poles that held a swinging wooden sign. Rosie must have hand carved and polished the thing. "Cloud Catcher," I read aloud, my mouth gaping as Rosie flicked an outside light.

All around the yard, aeroplanes were flying in the mist, bobbing on the fluffy fog as the light reflected off condensation like flickering stars.

I walked over to the closest one, finding it propped on a metal pole to appear as if it were floating. It was fiberglass, and I could see now the orange I'd spotted on Rosie's cheek on a wing, the sky blue for a window.

The yard was littered with flying vehicles, some with the propellers gently twirling as the fog swirled and danced around the poles. It was beautiful.

"Be right back!" I called, racing inside for my phone. Gabriel had to see this.

Once I assured him I wasn't dying, but he had to get his butt over to me now, I hung up and went back to Rosie. She'd turned the light off, but the sun was beginning to glint over the horizon. I saw her dancing merrily between the shadowy hulks she'd created, rapturous joy on her face as she wove through the trapped cloud. When Rosie said she'd been working on improving the place, she hadn't been joking.

I snapped a few quick pics on my phone that would never capture the true essence of magnificence before I couldn't wait any longer and raced down the steps to join Rosie, the clouds cold and clammy on my sections of exposed skin. "You did all this?" I asked incredulously as I twirled around, still disbelieving this could be real. It was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen, an entire fantasy land waiting suspended for a morning like this. My ex-husband had never believed in dreams, but Rosie had made one, and decided to share it with me.

"It took forever to get the scale right on some of the models. This one's my favourite." Rosie grabbed my hand and led me further into the seeping cloud until my pyjamas were drenched and I was lost but for the sound of her voice and her cool hand on mine. "It's a replica of First Lieutenant Maureen Dunlop's plane she flew in World War I. I adlibbed on the paint job though."

A laugh slipped out of my mouth. Adlibbed was an understatement. There was nothing stealthy about the statement she'd made of swirling vibrant neons and pastels. "Wasn't it a little early for the 'make love not war' movement?" I commented, before adding that I loved it. Though my favourite was a little retro space ship that looked like it used to be a ride-on toy at a supermarket in the sixties. There was even a little green Martian holding the controls.

"Come on, you're freezing," Rosie insisted as she grabbed my hand and dragged my shivering body up to her back verandah. It was more like an extended patio, and as she brought out a little space heater and we snuggled under blankets with fresh steaming mugs of coffee, I couldn't think of anything more perfect.

The sun was beginning to make the clouds sparkle as my phone rumbled in my pocket. "Crap, Gabriel." I'd forgotten, completely distracted in Rosie's wonderland. I guiltily swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

"Umm, I hope it's alright, but I invited my brother. He'd love this."

Rosie smiled and told me to let him in. I wasn't usually impulsive, but I hadn't wanted him to miss this. He'd never believe me otherwise.

I ran through the house and flung the front door open, leaving wet footprints in a trail I followed back outside, dragging my brother along like a kite trying to catch the wind.

Gabriel stopped at the patio threshold, his eyes wide and breathing amplified as he caught the majesty of Rosie's devising.

"Wow."

I knew there were no other words required. There were some things so unbelievable they simply defied description.

"May I?" he asked politely, and Rosie gave a nod before Gabriel tore off down the yard like a little kid, much the same as I had.

Rosie and I sat back on the patio watching under our nest of warmth as the clouds glinted with the freshly birthed rays of light, coloured planes looking spectacular as they bobbed over fields of billowing white.

The fog slowly began to sink, rendering poles visible and destroying a little of Rosie's magic. Gabriel came back as soggy as I was and climbed under my blanket with me. It was like trying to share a single tent with a fully-grown gorilla.

"This place is amazing. You should charge admission," he said in all seriousness, and Rosie ducked her face as she blushed.

She blushed. I fought a smile and kept my attention on the yard, deliberately leaving them to their conversation. When Gabriel leaned away from my warmth to get closer to Rosie I decided it was time for a shower. Trust my brother to finally take an interest in a woman because she'd loaded her backyard with replica planes. Pilots were a little on the obsessed side.

I chuckled as I heard them pointing out models and favourite engine types, the magical fog almost forgotten.

At least I know Gabriel is a great guy. After the gift Rosie has given me, it's only fair I impart one of equal value.

# AMELIA'S TALK

### Brian Lee

## BRIAN LEE

Born in Bristol in 1935, Brian Lee started his schooling at Filton Avenue Primary School, followed by four years at Fairfield Grammar School.

He studied Graphics, Design and Illustration at the West of England College of Art, a part of Bristol University. On completion of the course, he joined ES & A Robinson a large company producing all types of packaging, as an apprentice. He was later transferred to the company's new branch in New Zealand, with his then new bride Jacqui. He spent five years in New Zealand, helping to create a studio there, before returning to England, where he joined a Bath advertising agency for five years, as a designer, illustrator, copy writer and retoucher. He then started his own business in 1969, producing a wide range of work for many National and International companies, until he and Jacqui decided to return south, this time to Australia, in 1987. They have lived, worked and ultimately retired here since then and they now live in the small town of Yarram, in Gippsland, where they both paint, and write short stories and blogs.

## AMELIA'S TALK

Amelia Townsend arrived at the church hall hot and flustered. Her bicycle, a machine which had undoubtedly seen better days, had developed a slow puncture on her way there and as a consequence, because she had been unaware of it for most of her journey, her riding had become more and more erratic the further she travelled.

To make matters worse, even when she eventually realised what it was that was causing her difficulties, she dare not stop to do something about it. She was on her way to give a talk to the Churchwomen's Guild that evening, a rare honour in itself, but with even more impact upon Amelia, as this was the first time she had been invited there. She had already been running a little late when she left home, because the dog had been sick on the living room carpet just as she was about to depart. She couldn't leave the smelly mess there to fester all evening and so she cleaned it up, which meant she set out about ten minutes later than she had intended, adding to her agitated state.

The talk she was about to give to the ladies of the Guild was to be on her speciality, the making and decorating of cardboard gift boxes and she had a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder, filled with samples of her work and numerous pieces of material and paper so that she could give demonstrations of how it was done.

She also had her small dog with her, safe within his carrying box, strapped to the parcel carrier at the back of the bicycle. She wasn't usually in the habit of taking him with her, but this evening she was a little worried because of his suddenly being sick and she wanted to keep an eye on him.

She dismounted, relieved that she had managed to get there, despite the state of her bicycle, and propped it up against the wall of the hall. She unstrapped the dog's box from the carrier and turned purposefully towards the open door, from which a broad band of yellow light streamed out into the night. Her heart gave a nervous little flutter of anticipation as she did so, conscious of the fact that she had never spoken to such a formidable group before. The canvas bag thumped heavily against her thigh as she turned into the building and in her left hand she could feel the dog moving restlessly in his box, almost as nervous as she, as he was carried into these strange new surroundings.

The place was hot and stuffy despite the crisp winter air outside. It was a fairly small room, typical of country halls everywhere, soon filled with warm air by the large wood-burning stove glowing against one wall. It was also full of women, all of them sitting on rows of chairs, most of them matronly; dressed in long winter coats, with lisle stockings and brogues protruding from the bottom, and felt-hat encased heads thrusting from the top.

Amelia gave a little shudder despite the heat, and walked down the isle in the centre of the crowd as every head turned towards her, drawn by the heavy clumping of her shoes on the wooden floor. She could sense the unspoken reprimands in the unsmiling eyes and the sudden quietening of the low murmur of chatter that had been going on as she came in, and she felt compelled to speak as she continued on her way towards the front of the hall.

"Sorry I'm a little late, ladies. Problem with the dog I'm afraid" and she held up the carry box for all to see, as if that in itself excused her tardiness. "He threw up all over my best carpet, so I had to do something! Then I got a puncture on my bike coming here, and that didn't help either." She laughed, trying to make light of her misfortunes.

She had reached the front of the room now and smiled at the audience over her shoulder as she made her way heavily up the steps to the stage, where Mrs Wheatley, the Guild's President was already sitting at a flimsy looking trestle table. Amelia's ample buttocks swayed from side to side as she climbed and her bag of samples joined in the dance, swinging first this way and then that until it suddenly disappeared altogether, sliding round to her front, as if shy of the rows of faces following her undulating progress. She made it up to the stage and strode over to the table in the centre, where the President stood up to greet her.

She then put the dog's box on the floor as the other woman stood waiting, taking off her hat and voluminous coat after removing the canvas bag from her shoulder. As she dumped that unceremoniously on the table, some of its brightly coloured contents spilled out, making a cheerful little pile against the general drabness of the room and the people in it. She sat down heavily on the chair next to the President, folding her arms across her ample bosom and crossing her feet at the ankles, the smile still fixed on her face like a plaster cast.

Mrs Wheatley then introduced Amelia, giving a brief description of who she was and what she was there for, before fastidiously clapping her hands together in a gesture that said more about her desire to be lady-like, than any genuine pleasure at Amelia's presence. Her applause was joined, somewhat half-heartedly, by the rest of the audience, as Amelia pulled herself ponderously to her feet, ready to begin her talk.

She got no further than - "Good evening ladies, it's very nice to be here this evening...", before she was interrupted by a peculiar, low wailing noise, coming from somewhere near to her feet. For a split second she was nonplussed, forgetting that the dog was down there and she glanced hastily down to see where the noise was coming from. As she did so the wailing stopped abruptly and a jet of yellowish liquid shot out of the dog's box, accompanied by a gasping noise from within. She realised instantly that the dog had been sick again and she quickly bent down to see what she could do for him.

Unfortunately, this was not a wise move, when standing against a fragile table full of samples, a water jug and several glasses, especially when you are of a fairly hefty build!

As she crouched, Amelia's left shoulder caught the table a severe glancing blow, making her wince with pain, but more importantly causing the table to tip forward and crash resoundingly to the floor of the stage, throwing everything on it in all directions.

This happened so quickly that the ladies in the front row had no time to move and they were covered almost instantly with water, broken glass and samples of paper, card, cloth and plastic, flying in all directions. Too late the people in the line of fire all leapt up, moving sharply back almost as one, in a common reflex action to avoid the mess that was descending upon them. The unfortunate result of this move was that they crashed against their own chairs and all fell backwards into the row behind them, causing the ladies there to take precisely the same evasive action.

And so it went on, like falling dominoes, row after row of sedate ladies falling over backwards and finishing up with stocking-clad legs thrust high in the air, skirts around waists and voluminous nickers on display for all to see. It was as if an invisible scythe had swept up the centre of the hall, cutting a swathe of disaster about ten feet wide, alongside the centre aisle, while the seats down each side were left untouched. At first, the only noise was the crashing of chairs as each row fell over. Everyone seemed to be momentarily dumbfounded by what was happening, but then, like a choir starting the Hallelujah Chorus, the room was suddenly filled with shrieks and cries of pain.

Amelia, crouching over the dog's box, looked on in horror as this was happening. It was like some slow moving tableau unfolding before her, as row after row of seats crashed over backwards, upturning the occupants like eggs in a frying pan. A sudden bout of hysteria struck her as she watched, and she began to snigger uncontrollably. If it hadn't been such a disaster it really would have been very funny. To add to the awful humour of the situation, the President, who had been standing next to her, staring in horror at what was happening, now turned to rush towards the steps leading down from the stage, to help those in distress below her. Unfortunately her move brought one of her feet into contact with the slimy mess the dog had just deposited and in an instant she too was flying through the air, to land heavily on the floor, as if she had stood on a banana skin! Sadly, this meant she was now sitting in the stuff and a look of sheer disgust spread across her face, followed by a sob, as she felt its warmth soaking through her dress.

Then sanity returned to Amelia and she stopped laughing, looking down again at the dog, to see if he was alright after that second bout of sickness that had caused all this dreadful trouble. Ironically, the animal now seemed to be perfectly happy, as if the vomiting had cleared away whatever had been distressing him, and he now stood in his box with his tail wagging happily, his eyes bright with pleasure.

It took nearly an hour to clear everything up. Two ambulances had to be called to take away several ladies who were injured by what had happened to them, while others, still deeply shocked, were given cups of tea, made by the ladies who had not fallen over.

Amelia for her part did the only thing she felt was possible. She picked up the dog's box and as much of her sample material as she could, stuffing it all into her canvas bag, which she threw over her shoulder before quietly making her way back out of the hall, almost un-noticed in the furore going on around her.

The tyre on her bike was completely flat now, so there was no possibility of her riding it. Instead, she put the dog and her bag on it and set off to push the thing all the way home, promising herself that she would never give a talk to the Churchwomen's Guild again, even in the unlikely event of them ever asking her!

# MOMENTUM

### Karen Ginnane

## KAREN GINNANE

Karen Ginnane self-published ahead of the curve at the age of 10 in her hometown of Perth. Since A Horse Named Ginger was released, she has written short stories for adults and children and a YA speculative historical fiction novel (the first in a series) set in Victorian London. She has been variously employed in WA, Japan, London and Chile and now works with her husband running a specialist tour operator business in Melbourne, where they live with two children and a cat. She tweets as @kjginnane and maintains writerly equilibrium within the community at www.denofwriters.com.

## MOMENTUM

It was a shock, and not just because it was a real letter. Light brown textured paper, green ink, a crooked stamp and unfamiliar handwriting like a spider on speed. She hoisted it in her hand. It had a sweet, musty smell, and it had weight. This was no politely penned page of thanks. This origami bomb was something she'd been waiting for all her life, although she hadn't realised it until now.

She left it unopened for three days.

By the time she unfolded it the edges of the envelope were no longer sharp. The feel of it in her hands was so familiar now that ripping into it felt like a desecration, or opening a private message addressed to someone else. But this one had her name on the front. Thira Kolombianos. It was the name of an old yia-yia who baked Easter biscuits and wore black clothes and muttered prayers as she tended the family shrine. She had hated her name as an ethnic child in a white-skinned school, but had long reclaimed it, liking the dissonance between her sharp spike-haired self and the heavy name that flowed like dark honey.

She read it, quickly, once. She let out her breath with a whoosh, put it down, made a cup of tea. Then she curled up on the sofa, took it up again and read it through slowly, time after time, until the new truth seeped deep into the grey rocks of the old; that harsh landscape on which she'd built her life.

After that day she folded the letter carefully, put it away and came back to her life. She gave her lectures, attended her clinics, went on a march for International Woman's Day with a brand new placard, submitted a new article putting forward the benefits of community based palliative care, went to kickboxing class. There was a conference coming up at which she was a keynote speaker. Her diary was planned months in advance. All as usual.

But at the back of it all, the green words hummed. There was a Facebook page that she should look at, a blog she should follow. It would tell her when to go, if she decided to go.

Very soon, she knew that she would go. This was what Thira did. She could help the woman in her last days, ease her pain and guide her to the end. And she wanted to meet her, this stranger who was so intimately, unexpectedly connected to Thira. After that, Thira could decide what to do.

But she couldn't go immediately. There was too much life in the way, people who expected her to be there, arrangements to make, projects to follow up on. Thira was a finisher and could no sooner have dropped things half done than she could have grown purple eyelashes. She'd left things to chance, just once, when she was young. After that, she'd taken control of her life in the most final way she could think of. No more drifting and letting things happen for her.

Two weeks later, when she was nearly ready to leave, the blog stopped. Thira didn't realise at first. The woman hadn't written every day and Thira thought that she just hadn't got around to updating it for a few days. The last entry had been short and tight and had talked about needing to rest to get her strength back, so Thira had expected a few days of silence. She knew the ebbs and flows of life's closing, but she also knew that death was just a beat away. It could be small and quiet and as sudden as an ash flake dissolving on water.

She arranged for the neighbour to feed the cat, cancelled a non urgent meeting and briefed her staff thoroughly on everyone on her patient list. The conference wasn't for another 2 weeks and she could finish preparing when she got back. She took what she needed for a few nights and headed west on the inland road. The coast road was prettier, but slower, and she had already left things late.

Too late. She checked the Facebook page during a break in her long drive and found a stream of grieving messages bestowing blessings, light and love, pictures of lotus flowers in chakras and namaste hands. The hiccup that exploded from her own chest took her by surprise. Death was an almost daily part of her life, but the regret was physical this time. She was forever too late and there were things she would never know or say. She pressed the back of her hand to her eyes and scrolled down the blurry messages. The most poignant of all was short and to the point, a heart-swell of pain pressed tight against the few words.

"To the best mother in the world. You gave me love, light and life and I will miss you forever. Travel well. Love Angie."

Thira had nearly turned back then, but she was too tired to stop the momentum of her journey. She arrived and checked into her hotel, and slept. She slept day after day, during the cremation and the inexorable process of death and mourning. She was not part of that, this time. She would wake, check the Facebook page, eat, and sleep again, until the time came.

The day Thira went outside opened with mourning. The maw of the sky spread wide, a blue throat aching over the horizon. Thira walked down to the ocean, a half hour walk that felt good to her unused limbs. A surfer - a girl, was it Angie? - sat astride her board, a squat jar balanced in front of her, surrounded by a brightly attired flotilla of surfers straddling boards. The girl raised her arms and lowered her head.

Thira sat down on a sand dune, high above the silent crowd below on the beach facing out to the dawn ocean. She thrust two hands deep into the cold sand. It had been a long journey to watch this burial. She looked on as the sun rose and the boards started to move further into the lightening sea, the barely-there morning breeze carrying the sound of their farewell chant. The morning ocean gleamed new blue satin, as if a fastidious painter had finished wet paint with a fine scraper. They went farther out than Thira expected, forming tiny shapes on the vast ocean when they finally stopped.

It was hard to see clearly from so far. The slight figure of the girl lifted the jar high and tipped it into the water. She gave it a final shake and put it back on the board. The funeral party lowered their heads together and the words of the final rites were heard only by them and the great sea.

The woman - Kaya - would have been the same age as Thira's mother, if her mother had survived the accident. The two had been school friends and then fellow artists, before Thira's mother got pregnant and took the traditional route and got married. Thira had known her mother could draw but hadn't thought much of the pretty botanical drawings that lay buried in drawers around the house. She hadn't taken them seriously; in fact hadn't taken her mother seriously, was scornful of her domesticity and perfectly adorned home. She had never heard of this friend; hadn't known that her mother had been accepted into a prestigious art college before getting drunk for the first time in her life and getting pregnant. What were the odds against that? How did Thira not know? The regret lodged under her ribcage swelled and pressed tight. Too late to meet her mother as a fellow woman. The young, angry Thira had not been able to seen her as more than a symbol of what she did not want in life. Her mother had not lived long enough to be truly seen by her daughter.

The irony. So many layers of irony!

Thira sat and watched the funeral flotilla come back into shore. The sky was clear and bright now, the rising sun buffing gold highlights on the water. Snatches of sentences and laughter trailed up to her. The wake was about to begin.

Time to go down. Thira got to her feet, her knees creaking in morning protest, and made her way slowly down to the cafe that perched over the curving beach. A brightly coloured handpainted sign hung over the outside seating area that read, "A celebration of Kaya's life. Please be colourful! All welcome." Strands of purple bougainvillea were threaded around the railings and stems of fiery red flowering gum stood in vases on the tables. Two towering sculptures stood between the cafe and the carpark, of twisting rusted metal and glass and wood.

Thira wore an orange dress and purple leggings but she felt faded next to the men and women with inked skin and piercings festooned in flowing skirts, velvet waistcoats, shell necklaces and beaded hair. They bristled with a life different to the one Thira knew. They were all strangers to her, all except for one.

She knew Angie's face from her Facebook profile, but it shook Thira to see her solid and complete. She was so beautiful, too much to take in; her sleek dark hair, the warm brown eyes with thick curling lashes \- so familiar! She had forgotten them, if it wasn't for them perhaps Angie would not exist today - golden skin a touch lighter than her father's. She wore a simple flowing dress in turquoise and her head carried a dense crown of red roses and white gardenias, already wilting. Their scent was heady, even outside. Thira stood and watched her at the centre of one circle after another, her calm, sad smile turned patiently to each person in turn, and understood for the first time that here was a miracle.

Thira had never let herself wonder what happened to the boy with the eyelashes. In later years, she resolutely refused to tap his name into a search engine. Refused to think about what might have happened to the brown scrap that shot out of Thira; had turned away from even that brief glimpse as the baby was wrapped and taken away. An abortion had been unthinkable in her religious family, in conservative Melbourne, and even less so in the country town she'd been sent to stay with her her aunt for the last months. Even now, the smell of a particular lemon scented gumtree could stir an echo of the squirming dark shame and rage of those days.

She put her hand in her pocket to touch the letter like a talisman. She didn't need to read it to know its words.

"I lived the life your mother did not. I travelled, made sculptures, found my tribe by the ocean. I was the yang to your mother's yin, and we both had what the other could not. When your mother wrote to me, full of rage at your teenage stupidity, your trap became my gift. I offered to take the baby. Your mother made me promise I would never tell you, and that I would stay far away from you. Your mother wanted your life unburdened by domesticity, as hers had been. She lost her freedom to marriage and motherhood, but she made sure you had it. She might not have told you before she died, but she exulted watching you burn bright in the world. You have lived for her, too."

So her mother hadn't been in the grip of religious conservatism and the spectre of public shame. They had both wanted the same thing for Thira, after all - a life untrammelled by her sex and the expectations built high around it. Thira and her mother had both made brutal choices to hold biology at bay. To rip a newborn baby away from a teenage mother; to have an elective hysterectomy at 22.

Thira watched the way Angie's eyes held those of the person she was talking to, as if no one else existed. It was a mirror into Thira's past, reflecting a long-gone, soft-eyed boy and in the next second, a certain wry twist of the mouth that Thira recognised from mirrors and school photos. Thira's past was present in the face of a stranger and there was no hiding from it anymore.

She stepped forward just as Angie turned to look her way. Their eyes met and Angie's brow furrowed, as if trying to place Thira. Thira's heart skidded in her chest and this was nothing her public speaking techniques could help her with and then she was crying in great hiccuping sobs and Angie's arms were around her, tight. The girl smelt of patchouli and warm gardenia and her flesh was firm and soft, and the miracle was that she had been on the same earth as Thira all this time.

Thira finally gathered herself and stepped back, holding Angie by the arms. Angie's face was wet with tears, too. "I'm - so sorry for your loss," she said. "You don't know me, but my mother was Kaya's school friend. They were artists together."

Angie wiped her eyes. "Is that Sofia? Mum used to speak about her." She nodded. "She told me about you, too."

For a moment Thira's heart clenched, but Angie's voice was light. Thira relaxed, remembering the words of the letter.

"I have been honest with Angie all her life. She knows I am not her biological mother; that her own mother was too young to take care of her properly. I also told her I made a promise not to tell her who her biological mother was, but that some day she might find her. I have kept my promise to your mother while giving emotional truth to my daughter, but now that I am leaving I want to pass the truth into your safekeeping. You are its guardian now. What you do with it is your choice."

Thira smiled at Angie. "Your mother was a wise woman. She has taught me so much." Thira hugged Angie once more and then stepped back to let someone else offer their condolences.

Thira wandered to the balustrade and looked out over the ocean. The air was briny with the seaweed pushed up on the shore and she could taste the salt tang of the sea. She stared out at the bright spike of sun on the water and for once, she didn't have an action plan. And yet, the world still turned, as did the gulls circling on the rising air above; as did the ocean before her, coiling invisibly on the cycle of its tides and flows. Time for Thira to turn back, too. She had been running for too long and yet her past had come to meet her in the end.

Thira turned and looked over at the miraculous young woman. Too late for some things, but the regret pressing under her ribcage had loosened and something new prickled through her. It was gratitude.

Not for them. Not too late, after all.

# GREAT EXPECTATIONS

### Sue Kingham

## SUE KINGHAM

Sue Kingham lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, although many of her stories are inspired by her north of England roots or her travels. She is a tutor at the School for Young Writers in Christchurch. She enjoys writing articles, poetry, flash fiction, short stories, and is currently working on an historical novel.

## GREAT EXPECTATIONS

Amanda was relieved to kick off her work shoes. Her lounge was still warm from the afternoon sun and somewhere below, in her neighbour's garden, that dog was barking again. Craning her neck, she tried to see, but her view was obscured by vegetation. She went into the kitchen to fix dinner – a microwave meal for one. Just as she sat down to eat, the telephone rang. Caller ID displayed her sister's name.

Amanda picked up and mumbled "Hiya," while finishing her first mouthful.

"Sorry, have I caught you at a bad time? I tried earlier but you weren't in."

"No, it's okay." She put down her fork. Her meal could wait; she wanted to talk to Michelle.

"Working late again! Was there a big order or something?"

"No, it's just a bad habit. I still don't like coming home to an empty flat."

"Are you missing Craig?"

"No! But I really miss Lucy. I bet he's not even feeding her properly or walking her."

"Yes, that sucks... but I guess she was his dog."

"Yeah, but who looked after her for the last five years?That's half a lifetime for Lucy."

"It's not fair," Michelle paused. "Tell me all about your new flat. I can't wait to see it. I've never been to Manchester."

Amanda glanced around at the unpacked boxes, books, DVDs and extension cables sprawled across the floor.

"I'm getting there, but there's still stuff all over the place. I need a TV, a sofa, and a decent bed. I'm not sleeping that well. It could be the mattress, but I think it's because there's a poor dog next door which barks all the time. It sounds really distressed."

"That's no good. Have you been to see the neighbours?" Her voice had a worried edge to it.

"Chance would be a fine thing. What with work being so busy and all this mess at home, I just unpack then crash. I'll try to meet them soon. Oh, and I've decided I am going to start a hobby."

Michelle gave a snort. "Somehow I can't see you patchwork quilting."

"Nah, but I need exercise, a spin class or maybe Zumba. All this comfort eating's a disaster."

Fifteen minutes later, after the call ended, Amanda went to reheat her dinner. It was baked onto the plate, but she ate it anyway and then finished off a tub of chocolate ice cream. She washed it all down with a chilled chardonnay from a mug – the whereabouts of her glassware was still a mystery.

The barking woke her twice during the night. In the morning she had to apply extra concealer and driving into work she vowed to visit the neighbour that evening.

Amanda's flat was in a block of three, which had been created from the former stables of Bay House, the grand adjoining property. Bay House was a classical Georgian red brick home with four sash windows, two up, two down, on either side of a racing green panelled front door. Early evening found Amanda crunching up the gravel drive, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say. Three curved steps led up to the entrance. A brass knocker hung in the middle of the door and positioned to the left-hand side was a white porcelain bell. With a shaky hand, she rang it. Loud barking started up inside and she heard a woman's voice say, "Quiet Ben." There was a shuffling sound, followed by the sliding of bolts. When the door opened, she was greeted by a white haired elderly lady leaning on a walking frame.

Amanda smiled and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Amanda Green from next door; I thought I'd just pop around to say hello."

"Oh, that's nice, dear." The woman's voice was warm. "When did you move in?"

"At the beginning of the month."

"Well, come on in. I'm Nancy Cartwright and this is Ben."

Ben was a Chocolate Labrador who, Amanda guessed from his size, enjoyed more than his fair share of sweet treats.

The chilly lobby felt like the inside of a stone church. White marble tiles lay on the floor and an impressive staircase swept up to a mezzanine landing. The double height of the entrance, along with the light from the feature window, had obviously been designed to impress. Amanda followed Nancy along a dark corridor, hung with gold-framed family portraits, to an old-fashioned kitchen. The room belonged in a museum: the original porcelain butler's sink sat under the window, and there was a green cast-iron range in one corner.

"How long have you lived here?" Amanda asked, as Nancy put the kettle onto the hot plate.

"I moved in when I got married in 1960."

Amanda sat at the battered pine kitchen table and Ben wandered over and put his head in her lap.

"Oh, you are honoured," Nancy said. "He likes you. Poor thing, you don't get out much these days, do you Ben? I am sorry about his barking. He needs exercise, but I can't take him."

Nancy made the tea and while they sipped Earl Grey from Willow Pattern cups, she shared what she knew about the occupants of the other two flats. The downstairs flat was rented to a man who worked in the insurance industry and his young son visited on alternate weekends. Upstairs, the flat opposite Amanda's, was occupied by an older couple who had a second home in Spain.

"They must be there at the moment," said Amanda, "I haven't seen any signs of life."

"Lucky them! At least they go to Spain and not France."

Amanda looked puzzled. "What's wrong with France?"

Nancy explained that many years ago her feckless husband had run off to France with his secretary.

"And you've been on your own ever since?" Amanda asked.

"I never said that now, did I, dear?" Nancy winked. "This old place has seen some life, believe you me. My Christmas parties were the talk of the village."

"Sorry, I meant to say, did you ever re-marry."

"I've had my fair share of suitors, but once bitten twice shy. What about you, anyone special?"

Amanda studied her cup and noticed two tiny blue figures standing on a bridge.

"I was married, but we divorced six months ago. The five year itch finished us off," she said.

Nancy raised an eyebrow, "Five year itch?"

"I know it's supposed to be seven, but I'd scratched myself raw after five."

"Like that, was it? Well, his loss." Nancy patted her guest's arm.

Amanda looked around the kitchen and gestured towards a large glass cabinet filled with expensive-looking china. "Are you a collector?"

"Yes. When I had my heart broken I tried a few hobbies and then I decided to collect china. It started out as a bit of a joke really — fragile me hunting for delicate pieces — but I loved it. I discovered an Adams Ming Toi Blue dinner plate in an antique shop and was told, because of its rarity, it would be impossible to find a complete twelve piece dinner service. I took that as a challenge. I went to all the antique fairs. That cabinet is only a small part of my collection. Would you like to see the rest?"

"Yes, please." Amanda followed Nancy across the hall with Ben trotting alongside, to a set of double doors.

"Now, you know you're not allowed in here," Nancy said looking down at Ben. Hearing the stern tone of his mistress' voice the dog lay down. Nancy opened the doors and the two women went inside. The room smelt like a library and Amanda gasped when Nancy flicked on the light. Before her, a large dining table, covered with a burgundy tablecloth, was set for a banquet. She counted twelve place settings and the centre of the table was crammed with serving dishes and silver candelabras. Each setting had three plates: a slightly smaller plate on top of a larger one with a side plate to the left-hand side. The silverware was tarnished, and the glasses were in need of a polish, but apart from that, it looked like the party was about to begin.

"Have you ever read any Dickens?" Nancy asked.

"Yes, we studied 'Great Expectations' in school."

"Well, Mr Dickens was staying in this very house when he got his idea for Miss Haversham. Do you remember her? She was the woman jilted on her wedding day; she turned against all men."

Amanda's eyes widened. "Dickens stayed here?"

"He did. He used to travel around the country giving readings, and he once stayed here for a long weekend."

"So why's the table set like this? You don't see yourself as Miss Haversham, do you?"

"No, I just like displaying my china; but it makes me laugh to think I'm channeling the ghost of Miss Haversham. Whenever I'm feeling sorry for myself it does me good to remember what happened to her. There's no use being bitter about lost love, is there."

As they left the room Nancy said, "Best thing I ever did was get myself a hobby. Collecting china's given me a lot of happiness. I'm still on the lookout for a couple of pieces. I know it's silly to have a dinner service for twelve when I'm on my own, but when you get to my age you see that every day needs a little bit of foolishness. Life's too short to be sensible all the time."

"Funnily enough only yesterday I was telling my sister I needed a hobby. Meeting you and Ben has given me an idea. I'm going to take up jogging. What do you think, Ben? Care to join me?"

The dog jumped up at her, his tail wagging frantically.

"That seems to be a yes," Nancy said. "Mind, you'd better start off slowly. Ben hasn't jogged in a while."

"Well, I've got no great expectations of running a marathon, but we'll have some fun. Oh, and I'm looking forward to telling my sister about my running buddy."

"Oh?"

"I'm dying to hear her reaction when I say I'm training with my gorgeous neighbour, Ben."

# THE CONTRACT

### Catriona McKeown

" _The Contract" won First Prize in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## CATRIONA McKEOWN

Catriona McKeown lives on the Fraser Coast in Queensland, Australia, with her husband of 24+ years and three daughters. She is passionate about issues of social justice and often writes with such ideals in mind. Her current studies are in Inclusive Education; she is passionate about education that allows every child to reach their full potential and has a particular heart for gifted children as well as those with autism and mental health concerns. Her first novel, The Boy in the Hoodie, was released by Rhiza Press in November 2017. She has recently signed a Contract of her own and is looking forward to the release of her second novel, Graceland, early in 2019.

You can connect with Catriona through Facebook

(https://www.facebook.com/catrionamckeownauthor/)

Twitter (<https://twitter.com/CateMckeown>)

or on Pinterest (<https://au.pinterest.com/cleam05/>)

You can find out more at her website

https://www.catrionamckeown.com

## THE CONTRACT

A soft breeze from the fan ruffles Harry's hair, tickling his ear, as he stares out at the world through the tinted window of his apartment. The street is full of school children, dressed in tailored shorts and well-ironed dresses, men in suits, ladies in high heels, all with important places to be. Harry rubs his chin, itchy from his failure to shave in—how long now? Has it been three days, or more? The children laugh, as though reading his mind. A small boy, probably eight or nine years old, looks at the window as though he can see through the darkness and catch Harry's eyes. Harry quickly turns away.

Nothing to see here. Nobody at home in this place.

Harry walks the few steps to the kitchen table where a cold cup of tea sits next to the white slip of paper. It's folded neatly, as though still in the envelope, but it isn't. He can read his name, Harry McGregor, and his address. The Real Estate agent's emblem, complete with full contact details is sprawled across the top of the page. He knows what it will say. He had an argument with the property manager about it the week before.

"Real Estate prices have gone through the roof in this area in the past few years, Mr McGregor," she said. Her auburn hair fell softly around her young shoulders. "Your landlord hasn't raised the rent on you for six years." He'd nodded, pushing his thumbs into the palms of his hands.

"I'll have to move out, Penny,' he mumbled. 'And I have nowhere else to go."

He saw the flicker of compassion cross her face. She was too young for this job. She didn't have what it takes to be cold and ruthless when she took the job six years ago, and she hasn't thickened her skin any yet. "I'll see what I can do," Penny said. She placed her hand on his arm. Tears stung his eyes.

Harry knew there was nothing Penny could do. The Reserve Bank had lifted interest rates again this quarter; homeowners were feeling the squeeze. House prices had stalled, but Council rates were at an all-time-high. The drought increased the cost of fruit and vegetables. Everyone was feeling it. Just as he predicted.

He picks up the cup from the table and walks to the sink, where the breakfast dishes are drying in the drainer. He washes the cup methodically, carefully. It's the only one without a chip. He catches his reflection in the half-open window. "The rise in rent will be more than you can afford, Harry," he says.

His reflection nods. The eyes looking back at him tell him he should look at the letter anyway.

"No point," he says. "We can't afford it. Even the slightest rise will cut us out of the market. It'll be winter soon and we barely managed to pay the last electricity bill."  
Sad eyes look back at him.

"Yeah, I know. Better a roof with no electricity than no roof at all. But we also have to eat."

Autumn leaves dance across the tiny backyard's path, the one Penny walks when she comes to visit. "The only answer is to increase the income into the house," he says.

His own voices answers him back like some smart-aleck-kid. "That's what Penny told you."

"That's what she told us. You know as well as I do it's the only way."

"She's smart."

"Too smart to be in real estate."

"Her boyfriend has a business. Not a good time to be in business."

"We could help them."

"Helping doesn't pay much."

"Neither does sitting at home. We need a job."

There's a wry smile on the reflection's face. "It's Thursday. Local paper comes out today."

Harry returns to the lounge room window looking out over the street. It's quiet now. He walks the few steps to stand behind the front door. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, methodically. He lengthens his fingers, concentrating on how they feel as his muscles stretch and pull. He breathes in and holds it, reaching out for the door handle. He turns it as he exhales. He opens the door so it has the slightest crack, enough to be able to peer through without being seen.

A bus drives by. Two cars, red followed by green. Someone on a bike. A dog-walker on the other side of the street. He flicks his eyes downwards. The paper is at the bottom of the steps and slightly to the right. The grass is getting long; the boy should be here to mow it today. "If you could mow the lawn yourself, Harry, they might not raise the rent," he tells himself.

He shuts the door. "Don't say things like that," he says back. "When you say things like that, it stops us from leaving the house, even to get the paper." He pauses, angry at himself. "You are your own worst enemy, Harry."

He takes two steps backwards, and then approaches the door again. He repeats the process, breathing, stretching his fingers, opening the door just a crack. The street is quiet. Empty. His heart rate quickens as a weight lands heavily on his shoulders. "Go now, Harry," he says.

Harry shakes his head, looking anxiously from his left to his right. "Someone might come by."

"No one is there. Go now."

He shakes his head. "I can't."

His left hand taps him on the head. "Now," he says more forcefully.

The surprise knocks Harry forward and he races down the three steps into his front yard. The newspaper is only two more steps away. He reaches down, fumbling around in the grass, his eyes tightly shut, when he hears a rumbling sound. He knows the noise; it's the neighbour's garage door beginning to open. His finger brushes something and he grabs at it just in time as his body propels him back toward the door, up the stairs, his feet almost unable to keep up with the ferociousness of his movements. He throws himself in through the front door, landing heavily on his face and yet still managing to manoeuvre his legs to slam the front door behind him. He gulps for air, swallowing some as he struggles to draw the oxygen into his deprived lungs. His breathing steadies. He rolls onto his back and begins to laugh loudly, ridiculously.

"You're an idiot, Harry," he gasps.

"Shut up," he says back. "You're the one who wanted the bloody newspaper."

Harry pulls himself up from the floor and heads back to the kitchen table. He pauses, again seeing the letter sitting, unread, where he had placed it yesterday afternoon. "If they raise the rent, you won't be able to afford the postman's Christmas bonus this year, Harry," he says. "Then you'll have to go to the letterbox every day."

Harry shrugs. "Maybe he'll take pity and keep putting the mail under the front door for us anyway."

He shakes his head. "People don't do that sort of thing."

"They might."

Harry pulls himself over to the letter. "Just read it."

"No," Harry says.

Instead he sits in the chair beside the letter and unfolds the newspaper. He pretends to read it with interest.

The letter flutters beside him. "Don't. I'm not ready," he says. He turns the newspaper to the page advertising local jobs. He runs his eyes over the words. "There's one," he says. "Bookkeeper." He looks it over.

"You're an idiot, Harry."

He pauses.

"We have the qualification."

He shakes his head and chuckles. "Did you see yourself getting the newspaper from the front yard just now?"

Harry smiles. "We did it."

"Just."

"We managed."

"Barely."

"You're an idiot, Harry."

A tear runs down one cheek. "You sound like Father."

"You've become exactly what he expected."

"That's not fair. It wasn't my fault."

"Then who's fault was it?"

A bird calls out in the distance, outside the window, on the other side of the apartment wall. "I want to get a job. I want to stay in this apartment. I like it here."

"You want everything and nothing."

"I want." Harry pauses. "I can't." He rereads the advertisement. "Maybe they'd let us work from home."

"Or not."

Harry reaches over and picks up the letter. He runs his fingers over the smoothness of the paper, the perfection of the folds. It is thicker than he'd anticipated; at least four pieces of paper. A new contract, no doubt. He toys with it for a moment. The book-keeping position glares up at him from the newspaper. He could apply. Just to see if he'd get an interview. Even if he couldn't get there. Maybe they'd accept a phone interview. He'd love a job. To go out, to be accepted, to meet new people. Maybe he could even ask Penny and her boyfriend to the movies, like he would have, if he'd had a daughter of his own.

There's a sudden, loud crash and a flurry of movement at the table. Everything goes black. When he opens his eyes, Harry is gasping on the floor, curled up. The newspaper and letter are on the ground with him. His hip is sore. He takes control of his breathing, slowing it down, bringing it back to normal slowly, carefully, using every strategy he's ever been taught to get himself back in control.

"Did you do that?"

"I thought you did." He holds his throbbing elbow.

"Must have had a panic attack."

"We haven't had one like that in a while."

"You push too hard, with your reckless ideas."

"You hold us back. From everything."

He pulls himself up to a sitting position and rubs various aches and pains. "We're getting too old for this. It will land us in hospital one day."

"Stop being all doom and gloom. Read the letter."

He looks at the letter, now unravelled, on the floor beside him. He glances at the words but can't guage what it says. He'll have to read it now. His left hand picks it up and waves it in front of him.

"Okay, okay," he says. "Just, let me sit back at the table."

He pulls himself up onto the wooden chair. "Lucky the chair didn't break."

He places the letter onto the table and smooths it out. "It's a lot of words," Harry says. "Not many numbers."

"I can't see any numbers."

"Perhaps the new amount is in the contract. Turn the page and have a look."

"I will, I will." He looks at the name at the bottom of the letter. It's from someone called Trish. Not from Penny.

"Hang on, let me read it." His eyes scan the letter. "It says they're not raising the rent."

"Huh?"

"The landlord is not raising the rent, but the new contract doesn't include lawn maintenance."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Until the lawn needs mowing."

He sits and stares at the letter.

"What do we do now?"

"Sign it, I guess. And then wait for them to kick us out because the grass gets too long."

Harry raises his shoulders and lets them fall in defeat.

The knock on the back door almost throws Harry off his chair for the second time. It must be Penny. She's the only one who knows to come to the back door. The only one who ever comes to visit. And she only visits every three months.

"Penny came last week."

"Why would she be here again?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. Just answer the door."

Harry walks to the back door, only able to see the back of Penny's head as she stands under the eaves. She knows not to look at him as he comes to the door. "It's just Penny, Mr. McGregor," she calls out as he approaches.

Harry opens the door the slightest of cracks and looks out, past her, to the backyard. No one else is with her. No one else is around. He widens the door and she quickly steps inside.

"Hi, Mr. McGregor," she says. "Did you get a letter from the Real Estate?"

Harry nods.

"Did you see there is not a rise in your rent?"

He nods again, his hands twisting around each other, his eyes fixated on them.

Penny is still talking. "There is a bit of a deal that comes with it." Harry looks at her, momentarily, as her words catch his breath. She puts her hand over his. "It's okay. I think you will like the deal." She takes a few steps and sits down at the kitchen table. She's never sat at the table before. She doesn't usually stay long enough to sit. She beckons him over. He shuffles like an old man and sits down next to her.

"My fiancé," she says.

Harry looks at her finger, sparkling, like her eyes.

"Remember I told you he has a gardening business?"

Harry looks at her and nods.

"He'll come and fix your garden for you every second Thursday, just like Harrison has been doing." She pulls something out of her handbag. It is at least two, white, A4 sheets of paper with typing on them. A contract. "And in return, he'd like you to keep his books for him."

Harry looks from his hands to the floor to the window to the ceiling to the sink to the clean mug and back to Penny.

"What, you mean, me?" He knows he's mumbling. He can't help it.

"I'll bring you all the invoices and bank statements, that kind of stuff, once a month. You can work from home. You won't have to do anything else. Go anywhere. See anyone." Her eyes look like they're pleading. Harry nods. Of course, anything to stop her looking like that at him.

"So, you'll do it?" Penny asks.

Harry nods again.

"Phew," Penny sighs. She rummages around in her handbag. "Once Ethan, that's my fiancé, if work picks up and this becomes a bigger job, we can start paying you as well."

Harry looks at the newspaper sitting on the floor, still open to the bookkeeping position. "When," he says.

"When, what?" Penny asks, pulling a pen out from within her handbag.

"When he gets lots of work; not if."

"Oh." Penny laughs. She looks like a balanced spreadsheet when she laughs. "Yes, well, let's hope so."

She places the contract on the table and holds out the pen for Harry. He takes it and puts his name on the line where Penny is pointing.

"Great," she says. "Ethan will be happy; he's hopeless with this kind of thing. And I'm too busy selling houses to help him out."

Harry looks at Penny and raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, and keeping an eye on you," she says, and winks. "Shall I take your new rental agreement with me now, too?"

Harry nods.

Penny leaves the house, locking the back door on her way out.

"She's engaged," Harry says, as he watches her carefully close the gate, making sure the clasp has fully closed.

"She's happy," he says.

"She's successful."

"She's going to visit us every month, now."

And Harry smiles.

# IN THE WINDOWS

### Christopher Ringrose

" _In the Windows" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## CHRISTOPHER RINGROSE

Christopher Ringrose is a poet and fiction writer from Newport, Melbourne. His work has won the Peterloo Poetry Prize (UK), Other Voices Prize (Canada) and Poetica Christi Prize (Australia), and has been presented in Krakow, Poland, as part of UNESCO's 'Cities of Literature' project. He also co-edits the Sydney-based fashion magazine Papier Mache. His website is http://www.cringrose.com

## IN THE WINDOWS

He had been easier to convince than she had expected, or feared.

"So your idea is that you will appear in a different window of Harrods each day. You will dress and behave in a way that blends with the display in that window. You will be ... a kind of living mannequin."

"But with a difference." She leant forward, looked him in the eyes and spread her hands. "It will be a kind of minimalist performance. I will pick up on the goods on display in a way that will enhance them and give them depth. I will make people want them."

He had swung his chair round so he could look out over Knightsbridge from fifth floor level. She remembered thinking he had quite a neat, prim profile, without too much nose, or neck between chin and Adam's apple.

"You are very striking, Miss . . . "

"Carmichael."

"Carmichael."

They spoke her name almost in unison.

He had swung back to face her again.

"I'll put it to the floor committee. Perhaps we could arrange a fee per hour. A neat idea, but I'm a little worried that things could go wrong. The unexpected." He smiled bleakly.

"Perhaps we could review on a daily basis. If we go ahead, we will draw up some terms and conditions. And take up references . . ." He glanced down at her resumé. It had been hard to tell how impressed he had been.

Perhaps he had already made up his mind to give it a try. Maybe he would Google the idea of the living storefront to see if she (or anyone) had done it somewhere else. She had already checked, and knew there was nothing alarming out there, nor anything to make the idea seem used-up.

In the event, it only took a day (a Tuesday) for her to get a rolling contract – quite a generous one . On the following Monday she had a free 8.30am make-over in the Harrods Beauty Parlour and by 10.00 she was in her first window in a check shirt and high-waisted blue jeans, sitting on a hay bale and slowly cleaning a bridle and polishing a saddle. Everything equestrian from Harrods' sports department was artfully posed around her, from jodhpurs to riding helmets and gleaming boots (one upright, one on its side.) Now that it was happening, her stomach was tightening with anxiety and her face tingling with a maidenly blush she hadn't worn for years. What had seemed a bright idea to make a cash bridge between modelling jobs started to feel tinged with absurdity. She decided never to look through the big plate glass window to the pavement and the criss-crossing global crowd, in case they were all laughing or looking pityingly at her. At least she didn't have straw in her hair, as had been tentatively suggested by the stylist. Time passed more quickly than you would have thought. After lunch, at about 2.00, her resolution not to make eye contact with the crowd was tested because one figure never moved, and stayed in what would have been her eye line. After 20 minutes of this, she looked up briefly and saw a man of thirty or so, brown haired and brown eyed, quite chunky, appraising her with arms folded and his chin tucked into one hand. Her heart sank. Too much contact; let him go away. He did, eventually.

On Tuesday, to the stylist for a brown bob wig, a Mediterranean complexion and a French cotton dress with sandals. This for the Food Hall window, a decidedly French affair featuring a dresser, a deal table, pungent cheeses, saucissons, lardons, baguettes with a collar of paper where they had been carried home from the baker's. And a wire basket of eggs. She stood at the table, at right angles to the window, rolling and moulding pastry that went back and forth from a ball to a floppy flan base without ever getting cooked, or packing delicacies into a cane picnic basket with gingham serviettes. She counted and memorised all the items in her neverland of cuisine. At 2.00 she became aware again of brown eyes, brown hair. He was pacing the length of the window, parting the crowd. He wore a long belted overcoat and a trilby hat, immaculate wide trousers and a foulard. She swallowed hard. He was the image of Jean Paul Belmondo at his most ugly-chic, right down to what must have been a Gauloise dangling half smoked from his lips. He waved. She would have said he waved laconically. Gallically. Then she realised he had parked (illegally) a 1940s Citroen with swooping mudguards right in front of the window. The door was open; he tucked himself into the driver's seat (left hand drive) and pulled away from the kerb. She smiled to herself, shook her head and packed more delicacies in to the silly basket. But the minutes flipped by quickly till 3.00, and the end of her stint.

Wednesday was haute couture. The evening dress by Stella McCartney was just perfect for her. She knew how to wear it and the emerald material felt like dry liquid across her limbs. She was high-heeled among a companionable group of six mannequins who sat, leaned, stood hands on hips and considered the passersby with haughty indifference. This time it was slightly easier to be the human among objects. She experimented with keeping very still and then lifting her eyes to the shoppers, to create a little stir. Or she would pat her hair and turn a few degrees. A little boring, but trance-like, fuelled by the adrenalin that came from being on display. Of course, she was waiting, too. A little stir to the left of her vision made her involuntarily glance at the parting of watchers, on his arrival in evening dress. Not too flashy, just right black and white, with a white silk scarf. He bowed and offered his arm to the window. Was it OK to smile? For some reason, she decided not to, even though their eyes met. He took an embossed, crested invitation out of his pocket and stuck it face inward on the plate glass before he strolled off. Two or three people clapped. "Your presence is requested . . ." She would read it later.

Thursday was a bit upsetting. Swimwear had not been her idea, but she had been getting a bit of publicity and the women's wear manager was keen. As it turned out, that meant they had over-stretched themselves a little. It was one thing to model a one-piece, or even a bikini, on a catwalk or even in-store, but that was a controlled environment. When the office workers came out for lunch, three young men began shouting and banging on the window. She pretended not hear their obscenities, but they made her feel sick. The whole Harrods thing had been a mistake. It had been meant to make her face and name known, but that was not worth this.

Brown eyes sorted it out, though. It was hilarious, or would have been if you were not in a swimsuit in a shop window. Where had he got that bull terrier from? And surely those were not real tattoos bulging like blue second sleeves below his tight T shirt? He was recognisably the same man, but now bullet-headed, thick-necked, casually snarling his threats and invading the space of the clerks in suits who had been abusing her. He whispered in their ears and the dog stared at them as if selecting a steak from a butcher's window. They melted away, covering their humiliation with laughter and a few last catcalls over their shoulder. He gave her a mock salute, called the dog to heel and strolled away towards Kensington.

She put her foot down on Friday. It's 2012, for God's sake. Let's have a bit more imagination, please. She'd cooked, glammed, taken some of her clothes off, gone to a gymkhana. What was this, Mad Men? OK, OK, they said, you can be an intellectual for a day. Which for them meant an elegant roll-top desk ($4,000, 4th Floor), an iPad, Mont Blanc pens, a selection of expensive spectacle frames for the woman who had ruined her eyesight reading philosophy into the small hours. There were half a dozen old books (unearthed with some difficulty) and some overpriced notebooks like the ones Hemingway used to write in at Paris cafe tables. Still, at least no-one was going to get over-excited as she sat there in a white blouse and black trousers, with her hair up, peering at an iPad through spectacle frames with no glass in them. And the iPad was picking up the store's wireless internet, which passed the time. Prompt at 2.00, he turned up in a sweater and brown corduroys, with a folding card table. He proceeded to set this up against the window, sat on a camp stool taken from his little rucksack, and began to make notes on his laptop from one of the fattest books she had ever seen. They both began to laugh. She picked up the embossed invitation from her desk and tapped in its email address.

"Thank you for yesterday."

She folded her arms and waited. He typed on his laptop.

"You're welcome."

"What are you reading?"

He looked at spine of his book, then wrote.

"Martin Heidegger, apparently. You?"

"Er, Being and Nothingness by Jean Paul Sartre"

He nodded, and typed again.

"I think the Pixel version is on in the West End tonight. What do you think?"

"I'd love to go."

They turned to each other. He put his right hand, open, on the window glass. After a moment's hesitation she leant over and overlaid it with hers.

# TRIGG BEACH

### Christopher Ringrose

" _Trigg Beach" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## TRIGG BEACH

I had noticed him and he had noticed me. As the shadows grew longer so that the footprints turned into shadow valleys and golden peaks, it was just a matter of sitting it out till the others went home. He had smiled and I had half-responded and then dropped my eyes back to my book. Turk was sitting between me and the surf, his eyes fixed on the horizon, ears up, and his big blunt head pointing towards the sea. You might think he would get bored at being there, but he didn't.

On the way down from Perth he had sat in the front seat and done that dog thing of holding his head out of the window so his stumpy ears wobbled in the airstream. He had had to close his eyes against the wind. It was as if he were straining to get to Trigg, and couldn't wait to get there.

It was early in the season, but the surfers were already there, bobbing and scoping the waves and occasionally even coasting in on the smallish surf. What luxury. I had brought a new book about an incredibly clever female Chicago pathologist with personal problems. Cream on, lie in the sun, get warm, cool off in the surf occasionally.

The boy was the only other person who seemed to be on his own, and he had settled ten metres from me. What does it mean for someone to be handsome? Without looking too closely I could see that the shape of his head was neat, his features symmetrical and uneccentric, and his hair sculpted close to his round scalp. His chest was hairless and his shoulders, as he stretched back and rested on his elbows, formed two medium-sized brown globes about the size of grapefruits. He did not have a book.

About 4.00pm most of the couples, pairs of girls and families rolled up their towels and squidged through the squeaky off-white sand towards the cafe and the car park. This was a kind of picking-off that eventually left us alone on our respective patches. He leaned over towards me and offered a packet.

"Do you smoke?"

I had never smoked.

"Sure," I said.

We both moved over our knees and met in the middle. He lit both cigarettes with a Zippo. I didn't inhale but made a good job of taking the smoke into my mouth and blowing it out, and crossing my wrists while I tapped away the ash. He moved his towel closer and pointed his cigarette at a pale star that had appeared surprisingly early in the darkening blue sky.

"Do the stars frighten you?" he asked.

I snorted. "No, why should they?"

"So big, so unimaginably distant. That one might have died thousands of years ago while its light was travelling to Australia."

I stole a look at his profile. Was he pretentious? I hated that.

"So you are frightened of stars?"

"No, I'm not, actually. Quite the opposite, in fact. Huge distances don't bother me. Why should they make us feel insignificant?"

"Because we are tiny and they are enormous, I guess."

He nodded. "Maybe. But look at those woods on the horizon." We turned in unison to gaze at them. "They look misty and seductive. They are 'landscape'. But when you get there and try to walk through them, they're full of twigs and dust and cobwebs. So if you were on the far side of the universe – I know the distances are huge, but they are distances, not out of space and time -- then you would be there, just as you are here right now. And would it be frightening to look up at the sky there and think of Trigg beach?"

For the first time, I turned right and he turned left, and we looked into each other's eyes. Turk looked at me. The boy's eyes were brown and solemn, but then we both laughed and his face became eager and merry.

"No," I said, "I wouldn't be afraid of the beach."

"No, you wouldn't. And be patient with me for just a minute more. You hear people say that life is meaningless, because it leads only to death."

"Who says that?"

"Lots of people. Existentialists."

"Existentialists? Are they still around?"

"Don't tell me it hasn't occurred to you. People spend hours every day planting and weeding their gardens, and then within a year of their death they are overgrown, as though no-one had ever put a spade in the soil."

"Yes," I said, thinking of my Grandmother, "And people mourn and weep when someone dies, and then in a year or so they die themselves."

"Exactly. But . . ." he held his first and second fingers towards me with the cigarette between them, and looked down them as if he were aiming a gun at me, squinting against the pale blue smoke. "Would the reverse be true – that life would be meaningful if it continued forever?"

I didn't have an answer, but that didn't deter him.

"Of course not. In fact it might come to seem pointless for that reason. In some senses death doesn't make a blind bit of difference to meaning."

We sat in silence for a while. A magpie fluted some way behind us, and the waves crashed and sucked. I ran in my head through several things I could have said, rejecting them in turn as either too cutting or too mundane. Things like: are you studying philosophy, is that your chat-up line, have you been thinking that up all afternoon, aren't you clever, you are weird, I have to go now, I'm not that interested in that kind of stuff.

But the truth was that I had been interested. You get used to all kinds of conversation openers and exchanges of information: names, addresses, music, Facebook, school, college, you from this or that suburb, do you know so-and-so, holidays, travel, phone numbers, part-time jobs and so on. What a lovely dog, for example. Not that I minded that one. Good ice-breaker, if a tiny bit boring. But now we had fallen into a slightly awkward silence, so I ran my fingers through the compact pelt behind Turk's ears. He flattened them in appreciation.

"Staffordshire Bull Terrier," said my companion. Something about the softness in the way he voiced the a in Staffordshire and the e in Terrier made me think of Adelaide, or at least South Australia. I was glad he knew and had not had to ask, and the observation was enough to take us off into a comforting unconfrontational dog routine about breeds and their histories (the Bull in Bull Terrier not being very glorious in the first instance) and childhood memories and whose uncle had what and funny things dogs do and their preferences. He offered his hand to Turk, who only gave it a perfunctory sniff before accepting him as a friend, and then even rolling over belly-up in a quite embarrassing show of abandon and comradeship.

The funny thing was that the non-existentialist boy (or was he an existentialist without the angst? I had rather lost track) didn't tell me his name, or ask mine, or the name of the dog, or where I'd driven over from, or about my family. I didn't mind that, and half-consciously took my cue from him. I did not ask for or volunteer information of that kind. The light was being sucked from the sky the way it does at that time of year in Western Australia, even though it was only late afternoon, and we were aware of the sun's warmth kind of ebbing like a tide. I pulled on a sweatshirt but I was enjoying the neutral current of the conversation. I didn't feel I was being picked up. I was having a conversation, and its impersonality was pleasing to me. He was a good listener, despite what I may initially have thought, and everything seemed up for discussion. In addition, his physical being was so neutral that there were no distractions. Everything about his appearance was neat and medium, from his symmetrical features where everything inclined to the smaller-than-average (snub nose, flat ears, clear eyes) to his nimble gestures and body, slightly smaller than average, lightly tanned and muscular in an un-obvious way that did not seem to be the outcome of hours in the gym. If I had been asked that night to describe him – say, to the police – I would not have made a very good job, though I would have been able to visualise him clearly.

"Fancy a walk?" I stood up and dusted the sand off my legs. Turk stood up too, putting his big wise head on one side to assess the situation.

"Of course," said my companion. He did not seem to have anything to pick up, apart from the long-sleeved T shirt he put on, and the towel that he draped round his shoulders.

We walked slowly down to the surf. It was half way to high tide. There is always something nice about tracing the curve of a beach through the edge of the water, just paddling deep enough to cover the tops of your feet. There are lots of interesting bits and pieces on the sand, so you tend to scan for shells and jellyfish and detritus as you walk and talk. So we talked about things. I can remember global warming, and what this beach might have been like when Mr. Trigg himself came ashore, and the thousands of years before his landing, and the start of surfing, and when an island is not an island. All of this was good. Turk was happy to splash at the edge, and go chest deep occasionally, and to circle round us. We didn't see anyone else.

I made the first wrong move. I was proud of my dog, so I picked up a hefty piece of driftwood.

"He's a great swimmer," I boasted, "with jaws like a man trap."

I don't know why I felt obliged to assert this, or put it to the test, but I did. I whirled the stick around my head and sent it circling above the surf. Turk took off at once, running till the water was above his legs, and then swimming out to the stick. It's hard to know if dogs are good swimmers or not. In some ways they are not built for it, and they hang low in the water, but they are strong and they keep going. Turk dragged back the unwieldy burden and laid it at our feet. My companion looked at it, and then at me, but he'd stopped speaking. I picked it up again and threw it again, so it helicoptered away over a couple of breakers and hit the ocean. Turk was off again, enthusiastic and energetic. You could see his white head, with one black ear, pointing out to sea, and could guess at the legs working beneath. Except that something was not quite right. He seemed to be moving faster this time, but at an angle to the beach, and he was heading out beyond the point where I thought the wood had landed. My stomach tightened and lurched a little. He was going too far. Why didn't he turn round and come back? Now his head was hard to distinguish against the background of whitecaps and surf, even though in truth he wasn't that many metres out – maybe fifty?

Of course, I started to shout his name, and tell him to come back. Before long I was screaming it. I tore off my sweatshirt and ran into the surf, still yelling. I would swim out to Turk and turn him round. Just then I felt arms around me from behind, preventing me from diving in or reaching deeper water. It seems strange to say this now, but I had forgotten about the boy I had been walking with. One of his hands gripped his other wrist in front of me and he half lifted me off my feet.

"Don't go after him," His voice was a kind of level growl behind my ear. "It's not a bad rip, but he's in it. May get out of it. Best not go after him."

What was he doing and saying? I could still see Turk, and I knew I was a strong swimmer. Who was he, anyway? I struggled crazily, telling him to let me go. I kicked back at his shins and jerked my head back like a weapon. Then I dipped my head and bit the arm that was closest to my chest. My hair, hanging down, formed a kind of cave, within which I attacked and held him with my mouth. Blood came, but he was relentless, taking step after step backwards into shallower and shallower water until he threw me on the sand and pinned me there. His face was white below his wet dark brown hair and he looked shocked, staring at me. I kept shouting nonsense. Most of it boiled down to who was he, what was he doing, what did he know, that he should not touch me, from the repertoire of anxious desperation. He stood and backed off, studying his torn forearm and then scanning the sea. It had suddenly got darker, and I started to weep helplessly for the death of my dog; when I stood up there was no sign of him.

The boy looked at me again, then, without saying anything, turned to the right and jogged gently off along the shore, holding one arm across the other like someone in a shroud. For someone who had had plenty to say, I sneered, he had now opted for silence. I retrieved my mobile phone from my the pocket of the sweatshirt spread-eagled on the sand, and dialled the emergency number while calf-deep in the water scanning for Turk in the gloom. The female operator was studiedly neutral but said a patrol car would stop by the beach as soon as possible. As I waited, and imagined arriving home without Turk, and the repeated explanations that would have to follow, recrimination swung in like a heavy slow pendulum. It started with my former companion, the person I had known for an hour and who had interfered when there still had been time for me to swim out strongly and grab hold of the bewildered dog. Then it swung relentlessly in the other direction, towards myself. In fact, it wasn't really a pendulum of recrimination, because it never swung back to him again, much as I wanted it to. I just wanted to haul time back to the mid afternoon, the sun, the sprinkling of other people, and the book about the pathologist; just me and Turk.

I waded slowly back in the direction we had come, whilst looking out to sea, even though visibility was now poor. The beach was empty and stars were populating the sky, one by one. The police were good; within twenty minutes their distinctive white 4 x 4 pulled in to the seaward edge of the car park and gave three flashes of the searchlight mounted on its roof. I held my arms above my head, as much in surrender as in acknowledgement. What were we going to do?

The policeman got out of the car. I could just about see his silhouette against the screen of the sky. I remember thinking – why is he putting his cap on? Why is he not more urgent? He lifted a pair of binoculars and very slowly ran his vision from right to left along the Trigg waters. Then back again. I couldn't bear to watch him, and anyway I could hardly see him, so I turned round again, trying not to cry again. When I looked back he was still holding the binoculars but was pointing to his right, holding his arm out stiffly, then stabbing once or twice in indication at something in his view but out of mine.

Of course, I started to run in that direction. With all the adrenaline, I fairly flew over the sand. Past the spot where I had smoked and studied a star, along towards a small cliff, some rocky outcrops, making out a reef at the end of the beach. It was darker here, the sky was navy blue and even the sand was sombre.

The white shape of Turk emerged from the gloom first, picking his way gingerly over the rocks. He had a gash in his barrel side but he was moving. A few metres behind him came my friend. His T shirt and hair and surf shorts were wet and his head was down, but he was keeping pace with the dog. Neither of them were rushing.

I knelt in front of Turk and took his wet head between my hands. Then I shuffled across and knelt in front of the boy's bare feet, held his ankles and looked up at his dark face. He looked down at me warily.

"Have you got a cigarette?" he asked.

# DEAD POSSUM TEA

### Louise Hopewell

" _Dead Possum Tea" won Third Prize in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## LOUISE HOPEWELL

Louise Hopewell is an Australian writer, poet and songwriter. Louise suffers from itchy feet and has lived and worked in Thailand, Japan and a remote community in Central Australia. Back in Melbourne, she teaches creativity and leads community laughter groups.

Louise's poetry and short fiction has been widely published, including in Headland, Seizure, Non-Binary Review, Visible Ink and Creatrix. She has recently completed her first novel.

## DEAD POSSUM TEA

Whenever we visited Gran, which was too often, we found her decomposing on the couch by the fire, exactly where we left her when we last visited. She sat there listening to the clock on the mantelpiece—an old fashioned one that you had to wind up with a big key—which filled the kitchen with its tick-tocks. I thought the clock was too noisy, but Gran thought we were too noisy. She cupped her hands over her ears as Gillian and I skated giggling across the lino in our Explorer socks.

"About time you got here," Gran croaked to Mum and Dad when they came in behind us. Good Girl Gillian skipped over and planted a kiss on Gran's cheek. Gran smelt like rotting mothballs, so there was no way I was going to kiss her.

"Give your Grandma a kiss," said Dad, shoving his fist between my shoulder blades. I slid towards the couch, blocking my nose as I brushed my lips against Gran's cheek.

"So what's the news?" Dad asked. He never kissed Grandma.

"Been crook. Headache again." Gran touched her forehead. There were four ridges stretched above her eyebrows that furrowed even deeper when she frowned, which was most of the time.

"That's no good." Dad scraped back a chair and folded the local paper open across the kitchen table.

"I haven't had any visitors." Gran twirled her hands in her lap, conducting the ticking clock. "No one ever comes to see me. You'd think after all I've done for everyone..."

"What about Aunt Betty," said Mum. "She said she came by."

"Well no one apart from her."

Dad grunted and rustled a page. "How's Aunt Betty?" He spoke to the table, as if he thought newspaper would know.

"Oh she's no good," said Gran. "And her cousin's daughter—she's been up to no good again..."

Mum started clattering around making tea. That always took a while because the water trickled out of the tap as slow as Gran walking from one side of the room to the other, so Mum had to stand at the sink for five minutes just to fill the kettle. Once she'd plugged in the kettle, Mum rinsed out the enamel teapot and arranged the yellow cups in a row on the table. I counted: five people, five cups. That meant one for me, even though I wouldn't be drinking any tea.

"Never again," I'd told Mum a few visits ago. "No tea in this house. It's yuck." Mum had glanced across at Good Girl Gillian who was taking dainty sips from her cup. She had one hand under the saucer and the other hand on the handle, her little finger sticking out the way she told me posh people do.

"There's nothing wrong with the tea." Mum had glowered. "Drink it up NOW." I pinched my nose with my thumb and forefinger and pretended to take a sip. Later, when no one was looking—distracted by Gran's story about how Uncle Tom's brother's sister's aunty got what was coming to her—I tiptoed across the kitchen and dumped the tea down the sink. And that's what I'd done on every visit since.

There was no way I could drink that tea, no matter how much milk and sugar Mum stirred into it. Ever since that poor possum drowned in the water tank, tea at Gran's house always tasted like dead possum and that had to be the worst flavour in the whole world, even yuckier than the lambs' fry Mum forced me to eat.

Dad and Uncle Ted had climbed up onto the tank stand and fished out the possum with a pitchfork, tossing him to the ground with a thump. He lay on the pine needles, his little possum body all spongy and bloated, his eyes swollen like they were going to pop. Those eyes were trained on me. It wasn't my fault. I'm a good swimmer. I would've jumped in and rescued you. My eyes were stingy with tears as I scooped him up with a spade and carried him over to the hole I'd dug under the rose bushes. He was heavy and I couldn't lift the spade very high, so his curly possum tail dragged on the grass. I placed his body in the hole and he lay there, glassy eyed, glaring at me as I shovelled dirt on top of him.

Gillian came out the back door while I was picking roses to put on his grave. "You've got to come in for tea now," she called. When she saw my face, all blotchy from crying, she laughed. "What a wuss! It's only a possum."

Only a possum but his smell and taste had seeped into the water at Gran's forever. The water still tasted like dead possum even after Dad and Uncle Ted emptied all the water out of the tank and even after a truck came from town with a bellyful of fresh, clean, possum-free water and even after Dad'd covered the top of the tank with chicken wire, so no more possums could bellyflop in.

Mum pushed a cup of dead possum tea across the table towards me. Even though I blocked off my nose the way I did in the swimming pool, the dead possum steam rose up, forcing its way into my nostrils, even more aggressive than Vicks VapoRub. I tried to focus on the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. It didn't have proper numbers like the one at home. It was all Xs and Is so you had to guess the time. But it went tick-tock and every tick and every tock took us a second closer to home time.

Mum rattled open a packet of biscuits, shaking some out onto a plate. Each biscuit had a big glob of jam in the middle, yum, but when I went to grab one, that jam suddenly looked like possum blood, so I didn't take one after all.

"I've got some biscuits over there in the tin," said Gran.

"That's OK, we brought some with us," said Mum.

"I want my Scotch Fingers." Gran shuffled forward to the edge of the couch.

"You stay there," sighed Mum. "I'll get them for you."

Mum took Gran's biscuit tin off the top of the fridge. It had a bullet-shaped dint on the side and the lid was stuck on so tight Mum had to use a knife to pry it open. Then she held the tin out to Gran, who leaned forward to peer in. Scotch Finger biscuits were just about the only thing in the whole wide world that made Gran smile.

"Put a few on a plate," said Gran. "Someone else might want one."

"That's OK, we've got some other biscuits here." Mum didn't believe me that the tea tasted like dead possum, but at least she agreed that Gran's cardboard bickies were to be avoided. I'd once heard Dad say they'd probably been stockpiled in the cupboard behind all the tins of baked beans and jars of Vegemite since he was a boy, which meant they must be about a hundred years old.

I snatched two of the jam bickies off the plate and shoved them into my gob, one after the other. Possum blood or no possum blood, they were better than Gran's Scotch Fingers.

"Cousin Mabel rang." Gran snapped her Scotch Finger in two and put one half on her saucer and dipped the other half into her tea. I watched the dead possum flavour seeping up into her bickie. "I couldn't get her off the phone. Two hours... She didn't even ask how I was.... just went on and on about Uncle Bert and Cousin Doris..."

Dad kept his eyes on newspaper but every so often, when Gran paused to gulp her tea, he said, "Yes," or "Really?" or "Is that right?" Mum wasn't listening to Gran either, she was watching me, scowling. "Have you finished your tea?" I shook my head, my ponytail swinging like the pendulum on the clock.

"Well hurry up. And none of that carrying on about the water tasting bad."

Good Girl Gillian took a loud slurp of tea.

Something in newspaper must've reminded Dad about my birthday. I'm not sure what, because I don't think it was reported there and if it was, it was a couple of weeks late, like the card Gran sent. Anyway, he looked over at me and said, "Don't forget to thank Gran for that lovely birthday card."

I glanced at Gran who was stirring her dead possum tea with the second finger of her Scotch Finger. "Thanks for the card," I muttered. Gran's card had not made it to the bookshelf with the rest of my birthday cards. I'd ripped it into two billon pieces which I'd buried in the rubbish bin. It was bad enough that the card smelt of mothballs and had old-fashioned pictures of roses on it, but the worst thing was the big fat 7 slashed right across the front. Didn't Gran realise I was all grown up and 8 now?

"Don't be silly," Mum had said when I started blubbering. "Old people have lived a long, long time and their brains are full of all sorts of facts and figures and memories, so they can't remember everything." She slipped a purple note out of the envelope. "And look. She's sent you money. That's very kind."

Dad said that in Gran's day you could buy an awful lot with five dollars: a new doll, a board game, a whole lot of books. He said if I didn't stop my crying and carrying on he'd confiscate my five dollars and I wouldn't be getting anything at all.

Dad frowned down at newspaper. "Don't forget to thank Gran for the money too."

"Thanks for the five dollars," I said.

Gran nodded and held up her teacup in Mum's direction. "Any more tea?"

Mum fussed around refilling everyone's cups. Of course, when she came over to me she saw my cup was still full. "Your tea's getting cold. Drink it NOW."

The kitchen fell quiet except for the quaffing of tea and the tick-tocking of the clock. I turned my head left and right, keeping an eye on everyone's position, waiting for the right time to dash to the sink to ditch my dead possum tea. Alas the coast never seemed to be clear. Good Girl Gillian had her eyes trained on me, just waiting to catch me out.

"So what's your news?" Gran asked, her words delivered slowly, in time with the ticks and tocks of the clock.

"Not much," said Dad. "Been dry. We need some rain."

"Yes," said Gran.

I picked flecks of wool off my socks. That's not news. News was I'd won the 50 meters freestyle at the school sports day. Got a blue ribbon. Unlike possums, you see, I could swim. "You swam like a fish," my teacher had said, as I rubbed myself dry. But I couldn't tell Gran about my swimming because she'd find some way of making it a bad thing. She'd say something like "You're as big as a whale, so you should be able to swim." That's what Good Girl Gillian had said to me before she stole my blue ribbon and tried to flush it down the loo. (It didn't go down, just floated on top of the water until Mum fished it out with the toilet brush and told me I needed to grow up and be good like my sister Gillian).

"The council still hasn't graded the road," said Dad. "It's shocking."

"Yes," said Gran.

The clock went tick-tock, tick-tock.

"I won a swimming race," I blurted because that was real news, good news that was burning inside me and I couldn't hold in any more.

"Yes," said Gran.

"I got a ribbon."

"Yes," said Gran.

The clock kept ticking loud seconds.

"Get a move on with that tea," said Mum.

"It tastes bad," I blubbered.

"Oh you girls are unbelievable," said Gran. "In my day, you'd be thankful you got a cup of tea."

"It tastes like dead possum!" My bottom lip quivered.

"It tastes perfectly fine," said Gran. 'That's good clean water. Fresh and pure, not like that stuff at your house, full of nasty chemicals."

"It's full of dead possums!" I leapt out of my chair and sprinted for the back door. I heard Dad call after me, "Get back here and apologise to your poor Grandma..."

Outside it was so cold it felt like someone had thrown a damp blanket around me. That must be why possums have all that thick fur. I wished I had some possum fur. I tilted my head back and looked up into the trees that guarded Gran's house, sprawling gum trees, alternating with straight-up-and-down pines. There must be other possums up there in those trees—live ones that didn't drown. Of course they'd all be asleep right now because it was the middle of the day and at school we'd learnt that some animals sleep during the day and play at night. Nod-turnal was what you called animals that nodded off during the day.

Down by the washhouse I found a tree with a trunk split into three, so I was able to jam my foot into the crevice and hoist myself up. Then there was another branch I could reach and another and another and I climbed like a possum until I was almost at the top of the tree. I was high up, in possum territory, but I still couldn't find any possums. I rammed my hands into a couple of hollows, but they were all empty. Where are all the possums? Surely they didn't all drown. I wedged myself into a V between two branches. From here I could see out over the silver roof, chickenpoxed with spots of red, and I could see the smoke bubbling out of the chimney. This is what the world looks like to a possum.

The back door banged and I looked down to see Good Girl Gillian standing out on the lawn, legs apart, hands on hips, swivelling her head, searching. Ha, she'll never find me up here with the possums. Gillian marched over to my tree, craning her head to look up at me.

"You shouldn't be up there. You're going to cop it!" She took a few steps towards the house. "Dad! Dad!"

Dad charged out of the house, dribbling crumbs as he snapped a Scotch Finger. His eyes followed Good Girl Gillian's pointing finger up into my tree.

"Get down from there this minute!" Dad's words were all jumbled up with half chewed Scotch Finger. "You're going to get it!" I heard the sharp clicks of Dad's belt buckle.

I started climbing down, my hands all slippery from wiping my eyes and trembly from the memory of Dad's belt.

"You're going to get what's coming to you," Dad said when I thudded to the ground. "Bend over." I could see Good Girl Gillian smirking over by the outhouse, standing close enough for a good view, but not so close she'd get in trouble. She was a good girl after all.

***

A couple of nights later, the phone rang in the middle of the night. Still in our PJs, we bundled into the car and drove all the way to Gippsland, but we didn't get there in time, Gran's heart had already stopped beating. Dad sat in the hospital waiting room with tears crawling down his cheeks like slugs. I'd never seen Dad cry before. Mum sat beside him, stroking his hand, but she didn't tell him to stop his blubbering like she always said when I cried.

After Dad spoke to the doctor and signed about ten bits of paper, it was time to go back home and get some sleep. On the way out to the carpark, Dad patted my head and said, "Don't be sad. She had a good innings." He paused, blowing his nose on the sleeve of his flannelette pyjamas, then added, "She'll live on forever in our memories."

He's right too. Even all these years later, I think of Gran every night when the possums tap dance on my roof and, also whenever someone offers me a cup of tea. These days, I stick to coffee. Always accompanied by a Scotch Finger biscuit and a prayer.

# JERROLD

### Raine Wicks

## RAINE WICKS

After 2 decades as a journalist in Colombo, Sri Lanka, Raine Wicks settled in Melbourne, Australia with her 3 children. In 2009 she self-published a book titled And Then They Came For Me about her journalist husband who was murdered for his fearless investigative journalism in Colombo. Raine who graduated as a counsellor from the Australian Institute of Professional Counsellors in 2008 enjoys writing fiction in her free time.

## JERROLD

The blue ink had faded but I could still decipher the quaint, cursive script.

" _To Dear Jerrold"_ it said, _"With best wishes on your graduation, Mum and Dad. December 1934."_

That was an unusual name, Jerrold. I knew I had seen it before, spelled the same way, but where, I could not recall. I paid a dollar to the lady at the counter and left the op shop with Avalanche tucked in my handbag.

A week passed before I finally picked it up from my bedside table. Again, my eyes rested on the inscription and my mind wandered. Who was Jerrold? Was he an adventurous soul? What was his life story? Was he still alive?

Perhaps not. If I knew anything about op shop donations, Jerrold had died of old age and the children packed a hodgepodge of his leftovers into five cardboard boxes and donated it, hoping some bargain-seeking strangers would find second-hand joy in the remnants of their father's life. That's what usually happened.

After that brief reverie, I started on the story. It was a gripping tale of the writer's high-altitude exploits and I flicked the pages late into the night. It was when I reached page 47 that the flimsy rose-pink notepaper, folded in half, sailed down into my lap. A grocery list perhaps? A receipt of some sort? I opened it gingerly, fearful that any clumsy move could see it crumble before my eyes. It was a letter.

Darling Jerrold,

I cannot tell you how much it saddens me to write this letter. I haven't heard from you in two months and I have had sleepless nights wondering if you are safe.

Mum and Dad are very cross with me. They think their friend Donald is 'ideal husband material.' They don't seem to have any consideration for how I feel about it. They say the fact that you haven't written means you have decided to end things between us or that some terrible thing has happened to you in the hands of the enemy. Their constant badgering seems to leave me with little choice.

I am so sorry my darling, but I must break off our engagement. I will always love you and will forever pray for your happiness.

With my undying love,

Your Sweet Joyce

Now I remembered where I had seen the name Jerrold before. It was among my dear mother Joyce's belongings, a sealed, stamped envelope, addressed to Jerrold Simpson at some air force base in Uxbridge, London. Could it be that this letter I held in my hand, incredible as it seemed, was written by my own mother? The handwriting wasn't an exact match, but it was close enough. Now, my brain screamed for clarity. My heart demanded answers. I needed to delve deeper.

I threw on my warm dressing gown, slipped on my furry winter flip-flops and with the zeal of an adventurer on a fact-finding mission, made my way into the garage. After rummaging through old family junk, odd bits of furniture and assorted knick knacks, I came upon the box I was looking for. It didn't take long to find the envelope, and although I felt guilty intruding on my mother's fiercely-guarded privacy, a burning fascination goaded me on. Kneeling on the rough garage floor I opened the envelope and extracted a letter. It was written on the same soft pink notepaper.

Darling Jerrold,

It has been pure hell since I wrote informing you that I wished to break off our engagement. I love you and only you and I have told Mum and Dad that I cannot marry anyone else but you.

If you receive this letter, please write back darling for I will be waiting.

Your Sweet Joyce

So, Mum and Jerrold were once sweethearts; Jerrold went away to fight in the war and my grandparents forced her to dump Jerrold and look elsewhere for a suitable husband. But Mum hadn't ended up marrying the so-called Donald either. For, my father was Patrick, a pilot with the Royal Australian Air Force, killed in the war when I was still in my mother's womb.

I was overcome with sadness for my mother as I grasped the magnitude of her suffering. First, she had endured the heartbreak of losing Jerrold, probably the first man she had loved. And then she married Patrick and lost him soon after in a Nazi air-raid in England. I yearned to put my arms around her and give her a great big hug, tell her I was sorry for not understanding her pain. Wrapped up as I was in my own blues, I hadn't spared a thought for her. My sweet, kind mother who handled my flare-ups and hysterics with patience, who despite all the odds, gave me the best life possible, and with her loving support and sage counsel moulded me into the woman I was.

Growing up, I asked her endless questions about my father. She didn't say much, just that he was tall, blonde and handsome and had dancing blue eyes just like me. As a teenager I cried into the night for the father I never knew, railed at the injustice of it all. I stood before the mirror tying pink ribbons on my ringlets and asked my imaginary Dad if he thought I was pretty. He always replied from heaven that I was the finest-looking girl in all of Australia, and that made me happy.

The next day, fuelled by a fevered curiosity, I went back to the shop in a bid to find out who had donated that adventure novel. I knew it was a long shot, an impossibility even, but I was not going to give up without trying. I didn't know where this whole impulsive exercise would take me nor what it would achieve, but I needed to journey back to Mum's raven-haired youth and put some fractured pieces together, as if by doing so I would soothe some of the hurt that stretched back over the decades.

The woman at the counter directed me to Maude who handled book donations. I showed her Avalanche with a picture of a man scaling a snowy mountain and asked if she knew who had brought it in. Maude shook her head. "Sorry Love, so many people donate books every day... I would never remember."

My heart fell. But then she squinted at the book and tapped her chin and I dared to savour a flicker of hope.

"That's right!" she exclaimed. "John brought in a box of books and this was sitting right on top. I remember because I made some joke about having to deal with an avalanche of books."

"Where can I find this John?" I ventured. "Would you know?"

"John comes to the shop pretty often. If you like, leave your number with me and I will ask him to call you."

"Thank you, thank you so much," I said as I scribbled my name and number on a bit of paper.

"But why?" Maude was curious now. I had to be the only person who had come to her with such a peculiar query.

"Oh, I think I may know the family... from the name on the book."

Maude said she would give John my note. I thanked her and left, riding high on a cloud of elation.

I received a call sooner than I expected.

"Pat?" a deep voice inquired. "It's John. The lady at the op shop asked me to call this number."

For a moment I was flustered; trepidation threw great big punches in my heart. But I had already set the process in motion and I had to see it to its end. I told him all about finding the letter addressed to a Jerrold which I was certain had been written by my mother.

"Hang on, are you telling me my Dad and your Mum were once engaged?"

"Yes, it seems that way. Would you like to have the letter?"

"I'd love to see it."

We decided to meet at the op shop the following day.

John was a mild-mannered, salt and pepper haired guy, with a kind expression in his eyes. He was one of those people one took to easily. He explained that the previous week he had had a clean-up at his house and brought in a 'load of stuff' to the shop. Some of it he said, belonged to his father Jerrold.

When I pulled out the letter and handed it to John, there was wonderment in his eyes.

"This is incredible. I never knew there was a letter in there."

"Neither did I. Until it fell right into my lap!"

"Talk about coincidence. Hundreds of people walk into that shop each week and you happened to buy the book!"

"I love stories about explorers and adventurers... so I was drawn to it."

"Do you want to go grab a coffee and we can talk about it?"

Five minutes later we were sitting inside a cosy café ordering coffee. When John began reading the letter, his eyes widened. Finally, he put it down.

"This is really unexpected... but you know what, recently Dad mentioned a Joyce. He seemed a bit disoriented and asked me if I had heard from Joyce. I didn't know what he was talking about."

"Your Dad's still living?"

"Yes, he's at a nursing home. I visit him every day."

And then John regarded me with a tentative idea in his eyes. "Would you like to see Dad? And maybe tell him who you are?"

"I would love to, as long as it doesn't upset him in any way."

"I'm sure it won't... he has a stout heart and a good sense of humour."

"That's great... and I think I have something else to give him."

I showed John Mum's letter which she had never posted.

The next day John picked me up and we drove to the nursing home. I was a bit anxious, but John's good-natured chatter calmed my nerves. Once there, John knocked on the door and we walked into the room where a thin, white-haired man was sitting on a green floral-patterned sofa watching television through coke-bottle spectacles. His face lighted up when he saw John. And when he saw me, Jerrold stared as though he had seen an apparition, his shaggy eyebrows high on his forehead.

"Joyce?" he finally asked in a thin, raspy voice.

I walked up and sat on the chair next to him. John knelt by his father.

"It's not Joyce, Dad," he said gently. "It's Joyce's daughter Pat."

I could see Jerrold's eyes open wide behind his glasses.

And I told him all about the book, the letter I had found inside, and the unsent one in the box in the garage. I then handed him the two pink note papers. Slowly, he opened the first letter, and as he read, I could see a dozen buried emotions rise on his lined face. When he finished, he folded it gently, placed it on his armrest and picked up the unsent letter. Even though the second letter was shorter, he took longer reading it. I was sure he read it twice, thrice even. When he was done, he closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead with his fingers. When he looked up at me, his eyes were misty.

"Joyce, sweet Joyce. I often wondered about her." He folded the letter, almost deferentially. "I wonder why she never sent this letter to me."

Would it have made a difference? I wondered. If he had received this letter, would Mum and Jerrold have gone on to get married?

"I loved her... she had the face of an angel. She was my first love, and a very special girl."

"She was," I agreed. And added softly, "She passed away nine years ago Jerrold."

He looked down for a few seconds and sighed deeply.

"We were in love, you know?" he said finally.

"I know."

"I was wounded and sent off to the military hospital... I couldn't write to her. And when I got that last letter from Joyce, I was heartbroken... but I didn't want to cause any trouble for her with her family and more heartache for her. I let her go."

I squeezed his hand.

"I regretted it for a long time... but then, we were lucky enough to have a second chance at love with new partners." He looked up at John with affection. "And see what lovely children we both produced."

I smiled at John. In that moment, we were kindred spirits.

"Do you have any sisters and brothers Pat?" Jerrold asked quietly.

"No, I am an only child. My father died in the war before I was born."

He shook his head. "Oh, the poor dear. And poor you. I never knew."

He regarded me again.

"And what was your father's name?"

"He was Patrick Jacob," I said, and added with some pride, "He was an Australian fighter pilot and he was killed in the Battle of Britain. Mum named me Patricia after him."

Jerrold gazed up at the antique-white wall as if trying to recollect something. After a few seconds, he looked back at me.

"We had 30 fighter pilots from Australia during the Battle of Britain. I was one of them. I still remember those terrible attacks by the Luftwaffe as if it were yesterday..."

He was transported in time, when bombs were raining down and there was death, doom and panic everywhere.

"But the Germans were never able to destroy the British air defences.... And that was a crucial factor in winning the war."

He looked at me again with some concern.

".... but my dear, I don't remember a Patrick among us."

I stared at him with a sinking heart. How could it be? My mother had told me that story many times. My handsome, courageous father had perished in one of those horrific air-raids. He was a hero.

"The only Patrick there, was me. Patrick Jacob Jerrold Simpson."

I felt a movement and noticed that John was away by the window, staring out. Jerrold was looking at me keenly.

And then I noticed how blue his eyes were.

# STASIS

### Danica Fuller

## DANICA FULLER

I am 27 years old and live in the Huon Valley in southern Tasmania. Currently I'm taking a break from university studies in ancient history to look after my baby daughter. I love family, cooking, and exploring the natural world.

## STASIS

He looks sweet while he sleeps, blond head poking above the tightly wrapped doona, cheeks rosy from warmth. Cherub in a cocoon. As per usual, he's out like a light, whilst sleep escapes me. The old friend anxiety gently prods nasty thoughts into my head.

A spot. A bump. A niggle. These things start innocuously enough. I look up from my book in annoyance one evening: in my peripherals, I see Brent rub his head every few minutes.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

The usual, evasive answer. Nothing. It's fine. She's all good. Snapping my book shut, I huff and go over to him.

"I think I've got a boil or something." Realising there's no fending me off, he gently places my fingers at the base of his skull, where the soft part of the nape begins. Initially all I feel is velvety skin, but after a couple of presses my fingers sense a difference, a mass beneath. A weird, cold energy shivers across my entire body.

"Yeah. Feels like a boil, hey." It doesn't feel like a boil at all. We both know it, but at the same time, a Netflix series is waiting, our pizza has just finished cooking, we're twenty-five and indestructible.

"Just keep an eye on it." I pop a quick kiss on his nape, pausing just a second longer to take in his scent. I've always loved how he smells.

***

Chemo changes your scent, amongst a million other vile side effects. We're not really meant to be sharing bathrooms, but tough luck avoiding that in our poky apartment. The way the room smells after he showers sickens me and seems to cling to everything. I suddenly suspect pregnancy and a little quiver of worry arises. Then I wonder if it's meant to be, since treatment will likely leave him infertile. I turn my own shower on as hard and hot as it will go so that he can't hear my sobs through the wall.

Autumn rolls around and with it comes the first bout of flu. In his weakened state, a secondary infection arrives and a stint in hospital is required. The antibiotics work their magic. Rain patters on the window. The nurses are positive that he'll be fighting fit within a few days, but the combination of sickness, chemo and sheer boredom leaves him crotchety and disinclined to talk. He fiddles with his phone from time to time.

There's a knock at the door, and instead of a nurse or doctor, it's a petite young woman with a mass of bright red curls and a freckly button nose. It's Martha, his ex from the time before our five-year-long relationship. Chatty, eternally upbeat, and devoid of any academic or creative ability, she's the opposite of myself. I always liked to think that he fell for me because he was entering a more mature phase of life, one where Martha's uncomplicated silliness was a bit lacking, but after years of being together and constantly disagreeing on any serious topic, I began to suspect my little fantasy was wrong.

Martha flashes a brief smile. She dislikes me – if I was dumped for someone else, I'd hate her too – but to her credit, she's smart enough to be noble and never caused any drama.

"Hello, stranger!" his face lights up when he sees her. Mine plummets in perfect tandem. It's the first time he's smiled today.

They soon launch into a lively conversation about the horrors of the past two months and he even laughs a few times. Seething spite of myself, I announce quietly that I'm popping out to grab a coffee and hurry out into the bleak afternoon. I tell myself not to be so stupid. She even wears an engagement ring. Nevertheless, his joyous laugh, which I have not heard in many days, digs into me like the claws of a vicious cat.

I leave hospital with a renewed fighting spirit. As Brent gently recuperates, I channel my insomnia into endless hours spent researching alternative cures. Amidst myriad crystals and tinctures and herbs, I find one theme that feels more scientific to me: cancer apparently thrives on sugar. In a sleep-deprived minor frenzy I throw out bags of sugar, jars of jam, packets of crisps, and set a bone broth on the boil in readiness for tomorrow. I even light a Himalayan salt lamp, gifted by my mother. No negative vibes will survive. I will drive the monster out of this house.

Brent doesn't take kindly to the new diet, and sulks when I confiscate chocolate spread on luscious white bread for a breakfast of eggs and wilted greens. He also sighs when he realises that I've thrown out the oven chips he'd been planning on having for lunch, since he's still too run down to walk to the shops.

"What's the point of having chemo if you keep feeding this thing?" I declare loudly.

He sighs again.

Although he's physically better, his mood is often bleak. I find myself spending many afternoons at uni, buried in my work. I don't feel useful at home, or wanted, for that matter.

I trudge up the path late one Monday and catch a delicious scent on the cold air. Squinting through the angled sun, I see Brent and Martha sitting at our little balcony, rugs over their laps. They're laughing. Martha politely evaporates a few minutes after I arrive. Brent comes inside.

"What's she doing here?" I ask. I try to make my voice neutral but it comes out snarky.

"Nothing. Just saying hello." Nothing. I bristle.

I realise the source of the smell: a big plate of caramel muffins takes pride of place on the kitchen bench. Moving like a demon, I snatch it and dump them all in the rubbish, nearly breaking the plate in the process. When I turn around, Brent's face is a mixture of shocked and annoyed.

"What did you do that for?!"

"You already know!" I slam the plate onto the bench and this time, it does crack. I've spent nights researching. Hundreds of dollars on organic food. Hours cooking. This is my reward. "Sugar. Feeds. The. Illness!" I'm shaking.

Brent shakes his head like a disappointed parent.

"You know the facts, Brent. I'm trying to help."

"You're trying to run everything. Like usual. You always know best."

"Well, I'm sorry I actually do research instead of baking stupid muffins like some idiot little kid." The hag has awakened.

His blood is mottled beneath the pale skin of his face. He looks exhausted.

"Erin. I'm in pain from the moment I wake up each day. I feel sick, too. I can't even go out for a coffee right now. Harry next door is ninety and he's more active than me. Some days, I seriously can't enjoy anything. If you're genuinely going to throw a tantrum because I've eaten one muffin, the one darn thing that has tasted semi-decent to my dead, chemo-fried tastebuds, then I'm sorry, but you're not helping."

His quiet words shoot me full of holes. I'm frozen for a moment. Quietly, he moves off into the other room, and I sit at the table stewing in my anger until night falls.

***

I bring the car to an abrupt halt at the top of the mountain. The lights of the city twinkle far below. Tears roll down, one then another, until I'm a waterfall. All this beauty, but my head is buried in my icy hands. Minutes pass and my bladder is full, so I leave the car to find the toilets. It's then that I realise with a start that a figure is standing quite close by. The initial fear dissipates when I make out a tripod, a little bright patch of screen, a green North Face jacket. It's just someone photographing the aurora, which up until now I hadn't even noticed was weaving lazy greenish bands across the sky. On my way back, I decide to say hello, since he definitely noticed me. I hope he didn't hear my outburst in the car.

"Beautiful night for photos." I say.

He startles a little, then nods. "Yes. Need to use long exposure though. It is quite pale." He has a distinct accent – Japanese, I think.

I fumble around for my keys.

"Um..."

I look back towards him. He seems a bit uneasy. "Um, are you all right?"

Oh, dear. He did hear me. "Yeah. Just a bit of a stressful time." Normally I wouldn't engage with strangers, especially on top of a freezing mountain with no phone reception, but there's genuine concern in his voice.

"Oh, uni exam time too." He says, almost half to himself.

"Yep. You have exams?" I don't – I'm working on my master's thesis – but it's a convenient way to bypass the tangly truth.

"I do. I should be studying now, but I need to be outside for a while."

"It's nice up here, isn't it."

"I love Tassie. Are you local?"

"Sure am. Hobart born and bred. Are you from Japan?"

He grins. "Correct!"

"My name's Erin."

"Erin? I'm Kaito."

"Nice to meet you." I actually mean that as well. My nose is beginning to go numb. "I'd better go home. I'm getting pretty cold. Nice to meet you, Kaito."

"Okay. You too. Good luck with exams."

When I get home, the house is warm but oddly empty. Brent's fast asleep but his breathing is a little laboured. I tell myself it's just flu, but we know that once the monster is in the house, things rarely are so simple. I find a spare doona and pass out on the couch.

The next morning, Brent's a chorus of coughs. He drags himself into the shower and hacks all the way through it.

"You all right in there?" I finally ask, the first words we've spoken since yesterday.

"Yeah. Just phlegm." He croaks back. I hear him make his way back to bed. I go in and he's hidden under the covers. Normally, a coffee and a hearty breakfast are one of the highlights of his day – he never goes back to bed.

"Do you want brekkie?"

"Nah, not just yet." He mumbles, sounding drowsy already. After our altercation last night, I don't want to push any further. I slowly get ready for the day. No more words are spoken.

A few days pass. His cough doesn't improve. He's struggling to stay hydrated because he's still battling waves of nausea, and one evening as I'm cooking dinner, he stands up too quickly and passes out. We haven't held each other much recently. My expectation is that he's still firm and stocky. When I catch him, I'm sickened to feel bones and soft handfuls of flesh where the muscle has wasted from inactivity. He's already lighter than before and it's surprisingly easy for me to half-carry him over to an armchair. I tell him I'll drive him into hospital. He's too run down and miserable to protest.

The next day is the usual raft of scans and tests, and seemingly dozens of nurses and doctors calling in to take measurements and chat about various matters. They're all friendly and upbeat, until his oncologist comes in. Her face is drawn. She's rarely upset, so upon seeing her I'm hit with dread.

Sure enough, things aren't going well. The monster has bitten into other parts of the body, something they weren't counting on happening, at least for a very long time. New treatments will be implemented. I resist the temptation to look online, but I've read enough to know that the monster has now moved into the stage where Brent's body will never be regarded as a clean slate again. Maybe if he responds well to treatment, or can participate in a successful trial, he'll be around long enough to see a true 'cure' but for now, he's suddenly lumped in with all those folks whose relatives and friends whisper and shake heads and shed tears about.

As per usual, Brent shrugs everything off and acts like it's no big deal. Once Dr Reed leaves, however, he starts to crumble. I put my arms around him but his entire being seems to close up and he turns his head away. I'm terrified, devastated, and exasperated all at once. Every single time there's been a crisis, he's shut me out, and today is no different. Although I have come to despise the battle metaphor associated with cancer, he's about to face the biggest fight of his life but refuses to accept my offer of reinforcements. I plonk down in a chair and we sit in silence for an age. There are so many things I want to say, but there's no point even beginning because he's too withdrawn.

He's on his phone for a bit and a few messages soon buzz through. Instinct tells me it's Martha, and I'm right. Within fifteen minutes, she arrives, out of breath and already crying. Don't you have a job or something to do, the hag inside of me snaps. He doesn't try to resist her embrace. He leans his wispy head on her shoulder like an infant and his tears roll onto her rainbow wool scarf. Now, I'm just plain hurt. I leave.

The next day, I arrive early. Fortified with the energy of a new day, I'm feeling much brighter. Brent looks a little better too. I'm assuming the new drugs are working. On his bedside table is a little teddy and a plate of disgustingly sweet chocolate fudge biscuits that Martha's baked. Although he smiles when I enter, he's uneasy.

I sit down on the edge of the bed. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No. Not really."

"I think there is."

He sighs and scratches a balding patch on his head, a habit that's always irritated me because it means he's inwardly nervous.

Eventually, eyes downcast, he just says: "I'm sorry, Erin."

I've been a sea of anger and resentment these past few weeks. Sometimes it swallows me, but now, I'm calm.

"I understand."

We could discuss it further, but there doesn't seem to be a point. Before long, Martha arrives, and I notice a bare ring finger. Same as Brent, she avoids my gaze. I don't know if they've agreed on this, but nonetheless she senses what's just happened. I stand to leave and Brent plants a quick kiss on my cheek. It's like the ties between us have slowly snapped, one by one, over the past few weeks, and now we're finally adrift from each other. I leave the hospital with a sob stuck in my throat.

***

Two weeks pass. I'm in town looking for a birthday present for my grandmother. Across the table of tea samples, a young man is smelling some also. He looks oddly familiar, and when I notice the green North Face jacket, I know who it is.

"Kaito."

He looks confused. "Uh...yes?"

"The aurora photographer."

His brain clicks over and he cracks a big smile. "Oh! Erica!"

"Erin."

"Sorry. How are you?"

"Yeah. Not so bad."

We chat for a bit, then decide to have a drink to celebrate the end of exams and the unseasonal sunny afternoon. At the waterfront, locals and tourists mill about and the crisp air carries the smell of beer and cigarettes. We find a sunny spot outside and clink pints. Kaito rapidly goes quite red in the face and begins to talk a bit more about himself. I'm amused at the speed of his inebriation, but enthralled at the content of his discussion. He loves life and everything in it. He studies a wide range of subjects in his spare time: his engineering degree is his safety net. He thinks about the bigger picture quite a lot.

He leaves to buy a second round and I survey the sunny harbour. A couple are walking along the edge of the quay, very slowly. I make out bright red hair and another head hidden by a beanie. It's Brent and Martha. Even from this distance, he's clearly dropped more weight, and bent like an old man. Her tiny frame supports him as he stops to catch his breath, and he plants a reverent kiss on her forehead. When Kaito returns, I want to ask him about body and soul - whether they're linked or separate. Brent's body is crumbling, but I just know his soul is singing. A few tears escape me and Kaito sits down before I get the chance to wipe them.

"What's wrong?"

It's like a tiny hole in the dam has cracked open. I vent every last emotion in one long explosion. Kaito listens silently, nodding. Finally I finish.

"I'm sorry."

He shyly puts his long hand over mine. "It's okay. You know you're going to be okay." He looks me squarely in the eyes for a few seconds, then withdraws his hand. I'm almost annoyed that he doesn't offer anything profound. It's okay is what you say when you get a flat tyre, or you forget to pack your lunch. We talk for a bit longer, finish our drinks and leave. I've got a new place, quite close to the centre of town, so he walks me to the door. Before we say goodbye, we exchange Facebook profiles and he hesitates for a moment before offering a hug. I fold into his tall, thin frame and feel weirdly at home.

There are chores to do, but the afternoon is too beautiful to ignore. I sit on the front porch for a long while, listening to the birds sing. Not one thing has gone to plan this year, yet for the first time in ages I'm genuinely light inside. It hits me that I'm finally free. Although I'm still hurting, it's now all in the past, like being cut from a thorny bush. From now on, I can heal. From now on, I'm going to be okay.

# AN ACT OF FLOWERS

### Virginia Suckling

" _An Act of Flowers" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## VIRGINIA SUCKLING

Originally from the UK, I have lived in New Zealand since 1980. Most of my working life I've been a nurse/receptionist in my husband's GP practice in Napier. The last five years, before my husband retired, we were in the Northern Territory with an Aboriginal Health Corporation – a job we both enjoyed.

I have loved writing stories ever since I was at primary school. In recent years, I've had the support of my husband, twin sister, and Romance Writers of New Zealand and Australia.

The idea for this short story came to me when my sister actually left a bouquet of flowers on her car roof and it fell off on her way home.

## AN ACT OF FLOWERS

The bouquet was full of lilies, irises, carnations, gypsophylia, and the odd rose or two. All gathered together with the usual greenery. It lay on the passenger seat of the van, waiting for delivery. Colours covering all the spectrum of the rainbow spilled over the pretty doily-like wrapping, the lilies depositing a fine pollen dust on the worn red upholstery.

The florist parked outside the Napier firm where she expected to find the recipient for the bouquet.

A hopeless romantic, she wanted to see the girl for herself. Clearly, she was very much loved by the tall handsome man who had stood in her shop a few days ago and ordered the bouquet. He'd asked her to pen the few words on the card. "My writing is illegible and I want to make sure she can read it."

Walking through the glass doors, the florist went straight over to a smiling receptionist who called out over the intercom system. "Louise Walker, please come to the reception area immediately."

The florist guessed that the petite red-head, practically running down the stairs, was the person she was looking for. After confirming it with the receptionist, she held out the bouquet and saw the girl's green eyes widen in astonishment and pleasure. "For me," Louise, said in a husky voice, "Really for me?"

The florist nodded in affirmation, smiling as she left. She enjoyed these sorts of deliveries. Again she wished it was she who had captured that man's attention.

Louise looked at the card, secreted amongst the flowers— _These flowers will remind you of me until you're in my arms again. With all my love, Jon._

A warm feeling enveloped Louise. He hadn't forgotten. Even though he was leaving on a business trip to Hong Kong, he'd remembered that they had been going out for exactly six months.

Louise was a Lizzie Dripping for the rest of the day. Her boss had to ask her several times to pay attention.

"Miss Walker! Answering the phone is in your job description, is it not? I don't know what's got into you." And later, "This isn't the file I wanted. I do hope you are back to your usual efficient self tomorrow."

Five o'clock arrived at last. Louise's boss, looking out of his window, saw her making her way to her car holding the bouquet in her arms. She looked as pleased as a chocoholic locked in a chocolate factory. Now the reason for her strange behaviour became apparent. He shook his head and smiled. He'd been young and in love not so long ago.

While unlocking her car, Louise gently laid the beautiful bouquet on its roof. Wrapped up in her thoughts—Jon might ring her during the evening—she automatically got into her car and drove off homeward bound. The beautiful bouquet of flowers flowed off the roof and landed in the gutter.

* * *

Dejectedly, Philip Marsh walked along the road. He loved his wife, Moira and didn't want to lose her. Eight months married and they were having problems already. Philip sighed. Somehow they would work it out. It wasn't her fault or both their faults for that matter, that she had become pregnant so soon. With his hands in his pockets and downcast eyes, he couldn't fail to notice the bouquet of flowers lying to the right of the pavement. They looked in perfect condition. What a piece of luck. He would take them home as a peace offering. The two of them always seemed to be exhausted these days; he working long hours at the clothing factory and Moira as a nurse at the local vet clinic. Their free time never seemed to synchronise. Philip retrieved the flowers and stepped back on to the kerb.

And not before time.

An ambulance hurtled passed him, obviously in a hurry. He gave a momentary thought for the poor person needing it, before he rushed home to his wife.

Moira was thrilled. "Darling, what gorgeous flowers. You shouldn't have. They must have been expensive?"

Philip passed on the answer. He hugged her instead. "I love you, Moira. We'll work things out, you'll see. There's a chance of promotion soon. Someone did mention I may be up for it."

"That would be great. I know I haven't been easy to live lately, darling, but I do love you." She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him tenderly on the lips.

The doorbell rang. Philip was surprised to see the next-door neighbour standing on the doorstep. Peter Loveridge, whose elderly face was usually creased in laughter lines, looked as dispirited as he had himself a while ago.

"Philip, I'm sorry to bother to bother you," he began, "I've just come from the hospital. Dorothy...My Dottie...has...is..." His kindly face crumpled. "It's worse... a lot worse... than we thought." He finished quickly, his voice breaking with emotion.

"Oh no. I'm so sorry, Peter. Come in."

"No I won't. I don't want to intrude. It must be near your meal time anyway."

"You're not intruding and our meal can wait. Please come in and tell us what has happened." Philip ushered him into the front room. He was pleased to see that Moira had anticipated his next move; she was in the process of making a cup of tea.

After a few sips of the hot drink Peter was able to explain further. "The cancer has recurred. We knew after she'd had her mastectomy and radiotherapy that it might return. At least we had ten extra years." He sighed. "It's now in her liver. The doctors say she hasn't got long. They were thinking of operating but now her liver is involved it's not practical. In fact she gets weaker all the time. I'm sorry to burden you with my problems but I've no one else to turn to."

"Don't be daft," said Philip and Moira, in unison. "If there's anything we could do..." added Moira.

"Well, yes there is. I want to be with her for as long as I can. I wonder if you could feed our cat until I'm back home again."

"Of course. No problem. And don't hesitate to let us know if we can do anything else," said Philip.

Peter finished his cup of tea and left.

"It certainly puts our problems into perspective, doesn't it my love?" said Moira. "Peter is going to need our support in the weeks to come."

Philip nodded in agreement.

"I know what we could do right now to show him that we really mean what we say," said Moira. She took the flowers out of their vase and wrapped them up in some spare cellophane paper she'd kept in a drawer, ready for a situation like this. A pink bow completed the bouquet, now wrapped for the second time.

"What a kind thought," said Philip.

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

Intending to catch Peter before he returned to the hospital, the couple walked round to his house. Visibly touched, Peter kissed Moira on the cheek and shook Philip's hand when Moira presented the flowers to him.

"You don't know how much this will mean to Dottie. She loves flowers."

Peter saw his wife an hour later. He observed how frail she had become when he leant over and kissed her forehead. Her once golden hair was pure white, slightly thinned in places and her body wasted by disease. He felt an overwhelming sadness. It didn't seem so long ago when they were young, vibrant and ready to take on what life would throw in their direction.

"Oh Peter. What a beautiful arrangement," Dorothy murmured. A pale, translucent hand caressed the various flowers. Even that tired her. Bending down to put her freshly laundered nightclothes into the locker, he controlled the surge of emotion threatening to overcome him. He cleared his throat and met her bright, feverish gaze. "Some of those flowers were in my wedding bouquet, sixty years ago. Do you remember, my darling?"

"Er .. No. Sorry, I don't. But then you were the main flower in my sights that particular day, Dottie."

"Oh go on with you, Peter Loveridge. You're an old romantic."

It didn't matter that he had forgotten. They reminisced about their lives together; the highs, the lows. How they loved one another. He told her about the kindness of Philip and Moira, a young worried couple, just like they had been in their early years, after the war. She wanted to tell him how much their life together had meant to her; to buoy him up with memories in times to come. It was almost as if she knew this was going to be the last time she would be able to talk.

The recollection of that evening helped him a few days later when Dorothy slipped peacefully away, as he held her hand.

By now the bouquet was a little worse for wear. Its colourful cellophane wrapping was no more though the big pink bow had been tied around the vase. Some of the remaining petals were beginning to curl but they still looked spectacular.

Peter packed up his wife's belongings. He was loathe to ask the nurses to throw away the flowers. As one scurried past the door he called out to her. He had noticed a young woman in another room; her leg in plaster. Maybe she would enjoy the last few days of the blooms.

***

Louise was feeling a little sorry for herself. First her bouquet had gone missing. She had vague memories of putting it on the roof, but what happened after that? She'd turned her car around to go back. A driver hadn't seen her coming out of a side road; he'd hit her side on. The car had skidded across the road coming to a halt against a lamp post. It had taken the emergency services an hour to free her. The other driver had escaped injury. She hadn't been so lucky. She sustained fractures of her pelvis, right leg and a few ribs. She'd regained consciousness a couple of days ago.

The police had informed Jon in Hong Kong but she hadn't received a message from him so far.

When the nurse brought in the flowers she felt uplifted. It was as if Jon's bouquet had been returned to her, an omen of good luck.

She was reminded of this when Jon walked through the door, a few hours later at the evening visiting time.

"I can't leave you for a minute, can I, love?" He leaned over and planted a kiss on her lips.

"I'm sorry Jon. I didn't mean you to come home. I just wanted...well...you. I suppose I panicked. I thought if I heard your voice I could cope." Louise burst into tears.

Jon gathered her into his strong arms until she calmed down. He pulled up a chair, close to the bed, and sat down. He covered her hands with his own. "I'd finished my business anyway. I've been thinking about starting out on my own. What do you think?"

"Won't it be difficult on your own?"

"Probably at first. But I'm going to ask a colleague of mine to join me. I think Philip Marsh will want to become my partner in this new venture. He was hoping for promotion. Especially now his wife's pregnant. It also depends on you too?"

"In what way?"

"I want you beside me. Always. Will you be my wife?"

"Oh yes, Jon. Yes."

Jon's eyes alighted on his original bouquet. "I see you got my flowers."

# FIRST LINE

### Imogen Van Der Meer

" _First Line" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## IMOGEN VAN DER MEER

I'm 22, and I'm a student completing a Creative Writing degree at Latrobe University. I have two dogs named Lily and Severus, and I needn't explain why. I love a good scribble and thrive on last-minute twists.

## FIRST LINE

Twenty-Seven Minutes of Freedom.

These words pop into Cady's mind every day at exactly 1pm. She sees them bolded and underlined, as she slips to the hidden part of the kitchen that you forget exists in food court stalls. She sees the words italicised for half a second – a sudden moment of frivolity – before returning to their un-slanted state, as she rips off her apron and throws it onto the hook.

She sees the words centred in the middle of the page while she sprints towards the bookshop, oblivious to every shopper's distasteful glance as she weaves past them. She sees the 'Twenty-Seven' turn to '27' and then back again – a moment of second-guessing – before slowing to a purposeful stride at the bookstore's entrance.

Cady sees the words, the title of her future best-seller, then makes her way to the aisle second from the left, the one vaguely labelled 'Classics'. She sees the words – or rather, imagines them – embossed in gold one day, on the front of a leather-bound 400-pager. She sees it facing front-on right where she stands, in this predominately orange and white collection.

Then Cady sees the rest of the page, the rest of the blank Word 2016 document, and begins scanning the shelves for today's dose of inspiration. It's 1:03pm.

"You know, there's a sale on at IKEA today..."

Cady picks up one of the orange and white mass-produced paperbacks, conscious of her minimum wage. Dracula, it says, in bold capitals across the front. She hadn't yet considered a gothic approach, but nothing has worked so far...

"Just thought you might be interested..."

Cady jams Dracula back into its spot on the shelf. She refuses to write anything that even mentions vampires. It's too late for that bandwagon. She leaves her hand outstretched, ready to snatch up the next potential candidate.

But then that working title – those words ignited behind her retinas – vanishes; an occurrence that hasn't happened in this aisle before. But what frightens her is the anecdote that replaces them...

This shop was empty when she entered it.

Cady averts her eyes from the rows of titles to search for the source of the voice, only just realising its intent must be solely for her ears. The shop is still empty, like always, apart from that guy behind the counter, who's busy putting gift cards into their cardboard sleeves, like always. She's almost convinced it was all in her head, but then Counter Guy looks up. And he smiles. Not a 'hi, how are you, please buy something' smile. His smile had a knowingness to it, Cady thought, a smirk. A 'well done, you've noticed' smirk.

"What?" Cady asks, for there really are no other words to say.

"IKEA. 50% off today."

He breaks eye contact to shove a gift-card into an unco-operative gift sleeve.

With no further clarification, Cady almost leaves it at that, not wanting to waste any more of her twenty-seven minutes on this pointless exchange. But curiosity always wins.

"Have they payed you to say that?" Cady asks, arriving at a cross-promotional conclusion.

Counter Guy's hands stop shoving. He frowns at her, confused.

"Who?"

"IKEA."

"Why would IKEA pay me?"

"For spreading the word."

"But I don't work for IKEA."

"Exactly."

"Ohhh, I see what you're sayin... hey, that would make sense, wouldn't it? 'Cos I'd be getting them more customers. Yeah... I should look into that..."

He stares off into the distance – probably counting his mythological millions, Cady surmises – before going back to the gift cards.

It's 1:06pm. Cady needs either an answer or an ending.

"So why did you bother telling me that?" She presses.

"Telling you what?"

Cady whispers a groan. Clearly Counter Guy's train of thought has no tracks.

"That IKEA had a sale."

"Because I figured you'd be interested."

"Why?"

"Because they sell bookshelves."

Cady blinks, hoping the momentary lapse in her stare would make everything clear. But all it does is add an awkward silence for Counter Guy to fill.

"And well, I figured you'd need a bookshelf. Or at least one that's bigger than the one you've got."

Cady blinks again. It is only when she takes a scratchy swallow that she realises her mouth has been hanging open. Her embarrassment at this – as well as Counter Guy's freakish accuracy – is probably what causes her instant defensiveness.

"So you've assumed, just because I'm in a bookshop, that I have piles of un-shelved books scattered about my home?"

"Well, that would be a fair assumption to make..."

"To think I'm some kind of hoarder?"

"No, to think that, because I see you in this shop every day after my lunch break, that you're interested in books. And because I've worked here full-time for three months, and have scanned that loyalty card of yours in every single one of my shifts, which I can only do if you're purchasing something, I think it's fair to assume..."

"Okay, I get it."

"That you have a lot of books."

"Understood."

"And since it's easiest to store books on shelves..."

"Okay! Enough already."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help. Those paperbacks are $10.95 each. That's like an hour of pay, every day..."

"Can you stop with the analysing?"

"What do you have for lunch?"

"What?"

"This is your lunch break, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah..."

"But I never see you eat."

"Well I never see you watching me. But I'll be keeping an eye out from now on..."

"Don't you get hungry?"

"I work at Daily Dhal."

"Ahh, touché... that'll put you right off." He looks off into the distance again, most likely remembering a horrific experience with Indian cuisine.

Cady rolls her eyes, and goes back to her perusing, determined to complete this self-assigned mission. This time, she's transfixed by a large, navy cloth-bound with little white dots all over it. Moby Dick, it says on the front. Cady figures the dots must be whales. She pulls the book out of its slot, realising she'd never held a book this heavy before.

"Oh, I wouldn't bother. You'll want to kill yourself by chapter ten, I reckon."

It's him again. He's still watching. Cady should ignore him. Cady usually does ignore him. Then again, Counter Guy usually remains silent. Clearly today has a different trajectory.  
And besides, maybe his professional input could help.

"Is it sad?" A question which sounded quite foreign in Cady's liberally-learned mouth, but why else would a novel cause one to consider suicide?

"Oh yeah, super depressing."

"What happens?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Well, hardly anything."

"Then how is it depressing?"

"Because it makes you realise how boring whales are. I mean, I thought whales were kind of cool. But after 500 pages on their biology... well, it makes me want to kill every single one in existence. And I reckon I know how to, after reading that."

"You read the whole thing?" Yet another question Cady never thought she'd ask.

"Well, being able to read books to the end is kind of expected in my line of work..."

"Oh, right." Cady blushes at her own naivety. What a day. She puts Moby Dick back and takes a composing breath, pretending she isn't suppressing the urge to slap herself.

"So what exactly are you looking for?"

"What makes you think I'm looking for anything? I mean, do I have to be looking for something specific to shop here?"

"Well, no, I guess not. But you're here every day. Like, every day. You've gotta be on the hunt for something..."

Cady feels her cheeks growing hot again, but she fights the frustration. He's right, after all.

"So what is it that you're hunting for?"

Cady looks at the ground. Her parents hate it when she does this. She always did it as a child when they were disciplining her. They thought she was trying to soften their blow through pity. They never realised she was always genuinely ashamed for doing something wrong.

"I really could help, you know. I'm probably the only person in the world that's read more than you." He smiles again. A friendly smile. Still not the cheesy 'buy something' smile. More like the smile of the old librarian that used to work at Cady's high school.

"You'll just laugh."

"Why? Is it stimulation you're after?" He giggles at this. A proud giggle. As though he has nailed a punch lines.  
But Cady, being the prude that she is, seriously considers his words. She figures 'stimulation' would be a better term for her search. Everything starts with a stimulus.

It is precisely 1:14pm when the immature inference finally dawns on her.

"You're disgusting." Cady says, making sure that last word also painted her face.

"Hey, it wouldn't be the first time. And I've only been here three months, remember."

Cady can't stop her eyebrows raising. "Well, I'm certainly not looking for that."

"Then what are you looking for?"

"Inspiration." Cady mutters, before her mouth glues shut with humiliation.

This time, he blinks.

"What?" Cady asks. Surely, he knows what 'inspiration' means.

"Well, isn't that what everyone looks for? I mean, isn't that why books are a thing? Because they inspire people?"

"Well, they are yet to inspire my writing."

"You write?"

"I'm trying to write."

"What have you written?"

"A title."

"...That's it?"

"Well what have you written?"

"Do you have a first line at least?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, that's the most important part."

"And why is that?"

"It's the first thing people read, isn't it? So it's like, their last chance to back out before they're committed. So you gotta make em wanna commit."

Cady hears the assuredness in his voice, as though this matter of thinking is nothing short of an ancient legend. No, more like it's as common of knowledge as the order of the alphabet.

"I'm not sure I agree," Cady replies, turning towards the shelves again, making yet another attempt at pursuing this mission alone.

"You don't think a story needs a strong beginning?"

"Well of course I do, but I've never read the first line of a book and then immediately set it down, either."

"That's because you've never picked up a bad book."

"That's not true."

"I don't mean disappointing, I mean bad. It's one thing to get to the end of a book and feel cheated. It's another to want nothing more than the end of a slow torture to come."

Cady crosses her arms. "Okay, maybe I haven't read a bad book. I've read good ones, though. Great ones, even. But I'll tell you one thing, I can't remember their first lines."

He laughs again, like its Cady's fault for not understanding his terribly flawed logic. "It's not about remembering the lines, it's about what those lines do. They must've hooked you in, or you wouldn't've kept reading."

"I'm still sceptical."

"Okay, what's the last book you've read that blew you away?"

Cady takes a moment to give a good answer. "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."

He laughs again. "Of course," he sighs, rushing off to the top left corner of the aisle. He picks out a familiar looking pink hardcover and thrusts it towards Cady. "Read the first lines again. Remember how you felt."

Refusing to appear a coward, Cady accepts the offer, adjusting her grip so her right hand is free for page turning. She flicks to chapter one and begins.

As she had hoped, there is nothing all that exciting. Alice is just irritable having to spend an afternoon in her boring sister's company, who is reading a terribly boring book...

Cady stops reading. She doesn't look up, but she knows that Counter Guy has seen her stop. He can tell. He watches everything. But even so, she will not lift her eyes from the page. She will not let herself see that all-knowing smile plastered across his jaw. The 'I told you so' smile. The worst smile a guy can give a girl.

Cady puts the book back, still avoiding that face.

"Tell you what" Counter Guy says, as though he can't tell Cady wants nothing more than to leave this shop and never return. "Why don't you just give old Moby a crack? Hell, he might surprise you."

"Why would I do that after you've told me how horrible it is?"

"Well clearly, you don't want to believe anything I tell you." Cady sees him walking back to the counter, holding the navy cloth-bound under one arm like a football. There's no 'I told you so smile'. There's no smile at all, in fact. And for a reason unknown to Cady, this is worse.

Cady reaches into her back pocket. "I think I have enough store credit on this thing."

Counter guy doesn't look at Cady when she hands over her loyalty card. Suddenly she wants nothing more than to leave and never return.

"Looks like it" he says after, still smile-less, holding the mile-long receipt as it prints. He gets out a plastic bag.

"That means you can't return it though."

"I'll let you know if I regret my purchase."

"You mean you'll let me know if I'm right?" There's that smirk, and this time a wink. A 'this can be our inside joke' wink.

And then, the most unexpected feeling exploded in the middle of Cady's chest. Relief.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Cady."

Fear.

"It's written on your loyalty card."

Relief again.

"I'll have a first line by then."

"Oh yeah? What're you thinking?"

"I can't tell you that, it'll hook you in. And then I'd never get my lunchbreak to myself again."

He laughs, and waves goodbye. Cady waves as well, and maybe, possibly, gives him a smile. She walks out of the shop feeling more inspired than ever before.

It is 1:23pm. There is no need for Cady to run today.

As she walks back to the food court, Cady pulls up the Word document in her mind again. Twenty-Seven Minutes of Freedom. She imagines pressing the enter key twice, and begins:

"You know, there's a sale on at IKEA today..."

Cady stops her imaginary typing. She doesn't know his name. She will ask him tomorrow.

But she won't use his real name in the story. Not if she wants him to read it.

And she does want him to read it, which means the name she chooses needs to do something, needs to hook him in.

She considers the name Moby – a moment of comforting recollection – before she goes through the hidden entrance into the hidden kitchen. Her apron is still on the hook. She goes to place her newest purchase where she always does, in the only corner out of range of the fryers. But curiosity always wins.

It is 1:29pm, and Cady opens the navy cloth-bound to chapter one. She sighs, finding her answer at last.

'Call me Ishmael', it says.

#  THE PHOTO ON THE NIGHTSTAND

### Imogen Van Der Meer

" _The Photo On The Nightstand" received an Honourable Mention in the_

2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition.

## THE PHOTO ON THE NIGHTSTAND

I remember when I see the photo on the nightstand.

If I don't see that photo, I only think of that last night of pain, when you moaned in your sleep, when you forgot who you were, when you forgot who I was. I only think of your last day, when I stroked your cheek as you gave that final sigh. I only think of how you looked at me in that moment, trying to tell me that it was okay.

I don't like to think of those things, because that's not you. That's not us. That's not the kind of life we shared. It's not the kind of memories we made. It's not the kind of story I want to tell.

Because it's not the story that's captured in the photo on the nightstand.

That photo tells the story of our love.

Yes, it was at first sight. We knew. We just knew. I looked at you and smiled, awestruck by how beautiful you were. You walked up to me and kissed my hand. And just like that, we were united. It was that simple.

We spent that whole afternoon together, just getting to know one another. Pretending to take it slow, even though we knew how right this was. But even though we both knew, and were both ready, I still went home alone that night.

I returned the next day though, after a night of restless sleep where your beautiful face never left my mind. You greeted me at the door grinning, ecstatic that I had come back. I hugged you, and then you kissed my hand again. And suddenly it wasn't just us that knew. Suddenly, it was obvious to everyone.

You moved in only weeks later. There was no point trying to keep our distance. We just wanted each other, all the time. The highlight of my day was coming home to you. And the highlight of yours was seeing me return.

We slept next to one another, every night. Even on those nights when I kept the lamp on for hours, reading myself into another world. You didn't mind. So long as you could lay right beside me, everything was okay.

You always fell asleep first.

Sometimes, you had nightmares, and would cry out in your sleep. I'd place my hand on your back, and then everything was okay again.

Sometimes, I'd hear a noise, and you would too. And you were always the first out of bed to investigate. You were always the brave one. You always protected me.

At first, I thought it was valiant, but then I realised that this was your biggest weakness. You would never take your own safety into account. Not when I was around.

Most often, you lost, coming out second best. And those times that you lost, when you bit off more than you could chew, I would rush into town to get you stitched up. I would disinfect the wounds at exact intervals. I would tell you that if you ever did it again, I wouldn't nurse you back to health.

But that was a lie. You kept playing hero, and I kept playing nurse.

Right up until the end.

But that's not to say that you never took care of me. You knew when I needed you, and you knew when to leave me alone. I never had to ask you to leave, and I never had to go looking for you.

No, that's also a lie; I did have to go looking for you, once.

We had just moved into the new house and were still trying to adapt ourselves to its unfamiliarity. We were tired and uncomfortable. Neither of us were good with change, and this was the biggest change we had gone through together. We started taking our frustration out on each other.

I remember you had come in from the backyard with dirty feet, and walked right through the house, oblivious to the mess you were making. I yelled at you, and you looked at me; I pointed to the floor, and you turned and walked away. You left me to clean it up.

I was furious. You were over it. You went upstairs and stayed there, not bothering to come down for dinner. I didn't bother to check on you.

I didn't see you again until I went to put the bins out. I saw you run past me out of the corner of my eye. It was so quick. For a second, I didn't even know it was you. For another second I watched you run towards the bus stop, while I stood paralysed in disbelief.

In the next second, I was running after you, desperately calling out your name, demanding that you come back. Begging you to come home. Hoping I could reach you before it was too late.

But I was never much of a runner. By the time I'd reached the bus stop, you were gone.

It was the longest two hours of my life.

I had no idea what to do. Waiting for you to return seemed ridiculous, but walking the streets hoping to find you on foot sounded just as absurd.

I settled on jumping in the car, thinking it would help find you, or at least be better than my wailing in despair on the front lawn.

And it did.

I found you in the next suburb over, sitting under a tree, exhausted from your travels, and clearly in pain. You were happy to see me though, all signs of that earlier anger evaporated. And boy, was I happy to see you.

Still, I knew something was wrong.

You acted like it was no big deal, like your injuries wouldn't have been critical if the car had been going that little bit faster.

Yes, you loved playing hero.

Right up until the end.

But let's not think about the end just yet, because things happened before that. A photo was taken before that. A whole lifetime happened before that. Your lifetime.

That was the only time I ever had to go looking for you. Every other time, you were there, as soon as I needed you to be. Sometimes, you would know before I knew. I'd look up from my book and see your face. Come on, you'd say, you need a break, and I need some fresh air.

You loved our walks, and so did I. Up the hill, around the park, across the bridge near the ducks, down the twisty path, and all the way back again. Our ritual, our route, our routine. Our own personal time together, and yet we didn't ever say a word to each other. All we thought about were the steps, the view, and the air.

You were always one to take in your surroundings, appreciating everything the world had on offer. An old tree to others was a tale for you; a tale of everyone who had passed by that tree before. You found their marks, a small remnant of their visit. Every time we would pass that tree, you stopped, and examined, and you always found something new. And you would always pull me towards it, trying to show me what you could see.

I could never see what you saw, but it didn't matter to me. I just loved watching you. Watching how you would hit pause on life, over and over again, just for a moment, making sure you didn't miss a single detail. Making sure nothing was ever taken for granted. Making sure I knew how beautiful the world was.

I don't think I would still be here if you hadn't taught me that.

Please don't worry. It's okay, I've grown since then. I've learnt since then. I've learnt how to do it without you. You taught me how to listen to myself, to know when it is time to hit pause. And you taught me how to listen to the world, to know when it is calling out to me. For that, I am forever thankful. For that, I will always remember you.

How fitting, then, that the photo on the nightstand is taken right in front of that tree. You are sitting on the grass, looking up at the camera with those dark, round eyes, your head tilted to the side. The left side, always. The same pose in every photo.

Well, almost every photo.

There is a photo I have, that you don't know about. I captured it while you were sleeping. Your eyes are closed, and you seem to be smiling. You look so peaceful, so happy, and so content. Such a contrast to how you were hours before that flash of the camera.

It all started with a fall.

We were in the front yard, watering the parched garden under the scorching summer sun. You had the urge to smell your favourite flower; the flower with the stupidly long name, that I just always called 'Spike', because of its thorns. And I'll still call it 'Spike', mostly because I can't remember its real name. But also, because it's what I called you.

You moved, from beside me, to where that flower lay. This time, I didn't watch you, because my eyes were fixed on the stream of water coming from the hose in my hand. I was admiring its arc, and the way the sun cast beams of colour over the lawn; red, yellow, pink, green, purple, orange, blue. I remember thinking how amazing the world is, to have a rainbow hidden in something colourless.

I didn't see you fall.

But I did see you lying helplessly on the ground, unable to control your shaking limbs. I saw your eyes fluttering, your mouth twitching. I heard your rapid breathing, irregular in rhythm. I called your name, over and over again, but you couldn't respond.

For the very first time, you were too scared to play hero.

I took a photo of you that night, as you slept with a stomach full of pills that clouded your brain. I took the photo right before you started moaning in pain, forgetting who you were, forgetting who I was.

This photo isn't on the nightstand, because I can't bear to see that photo every day. It's kept hidden in a special place that only I can reach. And I only look at it when I really need to, when the guilt for what I've done stops me moving. Or when I need to water Spike, the flower.

I look at that photo to remind myself that you told me it was okay.

I stroked your head, and you looked at me, and thanked me for taking away your pain.

I look at that photo, remember how much you were suffering, and somehow convince myself that I did the right thing.

Then I put that photo back in its special place, under the thorns.

And then I look at the photo on the nightstand.

The photo that always makes me smile.

The photo of you under your favourite tree.

The photo of the best dog in the world.

# A BIRD'S EYE

### Jane Lingard

## JANE LINGARD

Jane Lingard writes short stories and prose. She is an active member of writing groups in the Blue Mountains and Lithgow. Her short stories have won prizes including the Emerging Writer's Award (The Henry Lawson Society of NSW) and Mulga Bill Writing Award, and have been published in The Wild Goose and FreeXpression. Jane is finalising her first novel and novella, and she regularly blogs on writing, creativity and other adventures at jml297.com.

## A BIRD'S EYE

I never thought that I would become a twitcher. But sometimes life will take you along paths that surprise you.

I'd recently moved to the mountains. It was a move more of necessity than choice. Mum was poorly with no real chance of improving anytime soon. Following a spate of layouts at work, I was made redundant, and my prospects were fairly limited. So I shifted back home as her carer. Before long I realised that I would need to have more to my life than going to the supermarket or the weekly circuit of doctor's appointments and trips to the chemist. I'd often thought that the life of leisure would suit me, but in some ways, it was really no better than work. So I began to look for outings to meet other people of a similar age and disposition. There were groups for people who liked old movies, but how was that any different to staying home with Mum? She was addicted to the movie channel and was tech-savvy enough to record anything with a vintage of at least thirty years.

There was a local bird watching group and they had an open day. It was the outside element that appealed to me. I went along - Mum was all right on her own for a bit - and they had charts and binoculars and cameras. But it wasn't all the paraphernalia that grabbed my attention. It was the birds.  
Had I been deaf and blind up to this point in my life? Of course, I'd noticed birds and could identify a magpie or a kookaburra, even a bellbird at a push, but really, had I seen or heard them properly before now? It nearly blew my mind and I signed up on the spot.

I went shopping on the way home. Not my usual 'stick-to-the-grocery-list-as-you-don't-have-much-money-to-blow' kind of shopping. I went to the camera store and spent ages trying out their binoculars. There were only four pairs in the store but I took my time, going through the range and getting a feel for them, just like I'd been told to do.

It was when I was checking them for perhaps the third time that I turned my gaze out the window. The camera shop is at the top of the main street, and there's quite a slope. I was able to see nearly all the way down to the roundabout with the pair I was testing. And that's when I saw him. I must have made a noise because the suddenly the shop assistant was right at my elbow, angling for a look.

With a little twist, I managed to move her along and keep him in my sights. He wouldn't have known that I moved here. I hadn't been in contact with him for years. What was he doing in my part of the world? I followed his progress, ignoring the shop assistant who had the temerity to place her hand on my arm. I jiggled my elbow and muttered something about checking the range and I think she moved away. At least I wasn't aware of her. All I could see was Henry.

My heart seemed to contract at the sight of him. He was making his way up the street, and I muttered softly as people kept getting in the way. He wove his way through the usual crush of tourists and locals, everyone out on a mild Sunday afternoon. I felt sure that he was heading to the top of the street, as he moved incrementally closer to the camera shop.

The shop assistant was back at my side, saying something about how the binoculars were not here for my amusement, and if I wasn't going to buy a pair, could I please put them down as it was nearly closing time. For a moment I was torn. I didn't want to move away from the window. Henry loomed ever larger in the viewfinder. The clarity of the binoculars was astounding. He was getting close enough now that I could see the expression on his face, see his smarmy smirk as he ogled women that he passed by. I mean, really. A man of his age.

But then there was a flicker of movement, barely perceptible, that took my attention briefly away from Henry's wandering eyes. I tested the zoom adjustment on the binoculars, really getting in close. It was a bird. Not one of the common varieties that I could identify with confidence, but a small bird with a white throat, a patch of tawny feathers but rather dull in colour. Not the bright plumage of a male bird, as I'd been shown by an experienced twitcher. The bird was zigging around Henry's head. I zoomed back out. Was I imagining things? No, the bird was there. The shop assistant cleared her throat beside me and said something about getting the manager if I didn't put the binoculars down. I barely heard her.

I checked the people on either side of Henry, but the bird wasn't paying them any attention. Was it simply mesmerised by his shiny pate? I zoomed in again and Henry turned his head from side to side, displaying the neatly combed strands of remaining white hair. It looked sparser than I remembered.

The people around Henry had spotted the bird and were shifting away and pointing. Perhaps someone would tell him that he seemed to be the centre of attention of at least one bird's world. I snickered.

And now the bird was swooping closer; surely it must be grazing its tiny wings along his head. Henry stopped still, waving like a madman around his head, turning in circles and spinning and coming to a halt - just - on the edge of the footpath. He was now on his own, everyone was giving him a wide berth.

But then there was someone beside me. I couldn't take my eyes off Henry. His face was the very picture of peeved annoyance, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

"Excuse me, madam, but we are about to close and if you are not going to buy those binoculars you will need to put them down and leave the store." It was a man's voice, deep and authoritative. Henry's face was turning a fetching shade of scarlet.

"I'll take them." I let my left-hand trawl through my handbag, my eyes locked on the rather distressed Henry, and I found the pocket in my bag where I kept my fun money - it doesn't get used much - and handed over the whole lot to the manager.

"Shall I box them up for you? And have you considered an extended warranty?"

I wanted to shoo him away like the rather annoying gnat that he was.

"Just the binoculars, thanks." But he seemed to be stuck to my side. Perhaps he was trying to see what was so very clear to me. The bird was still circling and swooping around Henry's head. Henry was bellowing - I could hear his distress as the shop door was clicked shut with the farewell of the only other customer in the shop.

"You do receive a complimentary case, but for an extra forty dollars you can upgrade to one more suitable for field trips."

"Yes, yes." I brushed him aside and zoomed out a little.

The terror on Henry's face was clear for anyone to see. He hates birds. He was teetering now on the edge of the footpath, arms flailing wildly as the bird slipped in between his flapping hands to extract a single hair. I had to adjust the zoom and the movement was so quick as to be a blur but Henry's bellowing escalated to a shout of pained indignation. For a split second, I closed my eyes. I had a memory of Henry, his fastidiousness about his appearance, his penchant for wearing an enticing aftershave that was a heady mix of lime with honey undertones. As I opened my eyes, my lips curved into a smile.

The bird was levitating now above Henry's red, shining dome. It was there for the briefest moment before it left a parting gift in exchange for the much-wanted strand of hair. Henry was swirling around, turning and shouting and swiping at his head, then he was off, rampaging down the street. I scanned the people left in his wake, noting their smiles and how some of them were imitating his stomp.

The manager was back by my side as I slowly lowered the binoculars. He passed me some change, a receipt, and packed the binoculars into a sturdy looking case.

"I hope you enjoy your purchase." He was holding his left hand towards the door just in case I was in any doubt about the need to leave the store.

I turned to him and gave him my sweetest smile. "They've already paid their way."

# TRIPOD HERO

### Melanie Cranenburgh

## MELANIE CRANENBURGH

Melanie Cranenburgh is a secondary school teacher in Perth, Western Australia. When she isn't trying to "tame teenagers", Melanie may be found writing, rescuing wildlife, bushwalking or satisfying her craving for comedy and documentaries. Her work has appeared in a modicum of print and online publications, including Blink Ink and 50-Word Stories. Her children's story, "Mushrooms Are Fun, Guys!" appears in A Big Book of Short Stories for Small People (Birdcatcher Books, 2018).

## TRIPOD HERO

With a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand, I flipped through the weekend newspaper with the other. Aah, the Pets section! Scanning subheadings, I settled on Canine Adoption and found myself pouring over dog profiles.

One, in particular, caught my eye. "Bindi" was a spayed three-year-old black and white female Kelpie Cross, with a "playful temperament, who would best suit young families or active people". The thing that stood out about Bindi was that she was missing a hind leg; she was a 'tripod' dog. The picture of this forlorn looking creature reminded me of the time, decades ago, when I'd crossed paths with another 'tripod' dog.

At the time, I was studying Accounting at university. Barely into my third year, I realised how utterly bored I was and wondered why I would even consider pursuing such a career! Oh, that's right- to follow a family tradition...Ugh!

I made a decision. I deferred my studies, arranged for another student to take over the lease of my flat, and prepared to hit the road.

My faded green '74 Ford Escort coupe was soon laden with stuff I thought I'd need for my trip: maps, extra fuel, spare tyres, hoses and fan belts, toolbox, camping and fishing gear, food, water. No mobile phones in those days. And the likelihood of my radiator overheating in the oppressive February weather was fairly high. Fortunately, I'd picked up some basic mechanical knowledge from the guys in the family- in case I did break down.

Travel plans were fairly loose; my intention was to drive north to Carnarvon and then up to Broome. Beyond that, I'd play it by ear. I had, however, informed the Carnarvon Visitors Centre of my intended arrival. I'd heard some horrific stories of travellers getting into all sorts of strife on their journeys and no one had been informed of their whereabouts. Tragically, some of these people had perished. Despite my indefinite itinerary, I planned to let authorities know of my intended destination at each leg of my journey.

Allowing for frequent tourist, rest and radiator stops, it took a few days to complete the 900km trip to Carnarvon from my Perth home. The sparkling white sands and mesmerising palette of oceanic blues that outlined the Coral Coast could have kept me hostage for several weeks, but Maudie- and the Carnarvon Visitors Centre- were expecting me.

Banana plantations finally heralded my arrival to the tropical oasis town. Maudie had been our babysitter when we were kids. We really missed her when she moved to the northern coastal town for a sea change but we kept in touch through letters and the occasional long-distance phone call. As you could imagine, I was more than thrilled to meet up with her after nearly a decade.

"Goodness gracious, Stephie! What on earth possessed you to drive up so far...on your lonesome?" Even though Maudie had migrated from Scotland five decades ago, she still had quite a distinct Scottish accent, which was rather endearing- and a bit comical.

"But Maudie, my spirit was crying for adventure!" I teased. "I just needed a break from studies and...I guess I just wanted to try something different."

Maudie shook her head. "If tryin' somethin' diff'rent is what ya wanted, lass, then ya could ha' just as eas'ly got yer hair done!" Good old Maudie- still as conservative as ever!

The next day at noon, Maudie and I drove to a place called Gascoyne Junction, a couple of hours east of Carnarvon. Her dear friend, Rosalie, had invited us to stay for a few days. The two of them were lifelong friends and had known each other back in Glasgow. Rosalie Duggan, and her Australian husband Bill, lived on several hundred hectares of land, where they raised beef cattle.

It was early afternoon by the time we rattled down the two kilometre dirt track that led to the farmhouse. Maudie smiled and patted my knee.

"Now just to let ya know, lass...if ol' Bill comes across a bit offhand or gruff to ya, don't take no offence, dear. It's just his way...okay?" After hearing this, I wasn't too sure just what to expect from "ol' Bill"!

We pulled up to the farmhouse and were greeted by a welcome party of three yapping dogs (one with only three legs) and a cuddly looking woman who cantered towards us - arms flailing, hooting with delight. With her floral dress, apron, and curlers squeezed into her blue-rinse hair, she reminded me of a character I had seen on television, once.

"You're finally here, Maudie! Nice to see you again, my friend", Rosalie cooed as the pair exchanged cheek-kisses. Her Scottish accent wasn't as pronounced as Maudie's; it was more a hybrid of Scottish brogue and Aussie twang.

"And you must be Stephanie? Maudie's told me so much about you, dear. Lovely to finally meet you!", she grinned, revealing a lipstick smear on her front tooth before python-hugging me.

"Thanks for inviting me, Mrs Duggan. I prefer to be called Stephie, these days...as "Stephanie" is reserved for when I'm in trouble!" I chuckled.

"Orright, Stephie it is!" she smiled. "And you must call me Rosalie- 'Mrs Duggan' makes me feel old!"

"Okay! you got yourself a deal."

"Good. Now ladies, Bill's just gone into town for a bit. Shouldn't be too long. Come inside, an' we'll have some supper. There's a roast on for tonight. Can't have our guests goin' hungry, can we?" She winked, hooked her arm into mine and chaperoned me into the granite farmhouse. Maudie and Rosalie were two-peas-in-a-pod. Both had a gentle homeliness about them and it felt comfortable being around them.

We entered the kitchen where an array of sandwiches, cakes and sausage rolls on china plates and paper doilies were laid out over a gingham tablecloth. The three of us chatted for ages as the large room slowly filled with the delectable smell of slow roasting beef and vegetables. An old-style water cooler in the corner of the kitchen hummed steadily against a background of melodic banter as it endeavoured to disperse the heat from the oven. I certainly wasn't missing uni!

Bill Duggan arrived back late in the afternoon. He seemed polite enough but I got the impression he was a man of few words. He didn't converse much and only responded with the occasional grunt or non-verbal gesture. Rosalie and Maudie seemed accustomed to his monosyllabic mode of communicating and it wasn't long before I adapted, too.

Dinner was a sumptuous affair and was topped off with a boozy trifle. I must have gained at least a kilo from all the food I'd gormandised, that day!

Bill needed to be up by dawn to tend to the stock, so he retired not long after dinner. That left the three of us to sip sherry, gossip and look at old photos till after midnight, when Maudie and I also turned in for the night. We were staying in the old farm hands' sleeping quarters that had since been converted into a guesthouse. The room had a comforting aroma of fresh linen and lavender which took my thoughts back to times long ago...

Before settling to sleep, I tentatively asked Maudie,

"So...what's the story with Rosalie and Bill's son? I noticed she didn't talk much about him, tonight."

My roommate sighed, deeply. "Well dear...that's a really sad, sad story. Paul was Rosalie and Bill's only son. When he was eighteen he moved down to Perth- to train as a mechanic. He'd discussed the prospect of someday, moving back to the Gascoyne and starting up a business. He'd been living in Perth for about a year but drove up to see Rosalie an' Bill as often as he could. Tsk! such a dutiful lad...And he always brought his dog Rex with him. The dog with three legs ya saw today..."

"Yeah, I know the one."

"...Well that's Rex. Anyhow...according to the police report, it happened just before noon. Paul was, maybe, fifteen or so miles out of Carnarvon and headin' to the farm. But then, this other car apparently crossed into his lane. So, he swerved so as not to hit it and crashed into a tree."

"Oh! What happened then?"

There came yet another heavy sigh. "Well, he was taken to hospital...but didn't make it. He passed after midnight."

It wasn't quite the ending I'd expected. "Oh..."

"Somehow, Rex survived the crash. But his front leg was so badly damaged it had to be amputated. He was only a couple o' years old- still a young'un."

"Aww..."

"Next month would ha' been Paul's thirtieth birthday."

It was a while before I spoke again. "I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a child."

"Nor can I, dear." Maudie never married and didn't have children of her own but she was a motherly figure, nevertheless. "Rosalie still misses him very much. She's learned to cope, somehow. But I don't think Bill has ever really come to terms with Paul's death. The man used to be so outgoing, so full o' life. But since the accident...well...he's just not the same..."

I quietly cried myself to sleep.

The next day was going to be a scorcher. It was already thirty-five degrees by mid-morning and the three of us had planned to take a dip in the dam before lunch. Bill was out in the paddocks and Rosalie was at the rear of the house hanging the washing, so Maudie and I just lounged on the front verandah, waiting for her to finish.

Shrieking suddenly pierced the cicada-filled air. It was Rosalie. The two of us rushed to where the panic was to see Rosalie hysterical and gesturing for us to stay back.

We soon discovered the cause of the chaos: Rex was yelping and snarling at a brownish snake that had its mouth open and was rearing up towards him. Rosalie was frantic. She was yelling at him to move away from the reptile. But he wouldn't. So, she started throwing rocks at it, in the hope of scaring it away from the tenacious dog. Fortunately, the two-metre snake retreated into the underbrush. And when it had moved a considerable distance from Rex, Rosalie rushed to him, grabbed his collar and pulled him away from the danger.

"Hell's bells and buckets of blood, girls!" Rosalie wheezed. "That snake came pretty darn close to me! If it wasn't for Rexie, I don' know what might've happened...!"

She held his face and kissed him on the top of his head. His panting pink tongue, dripping with saliva, was hanging lopsidedly out of his mouth. He was whimpering and blinking, excitedly.

Unsure as to whether he had been bitten, we bundled Rex into my little chariot. The four of us embarked upon the two-hour drive to the vet clinic in the main town site.

It was a harrowing journey. Rosalie was crying, but was still trying to stay calm for Rex's sake; Maudie was trying to comfort Rosalie; and I stayed silent, concentrating on getting us all to our destination, safely.

By the time we arrived at the clinic, Rex was not looking good. En route he started trembling, his breathing was shallow, and his pupils had dilated. It was excruciating to see him this way.

And so, a couple of hours later, it came as no surprise to me when the vet solemnly announced to us that Rex had died. He was just too far-gone to recover. Tests confirmed that the snake- a highly venomous Western Brown- had bitten him.

The car ride back to the farm was a sombre one. Words were scarce and tears, plentiful.

When Bill learned of what had happened, he was devastated. Not only had he lost a canine companion but Rex had also been a direct link to his son.

In the following month, on the anniversary of Paul's birthday, Rex's ashes were scattered around his headstone. Two mates were reunited, once again.

My coffee now lukewarm, I reached for the phone and dialled the Adoption enquiries number for Bindi.

# MY BRAVE NEW WORLD

### Laura Brown

## LAURA BROWN

Laura Brown lives in the Hunter Valley, Australia. She is a teacher and mother of three. She is currently working on her debut middle-grade fiction novel The Black Butt Waters Thief. She can be found on Facebook at Laura Brown Writer.

## MY BRAVE NEW WORLD

" _I said_ I'm hun-gry!" Branden makes puppy dog eyes at me.

"What? Oh right..." I rummage around in my backpack "I've got a mandarin. You want it?"

"You got anything else?"

"No."

"Oh- kay..."

I peel off three bits of skin, then hand it over. I can't peel his fruit forever. My mouth is watering but I swallow and ignore it. I cup my hands in my lap, ready, wondering if I should pick some more tomorrow. I decide to do it. I'll use the new kid excuse if anyone questions me, but hopefully the other kids won't consider mandarins dob-worthy. My hands are sticky. Branden had finished massacring the mandarin. I glance around the bus, drop the scraps out the window and wipe my hands on my school shorts. Outside wheat is everywhere, reflecting the strong afternoon sun. I shield my eyes and wonder if I've got any hope of getting some sunnies. Maybe for my birthday next month. A cheap pair from the servo would be fine. I could mention it next time we go, if mum's in a good mood.

"Shut up loser! At least my mum's not fat. Your mum's so fat even Dora can't explorer her!" At Brock's voice my heart leaps into my throat. I instinctively strain to hear his latest spat, though I know I can't help him. Brock had always been the most psycho out of us boys, but he'd been even worse since the incident with mum's ex, Gary.

"Yeah well at least she doesn't let everyone explore her! Even the bulls in my paddock have heard of your mum!" The voice is vaguely familiar, but I can't turn around. I know I'll only make things worse by being drawn in.

Laughter roars from the back of the bus. Blood rushes to my face. I force myself to breathe slowly and deeply, knowing Brock's screwed now. At least they don't know about Jay and Kris. It could be worse. I try to be positive like Miss Barney, my old counsellor had taught me. Step-siblings were everywhere, but with four dads between us were a special case and not in a good way.

"At least guys don't have to roll over twice to get off her. Your mum don't need the internet, she's already worldwide." I smirk. Brock is shameless, and a daily embarrassment, but I admire his guts. I always freeze, only thinking of good comebacks hours too late.

The bus skids over to the side of the road, tyres crunching the gravel. I hold onto the seat in front, pretending my stomach isn't lurching. How long before I get used to these crappy roads? Two girls are heading down the aisle towards us. I recognise Melinda's long, smooth legs and look out the window, pretending to be interested in the wheat.

"Your brother's naughty! He said a swear word!" I have no choice but to turn to the small girl with wide eyes and freckles. I guess she's in Branden's class.

"Shoosh Emma. Mind your own business" Melinda flashes me a sympathetic look with her emerald eyes and disappears down the stairwell and into a cloud of dust behind the bus. I exhale slowly hoping she hadn't noticed me blushing. I look for some landmark to help me remember her bus stop, but everything looks the same. Whatever. It's not like I'd ever have the guts to ask her out anyway. I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth and swallow. I wish I'd picked up that empty bottle outside the toilets...

"Pe-tie..."

"Sshhhh! Don't call me that..." I hiss in Branden's ear.

"Why did that guy say his bull's have heard abou..."

"Sshhh! Don't talk about it here. He was just being mean. Bulls don't know anything."

"Is he gonna beat Brock up like BJ did when..."

"Sshhh! No. We just need to keep quiet, and act normal and everything's gonna be fine. Okay?"

He stuffs the last piece of mandarin in his mouth and nods. "God a sdigga fo bein good on ma firs day!" He beams, juice dribbling down his chin and points to a curly edged gold star on the breast of his faded school shirt. I smile and give him a sticky high five. He could be such a pain in the bum but he was kinda cute sometimes.

"See ya Bomber! Smell ya later Devon!" Out of the corner of my eye I notice a guy from my class walking towards me. I can't remember his name.

"See ya Sunshine!"

I swallow my groan and wave, pretending not to care about the nickname I'd acquired. It was unavoidable, it's not like I could've kept my hometown a secret. Not with my family. If only mum had gotten up the first time her alarm went off instead of hitting snooze five times. She could have enrolled us before the buses arrived. Then we wouldn't have been Year 9/10's morning entertainment. Mum had screeched at Brock to put on his shoes and carry his own bag, wearing her too-short denim cut-offs and holey singlet. I'd held Branden's hand, and hustled him up the ramp to the office as fast as I could. I guess I do love mum, despite everything, but she's a total embarrassment. She's even worse than Brock. I take a deep breath. Think positively...it could have been worse, at least she was wearing shoes and a bra this time.

Walking back to Plugger's house, I know better than to mention the bus incident. I give Brock my last mandarin instead. Mum says Plugger's house is our home now, but it doesn't feel like it yet. I try to distract my little brothers from the looming uncertainty as well as the random spiky things that have invaded our socks. I tell them about the other fruit in the Ag Science yard and promise to swipe some eggs from the chook shed when I get a chance. It's weird having them both at school with me now. I didn't even know Area Schools existed until mum told us we were moving. There's bugger all shade so we are legging it. Branden sits down in protest and whimpers. I take off my backpack and squat down to offer him a piggyback, awkwardly forcing my own backpack onto my front.

Plugger's car isn't there. I close my eyes in relief as Branden slides off my back. I dump my backpack, and pull my sweat-soaked shirt off my chest.

"Don't sit down, you've only got two pairs of school shorts." They nod. I turn on the outdoor tap, scooping water into my mouth and over my head, then lean against the house willing my headache to disappear. I shut my eyes and savour the water trickling down my chest and back, as the boys splash each other.

Flies go mental as soon as we step onto the dusty wooden porch.

"Shoes and socks off here." Plugger wasn't used to living with kids and I didn't want to get him off-side. I check the door. Unlocked. I rush them in, slamming and latching the door behind us, and a couple of lucky flies.

"Mum?"

The house is hot and stuffy. Dirty breakfast dishes cover the table and chipped laminex bench. Branden turns on the fan. I creep into the bedroom and the floorboards creak underfoot. Empty. I let out a deep breath."Mu-um? Plugger?" I return to the kitchen.

"Damn!" I pick up the Black & Gold long life milk carton that I'd opened this morning from the bench. It's half full, as suspected. I put it back in the fridge and hope for the best. I scan the beer and condiments, rethinking Plugger's offer to teach me rabbit trapping. Brock had been annoyed that Plugger had said he was too young, and told me I was an idiot for saying no. I hated killing animals, and I didn't want to be alone with Plugger, at least 'til I knew him a bit better. But I guess hunger can drive you to anything.

Noticing the bread I quickly make a peanut butter sandwich for the boys to share and put it in the freezer. I cut off Branden's crusts and eat them. I pick my battles.

They're still out. A good sign. Might be doing a full day's work, that means a bit of money... but they could turn up any second...

"Hey Branden, time to have a quick shower and get in your PJs okay?"

"No. TV!"

"Come on, It'll cool you down. I'll play hide and seek if you do it now."

"Really? You promise?"

"Yep. In you go. Just a quick one. Brock will keep you company." Then to Brock I murmer "I'll call out if they get home" He nods. I'm not sure how much he knows about Gary, he was only nine, but he knows enough not to argue.

I dump the dirty dishes in the sink, rinse out a disgusting dishcloth and wipe down the table. The pipes shudder and hurried footsteps scurry down the corridor. Desperate for a quick shower before Plugger returns, I pour half a cup of cola for the boys to share and put ABC kids on, muting it so Branden didn't rush out semi-dressed.

Bang! I spin around. Plugga has bashed the door with his carton of beer. I open the door open for him.

"Hi."

"Thanks Pete, been a bloody hard day I tell ya. Crutchin' them sheep. Can't remember the last time me back's caned like this."

"Hey love." Mum walks in holding a can of VB against her pink, sweaty cheek.

Plugga drops the beer on the table and cracks one open. He saunters over to the couch, collapses onto it and starts channel surfing.

"I got you boys some chippies for tea. Eh?" She beams proudly.

I smile. "I'll tell B1 and B2." The boys scramble over and devour the chips like a pair of starved seagulls. Mum lights a tally-ho and flops down next to Plugger. I grab a couple of chips and head off to the bathroom. I open the shower. I pick up the boys wet school shirts and ring them out. I drop them in the sink, my heart pounding as I contemplate the shower.

I take off my shirt. He's just started watching TV, he won't get up yet surely. Stepping into the shower, I turn on the taps and face the door. I rub my face and hair, pull the top of my shorts and jocks forward, and let the water in. I step forward and do the same with the back of them. I turn off the taps, step out and wrap a towel around myself. I waddle down the corridor, my wet clothes chafing me under my towel. I lock the bedroom door behind me and crumple onto my bed. I shut my eyes and wait for my heart and breath to slow down. The blackness is comforting. I am safe for now.

#  LET'S TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE

### Tim Stoney

## TIM STONEY

Tim Stoney has worked as a journalist in Australia and overseas for nearly 30 years in print, television, radio and online. He has also taught print and broadcast journalism in Australia and overseas. He currently works as an Executive Media Trainer and a tutor in Journalism at Melbourne University.

## LET'S TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE

Dad's coughing spasms lasted longer this time. His body convulsed and his face contorted as he fought for each breath. He gasped a shallow breath, but that lead to another, more violent spasm. I reached out to pat his back, but he brushed my hand away. He pressed one hand against his chest; the other gripped the rail of his hospital bed. Eventually, one shallow breath... then another... then finally a deeper one... the spasms eased. He waved away a glass of water, but it was another few minutes before he sank back against the pillow and his breathing returned to normal.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"Don't apologise, I just.... I just wish there was something I could do," I replied, feeling, as usual, a bit useless in his presence.

"Nothing you can do unless you've got a spare set of lungs on you," he said with a weak smile.

"Haha, be silly to waste them on you now wouldn't it," I laughed.

He smiled again. A slightly disappointed smile I thought, as if he was expecting, or maybe hoping for better from me.

It was typical of our interactions of late. We both retreated from moments of vulnerability, though were increasingly hard to avoid. A whimsical reflection on the past or an unguarded reference to the future would end with a catch in the throat, a moistened eye... a pause, then he'd say: "Let's talk about something else." So we talked about almost anything else but what was happening right in front of us. It was as if talking about it made it too real so we chose not to occupy the present.

It surprised me how easily I managed these moments but, in truth, I'd known for years that the words coming out of my mouth rarely reflected what was going on in my head when I spoke to my father. So we both chose, though (probably) not consciously, to live in that space somewhere between.

"So when do you go off travelling again," he asked, after the moment of awkward silence had passed.

"Well, that depends on you Dad," I said. "I can't really go away while you're still in hospital can I." I meant it as a statement but he chose to take it as a question.

"Why not?" he replied abruptly. "Don't let me stop you... I've never stood in the way of anything you kids wanted to do," he added more gently. This time, I didn't know if he was asking a question or making a statement.

"Dad, really!"

"What? Well I haven't, have I?"

"I just think someone needs to be here to drink all that wine you've got at home," I laughed, deftly avoiding the issue.

"You just keep your hands off my wine," he said with a smile. "Anyway, I won't be in here forever, they say maybe next week. I can't wait to get home – hospitals drive me mad."

I wanted to say: "Dad, you're not going home, or anywhere else on this earth. You're dying and I'm waiting here for that to happen. I've cancelled my travel plans and our lives are on hold until you die and... I don't even know how to begin to talk about that journey with you." But I didn't. Just as I had for the past however many months, I sat by his bed and wondered whether it was crueller to ask him how he felt or crueller to be a co-conspirator in his denial.

"Where's the next trip planned for anyway," he asked when it became clear I had nothing more to say.

"London. I've got a short-term job offer there to do some freelance work. It's not until later in the year though," I replied.

"London," he sighed wistfully. "I don't suppose I'll get to travel there again, at least not in the conventional way."

As if to underline the point, dad launched into another bout of coughing and gasping and it was again sometime before his breathing returned to 'normal.'

"Remember when we met up in Paris, that must be 30 years ago. You slept on the floor of my hotel one night, remember?"

"Yeah, at the Ritz wasn't it?"

"Yeah that's right... we had a drink with some of my work colleagues. That was a good night. I wish we'd done more of that... the travel together I mean."

Interesting dad remembered that particular night. It wasn't how I remembered the evening... oh, I remembered the bar and the work colleagues and I certainly remember sleeping on the floor of his hotel room, but what I remembered most was the dressing down I received when we got upstairs.

"So what was that all about, down there?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?"

"That was the most boorish and ill-mannered behaviour I have ever seen. They are my work colleagues, not your university mates. Honestly, I thought I'd brought you up with better manners."

'Boorish and ill-mannered!' He'd accused me of these many times in the last 30 years but... even now; I still couldn't work out what I'd done to embarrass him that night or bring myself to ask him, so I let it pass.

We had another one of those awkward silences. This was the way it was between us; awkward silence or me filling the silence too quickly with meaningless talk to avoid the awkward silence.

"You know I wish I'd had the time to visit my grandfather's, your great-grandfather's, grave with you after we met up in Paris. What do you remember of going there?"

"Dad you know what I thought, I wrote a story about it," I said.

"Yes... yes you did, didn't you."

"I sent you a copy."

"Yes... yes that's right. It was beautiful, it really made me feel..."

He hesitated, lifted himself up slightly in bed and turned towards me as if for emphasis... but I couldn't tolerate another silence.

"I'm sure it's at home somewhere," I added quickly. "I can get mum to bring it in... but, sorry I interrupted you?"

"No, no, it's fine... what did you think of it?"

Dad's way of dealing with his feelings was often to ask me my opinion. I think he thought it made me feel valued. I always felt I was supposed to say something impressive. I was never sure whether I did or not. He would nod and say things like 'yes, I agree' or 'I think you're right' but rarely share his own thoughts.

"It was such a weird experience going there. The two things that probably stand out most in my memory are the smell of the mud from the fields and the number of 'unknown solider' graves," I said.

"I remember looking across the ploughed fields and thinking that's what this whole country side looked like for as far as the eye could see.

"It's funny, I didn't find great-granddad's grave sad... there were so many others without names. They made me sadder than anything, knowing there was no one to mourn these men... boys really. I sometimes wonder how the French can live with so many reminders of such sadness."

"It's a beautiful spot though isn't it," Dad said. "Sad, yes, but beautiful. You know he was only 37 when he was killed. He died of wounds. Thirty-seven... way too young to die, and leave two daughters orphaned. Your grandmother was only 10 when he died. Not old enough to really understand, I guess, but old enough to know he'd gone."

"Did she ever talk about him?"

"Not really. A little bit. On birthdays, and we remembered his anniversary as kids, but that stopped after my dad, your Pa, died." Dad paused... I could tell he was thinking now about his own father who'd died 50 years ago.

"I don't know how you get over that sort of thing as a child. I think mum was angry with him for leaving, especially because her mother died when she was just eight, but she was also proud of him going to fight. It is possible to be both – angry at someone and still love them."

"Were you angry with him?"

"Me? I don't think I ever thought about it. I only knew him through stories. I don't even think mum had a photo."

"When did you go there?"

I wanted to ask him how he felt about death but there didn't seem any point. 'Why make however long he's got left on this earth a misery,' I told myself.

"It was very moving to finally get there in 2003, it was my first overseas trip with..."

"Yes, yes, I know with my step-mother, yes I know," I interjected. I couldn't stand any mention of my stepmother.

"She has a name you know... and don't take that tone with me."

"I'm not taking a 'tone'... I just think mum would have liked to go there, after all you were married for 35 years."

"Yes, well we didn't because we were raising you kids and we didn't have the time or the money to travel," Dad said in an annoyed tone.

I hadn't tried very hard to keep the 'tone' out of my voice. I'd never liked my stepmother. I'd expected when she married a 60-year-old man with six children she'd make an effort to get to know us all, but I didn't feel she ever had!

Nevertheless, since I'd returned from overseas and Dad had got sick I'd tried to put aside my feelings towards her. I even started to greet her with a kiss again, something I hadn't done since the first time I met her 15 years earlier.

I couldn't resist another crack: "I guess she got a lot of benefits mum didn't get, didn't she?"

"That's not fair."

"I don't think you're in a position to say what's fair are you Dad, mum didn't leave you."

"It's more complicated than that, but you wouldn't understand."

We were back at that point again... to placate or to push? Dad once said to me that I always took the easy way out when things got tough. I don't know if it was a supreme act of selfishness, a desire to prove him wrong or simply an inability to put up with the voice in my head that was constantly disappointed in myself for not speaking but I decided to push.

"So what am I not understanding exactly Dad?" I spat, arms crossed, legs crossed, bracing myself for the onslaught.

"What is it exactly that I'm missing here? You left mum and married, against all our wishes, a person who has given us pretty much nothing. You drag her along to birthdays..."

"Don't talk to me like that," he cut me off.

"Like what? Like telling you the truth, you can't shut me down by saying you don't like the way I speak... that won't work anymore Dad. You see I'm not scared of you now. Your anger used to scare me when I was a kid but you're a frail old man who's going to die soon and you don't scare me anymore."

I don't know whether Dad was too stunned or too hurt to speak, but my heart was pounding and I knew I'd let that voice in my head off its leash. The question was could I, or did I even want to rein it in?

"Every time I've had an issue with you Dad your response has been 'I did my best'. Well sometimes your best was shit. What do you think dismissing your child with 'I did my best' does? Well, I'll tell you what it does, it shuts them down, it takes all the anger and hurt they feel and turns it inwards because if you 'did your best' and you're 'Dad', your best has to be the best there is and any failings must be my fault, mustn't they?

"And don't tell me I don't understand, that's a cop out. You came to me upset about how you'd handled everything with mum and what did I say to you? I said, 'Don't get married yet; give us some time'. So what did you do... you went out and got married! And look what happened, four of us didn't go to the wedding because mum asked us not to. What a shit position for two people to put their kids in – having to choose between two parents.

"So don't give me 'I did my best', bullshit. You were a coward about this whole thing. Your daughter didn't speak to you for nearly ten years and what was your response? 'She'll come around'..."

"I tried to contact her but she never wanted to speak to me, I...." he spluttered.

"Bullshit Dad, you're the adult. Picking up a phone once a year and saying I tried isn't really trying is it? It's just another version of 'I did my best' and that's the end of it."

I was on my feet now, my fists were clenched; it was with no small amount of shame that I realised I wanted to punch Dad. I forced myself to regain control, to step back from the bed and sit down. The blood was pumping in my temples and I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands. It was minutes before I could look up but when I did Dad had tears in his eyes.

I'd never seen him cry before. In the moments I'd been looking away he seemed to have shrunk in the bed. Normally such a big man, such a presence, so powerful, he seemed diminished. Is that what I wanted? To belittle my father's life when he stood on the threshold of death? I felt sick: empty.

"I should go," I said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you Dad."

I bent to kiss him: he grasped my hand.

"I'm not going to say you're right about a lot of those things... and you've always have a tendency to blame other people for your failings but," he paused.

"You know it always made me sad that I never knew my grandfather and sadder still for my mother that she'd lost her father so young. There was no place to express that at home... there wasn't a lot of room for emotion in our house. I guess I took that into raising all of you and, you're right, there wasn't a lot of room for emotion in our family either. I don't think your mother or I were very comfortable with it. "

"Look Dad it's fine, really, I'm sorry, just ignore me," I wanted to leave; now it was me shutting things down.

"We did our best..."

"Dad I know, I'm...."

"Listen for once," he snapped.

"As I said...we did our best, but I think we were both, in different ways... scared," he took a deep breath as though just admitting that had taken a lot out of him.

"Scared? What about?"

"I can't speak for your mother but for me... failure, having six kids, supporting a family, my own mortality... yes believe it or not, I know you avoid that subject, so do I to be honest, but I've always been scared of my mortality. You forget how sick I was when I was young...."

"No I don't Dad."

"Well, maybe you don't understand the effect it had on me. I've always been afraid of dying, you think it looks any better up close?"

"No, I can only imagine..."

"Yes, that's just the point, you can only imagine. You don't know what it's like to think about another birthday, or Christmas or look at one of your grandchildren and know that you'll barely be a memory for them. You don't know what it feels like to know that every time you shut your eyes could be the last time. So, if you think I'm in denial about dying, damn right I am, who wouldn't be? If being in denial allows me to get through the few days I've got left by pretending that there will be more than there will be, then I'm all for it.

"I said to you earlier I wished we'd travelled more together, but the truth is that I've travelled every step of your journey with you. Maybe not always as closely as either of us might have liked but I've been there, one way or another, right beside you and, though you may not have known it and I may not have shown it enough, I've been thrilled by your every success and devastated by every failure.

"Now you're probably right about a lot of things you've said today, sometimes doing your best is not enough, but right now, it's all I've got to offer and I only hope, when you find yourself in this position that you can say the same."

I paused and nodded, then bent and kissed Dad on the cheek as I had always done, more out of duty than affection.

"I'm sorry Dad if I've been too harsh."

"Anyway, enough... I'm sorry we haven't talked like this sooner. Maybe it would have... who knows, anyway... give my love to the kids."

"I'll bring them in on the weekend to see you."

"Let's hope I'm still here."

I smiled and turned to leave but, as I reached the door, Dad called out.

"Son."

"Yes Dad?"

"You're right about one thing and I suspect it's what's at the root of all your anger towards me."

"What's that Dad?"

"I've never told you I loved you enough," he choked a bit as he spoke and I thought, the only thing worse than never seeing your father cry might be actually seeing him cry.

"I'm... I'm sorry about that but... but I do love you, even if I haven't been good at saying it."

"Thanks Dad." But I couldn't bring myself to return the gesture.

# A TIME BEYOND FORGETTING

### Grace L. Sutherland

## GRACE L. SUTHERLAND

Grace L. Sutherland is the fiction-writing alter-ego of Lynn Fowler, publisher of Birdcatcher Books. Lynn's father was a writer, and she couldn't escape the gene pool. She writes general market fiction under a pen name to distinguish it from the non-fiction and poetry she writes as Lynn B. Fowler.

As Grace, she is the author of the novel Next Year in Huntsville, and Just Grace, a collection of short stories. Lynn is a member of the Alliance of Independent Authors.

Find Grace at

http://gracelsutherland.com

<https://www.facebook.com/GraceLSutherland/>

<https://twitter.com/GraceLSWriter>

## A TIME BEYOND FORGETTING

A crow squarks raucously outside the window. In the garden, the irises you loved so much are in bloom: deep purple, chaste white, and your favourites, the happy yellow ones. A wind, somewhat stronger than a breeze, is shaking the wisteria, causing a purple shower to splatter the ground with beauty. A lizard raises his head from the rock where he has been sunbathing, to momentarily challenge my presence with one beady eye before deciding I am harmless and surrendering himself back to the warmth.

It seems so unfair. Life. All around me. Going on with living, oblivious that my life has shuddered to a halt.

Or is it my death that has ceased? For certainly these last years with you have been a living death. An agonising, gut-wrenching, soul-destroying death. "Till death do us part." But death did not part us, did it, my Love? Instead, your death-in-life pulled me in; wrapped its tentacles around me and held me tight. Could I have let you venture into that black night alone, when we had never been apart for fifty years? Of course not!

I remember the years before you forgot. The dazzling, sparkling apparition who swept into my life when I was a callow youth. Poetry in motion. The most beautiful creature in the universe. You lost her in these last years. No, not lost: just misplaced. I'm sure she was still there, buried under the mists of confusion. I could never lose her, nor even merely misplace her. Sure, the outer packaging had eroded, stretched and sagged (but no more than my own had), but she was always there, even after you lost sight of her. My girl. Always and forever, my girl.

The day you said yes, I thought I would die with joy. When you presented me with a tiny, fragile image of yourself my heart was ready to leap out of my body and dance around the room. With each of four more small bundles over the next ten years it was the same. Each was my pride and delight, and you - my girl - you were the sunshine of my life.

Not that life itself was always sunshine. In those early years we barely had two pennies to rub together. Remember that funny little house with walls that came to the middle of windows, and how the gas man refused to connect the stove because he said it was too dangerous? Of course, you haven't remembered, these past few years. Maybe you do now?

Then there were the tragedies. How could I forget that awful day when Susan, chasing her ball, ran onto the road in front of a truck? The screech of brakes, the pungent smell of burning rubber. Every time I hear that sound or smell that smell, I freeze, even today. I see again our fair-haired angel lying in a tangle of limbs and blood. Even now the image haunts my dreams. Perhaps, for this, it was best that you forgot. More merciful. Yet I remember too your resilience. Your peaceful, though painful, acceptance of the things we cannot change. I was supposed to be the strong one, but you carried me through that time.

Other triumphs and tragedies came and passed: graduations, marriages, redundancies, bankruptcy. That last one was particularly hard. Yet through it all your light continued to shine. My girl. My pride and joy.

Our offspring went off to make their own ways in life, and another generation came to delight us. Remember how it felt to hold our first grandchild? We agreed there was no experience to equal it. But you forgot. Or maybe you just put the memory away for safe keeping, somewhere where you would be able to find it again, but then forgot where that place was. Perhaps you have found it again now.

At first I told myself it was just a normal part of getting older, the forgetting. Little things: car keys, saucepans, the television remote. We made a game of finding a single home for each, and making sure that they were put back there every time. But then you would forget what that place was, and would get cranky with me, accusing me of changing the spot.

Words went next. You would begin a conversation, then stop mid-sentence, circling your hands in front of you as though trying desperately to conjure the words out of mid air, only to give up and end up saying, "Oh, you know, that THING!"

Confusion began to take hold. In familiar surroundings you would look around, afraid, not knowing where you were. It became obvious that my girl was slipping deeper and deeper into that swirling fog that had become your mind.

"Put her in a home," people began to say. "She needs full time care." "You won't be able to cope."

"Soon she won't know you, anyway." They were right on that last one. Time quickly came when you would look at me with empty, unrecognising eyes. But put you away? How could I? You might not recognise me, but I still knew you. You were still my girl. Those memories that had slipped away into the depths for you, were my memories too. I couldn't let you - or them - go.

So I held you here. Friends stopped coming around. They couldn't handle being in a room with someone who wasn't there. Didn't know what to say or how to react. Felt embarrassed. So stopped.

Family came for a little longer. It was hard for them when you didn't know them; but when you began to react in anger, yelling at them that they were intruders wanting to steal your stuff, and to get out or you would call the police, it was the last straw. They, too, stopped calling.

Then it was just us. Me and my girl. I tried to draw out that spark that I knew was buried somewhere deep within. I showed you photos of our glory days. Played on the piano the tunes that once you loved. Walked you around the garden pointing out your favourite flowers. Even sang to you - I figured that if anything would stir a memory, my dreadful voice would have to do the trick. Remember how you would laughingly tell me, "Please! Sing solo - so low we can't hear you!" Occasionally a flicker of recognition would cross your face, and the slightest upturn bend your lips. When it did, my heart thudded and hope returned. But increasingly often my efforts passed by you as if there had been a brick wall between us. And every time they did, a little more of me died.

At times I wished that I, too, could forget. That I, too, could slip into that unknowing, uncaring oblivion that had engulfed your life. Instead I struggled all the harder to remember for both of us. I resorted to writing, scribbling down every tiny scrap of our lives that I could drag back from the depths of my own recollections. Do you remember that picnic when Howie the dog stole all the sausages, and we had to resort to eating bread with tomato sauce? Or the time when Alan drove his go-cart down the hill and forgot how to brake, ending up smashed against a tree at the bottom? The go-cart was destroyed, but thankfully Alan was not damaged. Or the time when Mrs Merriweather next door (nasty old biddy) dumped her garbage over our fence because some rotten apples from our tree had fallen in her yard? No, I know you couldn't recall any of it. But I remembered. I remembered for both of us, and I wrote it down so that I couldn't forget.

So often in these last years you saw me as the enemy. Yelled at me. Swore - something you have never done before. Beat fragile, feeble fists against my chest. Cried again and again that you hated me. Threatened to call in the cops; the army; even, one time, the Queen of England. And with each word, each punch, each threat, I died a little more.

For five years you have been dead in all but body, and I have clung to your corpse, wishing it to be otherwise. Now, finally, your body has caught up with your soul, and you have slipped from this life. My girl has gone. My life is ended.

Or has my death ended? Has your death ended? For five years you have lived in the place of forgetting. Dare I believe that you have now returned to the place of remembering? That when I breathe my last, poetry in motion will dance toward me, arms outstretched, laughing and shouting, "Hey! Do you remember when ..."?

# I WAS THERE

### Margot Ogilvie

## MARGOT OGILVIE

One of the judges for the 2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition, Margot Ogilvie is a 56-year-old married mother of three from South Australia, who authored an anthology of biographies, You Can Be Another Great Australian, in 2008. She is currently studying for an Advanced Diploma in Professional Writing, through which she developed a passion for short story writing. Margot's work features in numerous short story anthologies, and has won several short story competitions.

Margot loves reading, and all things Australian: its vast landscape, its strong people, its deep history and the hope it offers for the future. She has travelled widely with her family on many extensive home-schooling 'excursions.'

## I WAS THERE

Parramatta, New South Wales, 1853

"Gammar, can you be my show 'n tell at school tomorrow?" The back door clattered shut behind seven-year-old John as he hurried to find his great-grandmother. Betsy startled, embarrassed at being caught dozing in the rocking chair her daughter had put on the back verandah for that very purpose.

"Why would anyone at school be interested in what this ol' lady has to say, John?"

"Well, we been learning about our beginnings in this country, Gammar, and the teacher tells it different to what I've heard from you."

"How can that be, John? What's your teacher saying?"

"Well, he ain't said nothing 'bout the surprises."

"Well, it's not much of a story without them, now is it?"

"Tell me the story again, Gammar. Tell me again about the surprises waiting here for you that first day."

"Well," she couldn't resist the pleading in his eyes, "I woke up that first morning on the beach of Port Jackson. It took me a while to work out where I was. Wakefulness seeped through my brain, gently chasing my dreams away like sunrise dispersing shadows. The first thing I noticed was the stillness. I was no longer being rocked by ocean waves."

John settled into a chair beside her.

"I'd spent nearly nine months aboard the Lady Penrhyn, tossed on the high seas, surrounded by sea-sickness, home-sickness and soul-sickness. Finally, I'd spent a night on solid ground."

"But you hadn't slept before then, Gammar. Don't forget the part about the gaol."

"You're right, John, I hadn't slept well even before I sailed halfway around the world. It started when I chanced to steal some cheese from a market stall. It was the only way I could think to feed my hungry younger brothers and sisters. But luck was not on my side. I got caught and landed meself in Newgate Prison, along with half of London, it seemed. I spent weeks trying to sleep there, three to a bunk, not trusting the women around me enough to close both eyes.

"I made one friend there, though. Lizzie. She knew how to handle the rough girls. Chance was on my side this time and Lizzie and me managed to stay together when some toff in an office somewhere got it into his head to make some changes. He set to fixing the overcrowding in London's gaols by moving prisoners into old ships in the Thames River. The authorities called those dark, damp, disease-ridden, rotting ships 'hulks'. I called them home for untold months. We lived surrounded by floggings, hard labour, hopelessness and death. And a stench I've never forgot.

"But, back to that first day . . . the memory of that foul odour paled as I realised everything had changed, again. The freshness in the air wasn't a dream. It lingered even after I was fully awake. The air was scented with pure crispness, the sun was bright, even at that early hour, and I wished I could soak in the novelty of it forever."

"But it gets so hot in the sun, Gammar."

"Yes, but it was so different from England's dullness. Even the summers back there seemed gloomy compared to the brightness we found here.

"We wanted to explore a bit before the guards came and assigned us to work details. Even remembering I was a convict, bound to obey commands for nearly seven more years, seemed less offensive in this fresh, bright place, with these women."

"Teacher said they was awful, nasty women, Gammar?"

"He might think that, but a strange comradery had developed, replacing the catfighting and distrust. We'd shared such horrific conditions for so long. And we all felt the terror of starting over in a strange new land. It bonded us together. Adversity united us as we spent night after storm-tossed night wondering aloud and worrying about what we faced half way around the earth.

"Lizzie and I were just folding up our rough, scratchy blankets when raucous laughter erupted from a stand of nearby trees."

"Ah, I love the kookaburra part." John mimicked the maniacal titter of his favourite bird.

"Well, I didn't know it was a kookaburra when I heard it that day. I didn't know what it was. Lizzie and I inched gingerly toward the unfamiliar trees. The cackling turned hysterical and we couldn't help but laugh along, especially when we discovered it was a bird laughing at us.

"We hadn't had a good laugh in such a long time. We decided this new land could well be full of surprises. And not all bad ones at that. We wandered further, marvelling at the glorious gum trees, different from anything we'd ever seen before. The bright red waratah, and the pink and red bottlebrushes surprised us with their bold beauty. So much vivid colour, hidden amongst the grey-green bush.'

"What about the guards, Gammar. Teacher said they were mean and brutal to you convicts."

"He's right, at least in the beginning. The marines charged with guarding us on board were as cruel and callous as the prison guards, or worse, ready to thrash a trouble-maker with their cat o' nine tails. Then, as we sailed further from home, they changed. They were tossed on wild seas for endless months just like we were. They too suffered the lousy food, the lack of water and hygiene, and the fear of the unknown. And it tempered some of them.

"They never admitted to being afraid, of course, or softened enough to show a moment's kindness. They had an image to protect, after all. But chances are, deep down, they were as homesick and as terrified as I was over having to live so far from everything we knew."

"You didn't know the animals either, did you Gammar?"

"We brought some familiar ones with us – like the horses that sailed on the Lady Penrhyn with me. But just imagine how it felt to see the unique animals of this new land peeking out from their hiding places to welcome us: the kangaroo, bounding about using its tail like a third leg; the koala, balancing in the fork of a tree with a baby on its back; and the emu. What were we to make of that strange new creature? We'd never seen anything like those peculiar animals before. More and more wondrous surprises in this place."

"There's one other thing Teacher said, Gammar. You have to come and set him straight. He told us the natives were primitive and hostile."

"Sadly, John, people try to make heroes of themselves by making others look bad. When we first came across the people who lived here long before we arrived, they were as curious about us as we were about them. But timid and suspicious too, just like us. Sometimes we amused them, like when the men tried to cut down the enormously strong trees to build with, and their tools broke. It wasn't so funny when they blasted those trees right out of the ground with gunpowder. A frightening noise for such quiet, gentle people.

"Our arrival meant as much change for them as we were facing, but I discovered that, like anyone, if we treated them respectfully, they were civil back, helpful even. As far as surviving here goes, they were way smarter than us. Don't know how we would've made it without their help."

John jumped up from his chair. "Now, Gammar, tell me again about the best surprise of all."

"You mean apart from the joy of the kookaburra, the boldness of the waratah, the uniqueness of the bush animals, and the kindness of the native people." Betsy was teasing her great-grandson, knowing full well he knew the story by heart. He wiggled and squirmed, eagerly anticipating the words he loved.

"Come on, Gammar."

"Well, you know it wasn't all easy. Things were tough. It was hard getting used to different weather, unusual animals, unpredictable people."

"How'd you do it, Gammar? What made you keep going?" John was nearly beside himself with expectation.

"I'd felt hopeless for so long, ever since my dad was killed in the mines, leaving me, the oldest, to provide for six siblings and ma, who never quite recovered from her grief. Things only got worse when I stole to feed my family, and in gaol, despair set in. Now, here I was in this brand-new land, full of its unique and special treasures, hidden here just for me to discover, right when I needed them most.

"It was like the biggest treasure hunt ever, and each time I found a treasure, I felt unique and special too. The more I discovered, the stronger the feeling got. I felt hope rising up inside me for the first time in forever. It was exactly what I needed to start my new life in this new land with all its challenges."

"That's what Teacher needs to hear, Gammar. Bert could do with knowing it too, since his Dad broked his leg so he has to do all the work. And what about all the farmers needing rain. Hope'd help them too. Why doesn't Teacher tell it your way?"

"Well, yes, they need hope more than anyone, but your teacher only knows what he's heard, and read. I know how it was that first day, because I was there."

"Will you come and tell it your way, Gammar."

"I'd love to, John."

# DON'T CALL ME FLORENCE

### Alanah Andrews

## ALANAH ANDREWS

The third judge for the 2018 Birdcatcher Books Short Story Competition, Alanah Andrews is an English teacher, mother and writer in Victoria. She spent her younger years growing up in New Zealand where she thought it was normal to have a steaming mud pool and a boiling lake in her backyard. Primarily writing speculative fiction, she has won several awards for her short stories which have been published in a range of anthologies. A science fiction nerd, her most exciting experience so far was when one of her stories was read aloud at a literary festival by an actor from Stargate.

Alanah specialised in creative writing at Monash University where she studied a BA in Professional Communication. She also has a Master of Teaching and loves being able to foster a love of reading in her students. She has published a collection of short stories titled 'Beyond,' and has also written a Young Adult Dystopian novel called 'Eve of Eridu.'

## DON'T CALL ME FLORENCE

"Flozz? It's time to go."

Her mother's voice echoes around the house, bouncing carelessly from one room to the next, up the staircase, and into the wardrobe where Flozz is hiding.

"Flozz? Where are you?"

There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs, thumping loudly with irritation. A moment later, the clothes shielding Flozz from the world are parted and replaced by her mother's frowning face.

"Florence Rogers, stop playing games. We need to leave. Now."

The final syllable is delivered with such finality that most eight-year-olds would have leapt out of the wardrobe, hurriedly voicing their apologies. But not Flozz. Instead, her eyes narrow, and her bottom lip juts out.

"Don't call me Florence. And I'm not going."

"Oh yes you are, little miss. Your father and I are going away for the night, and your grandfather is so excited to spend some time with you."

"No, he's not," says Flozz, tracing one chubby finger along the floorboards. "Can't you just leave me here alone? I'll be good?"

"Flozz..."

"Last time I went there all Grandad wanted to do was garden. He wouldn't even turn the TV on. I spent the whole time in my bedroom reading." She sighs, a deep sigh which seems unfitting for a plucky eight-year-old. "I miss Grandma."

"I know. I do too."

"Grandma used to put DVDs on after dinner. The Sound of Music. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang."

Her mother is silent, and Flozz thinks for a moment. "You'll be back in the morning?"

"First thing," says her mother.

"Like, sunrise?"

Her mother laughs, reaching forward to ruffle her daughter's long, blonde hair. "Maybe a little later than that. We'll be there right after breakfast, okay?"

Flozz hesitates and then crawls forward out of her hiding place. The afternoon sun peeks through the window, bathing her suitcase in a golden light. She lifts the handle and walks slowly down the stairs, listening to the suitcase bump loudly as it falls onto each wooden step.

Her grandfather's house is big and old, even older than her grandfather who she thinks must be about a hundred. When they knock on the front door, Flozz looks up at her mother. "You could have at least let me bring the iPad."

At that moment, the door opens, and her grandad's kind face pops into view.

"Hello, Florence."

Flozz frowns. "It's Flozz. Florence is an old person's name."

Her mother narrows her eyes. "Flozz ..." she warns.

A flash of sadness appears on her grandfather's face, but he waves one hand around in the air as though swatting the words away.

"You're right, Florence is an old person's name. Flozz is nice too."

Her mother gives Flozz a be-good-or-else look, and says her farewells. Then the two of them – grandfather and granddaughter – are left standing alone in the hallway. The floorboards and the silence stretch out before them. They gaze at each other for a long moment, before her grandfather finally breaks the silence.

"Would you like to come out to the garden?"

Flozz sighs and considers saying that she has lots of homework to do, shutting herself in her room and reading all weekend. Just like last time. What's so special about the garden, anyway? Why can't they play a board game or watch TV?

But she remembers her mother's look, and the sad look that crossed her grandfather's face when she told him not to call her Florence. "Okay," she says simply.

Her grandfather looks delighted, and Flozz follows him out the back door and into a transformed world. She gasps, staring wide-eyed at the array of colours in front of her. She has been in her grandparents' garden before, but it never looked like this.

Through the little wooden gate lies a blanket of vibrant flowers. Tulips, begonias, marigolds, and a dozen other brightly coloured blooms adorn the ground. Flozz follows the little rocky path through the flower patch - her grandfather close behind – turns right, and finds herself in a large vegetable patch. The pebbled path travels through it and on, into the unknown.

"Florence - I mean Flozz - I'm going to do some work here for a while," says her granddad. "But feel free to explore."

Flozz doesn't need to be told twice. The garden has never seemed this large or exciting before. Her grandfather has clearly spent a lot of time tending to the plants, cultivating them and turning them into a floral fantasy fit for a storybook.

Walking further along the path, Flozz finds herself in a rose garden, and the sweet scent is almost overwhelming. There are all different kinds of roses, and she wanders along until she reaches a bush with the most beautiful light pink flowers. She stares at it for a while, noticing the gradual change in colour as the blooms become almost white in the centre. Surely Granddad will love some flowers to put in a vase on the dining room table, she thinks. She reaches forward and plucks one of the stems, then two, then three. She stops, and suddenly wonders if she will be in trouble. But there is nothing she can do now, the flowers have already been picked.

Shrugging, she turns and skips back along the path to the vegetable patch where her grandfather is digging up some carrots.

When he sees the roses in her hand, his face goes red.

Flozz feels like crying. "I'm – I'm sorry," she stutters. "I thought they would look nice on the table."

Her grandfather snatches the roses from her, and her face crumples. She does start sniffling now, little hot tears escaping from the edges of her eyes. She wants to go up into her room and read her book. She wants to go home.

Her grandfather sighs, rubbing one dirt-encrusted hand across his face and leaving traces of earth behind.

"No, it's fine. I'm sorry. It's just that these were her favourite flowers."

Flozz smears the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand. "Grandma's?"

"Yes."

They stand there quietly for a few minutes, and Flozz listens to the birds chirping happily in the trees around her, the sun nearly hidden beneath the horizon.

"You look like her, you know. You've got the same eyes."

Flozz doesn't say anything. But she does miss her grandma, and likes the idea that some part of her might still be alive, even if it is only in Flozz's eyes.

"Come on, let's go inside," says her grandfather at last.

He collects the vegetables, and Flozz hesitates for a moment before picking up the three roses, glowing white in the evening light. They head back down the path and into the house.

"There's a vase under the sink," he says.

Flozz fills the vase with water and pops it in the centre of the table, slipping the rose stems carefully into the opening. The house is silent, waiting. Flozz traces a finger on the wooden table top.

"Granddad... We used to always watch a film after dinner."

Her grandfather shrugs. "Haven't watched the idiot box since before Florence... before your Grandma..." He clears his throat.

Flozz nods. "But maybe tonight? There's some DVDs on the shelf... the ones we used to watch. The Sound of Music. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang..."

Her grandfather shakes his head. "I don't even know how to tune the television to the DVD player anymore."

"I can do it."

He looks at her, and Flozz is sure that he will refuse. "Really?"

She nods and he sighs.

"Okay then, you get it sorted and I'll make dinner." She smiles and skips along the hallway.

***

As promised, Flozz's mother arrives early the next morning.

"How did it go?" she asks her father when he opens the door.

"Fine."

She's not sure how to interpret the single word response. Did her daughter behave? Did she shut herself up in her room and refuse to communicate with her grandfather? It's like her grandmother's death has placed a wall between Flozz and her grandfather which can't be shaken.

"Flozz, time to go," calls her mother. But Flozz is nowhere to be seen. Her mother marches up to the bedroom, opens the wardrobe and peers in to see the little girl hiding in the dark on the bottom shelf.

"Flozz, what are you doing?"

"I don't want to go."

Her mother smiles, exasperated. "Did you have a good time then?"

Flozz nods.

"Tell you what, shall we see if your grandfather would like you to come and visit next weekend, too?"

Flozz smiles and crawls out of the wardrobe. She collects her suitcase and walks slowly down the long hallway.

"Here, take these," says her grandfather, passing her a bag filled with vegetables from the garden. On top lies a bouquet of roses, carefully placed so that they don't get squashed by a rogue vegetable.

Flozz passes the bag to her mother, and then throws her arms around her grandfather, squeezing tight.

"Bye, Flozz," says her grandad, gruffly.

"That's okay," she says. "You can call me Florence."

##  ALSO FROM BIRDCATCHER BOOKS

### Fiction

Next Year In Huntsville by Grace L. Sutherland

Just Grace by Grace L. Sutherland

### Anthologies

Fledglings: An Anthology

Crossroads: An Anthology

Mosaic: A Collection of Short Stories

### Poetry

Bush Ballads and City Songs by Henry Robert Fowler

Sonshine and Shadows by Lynn B. Fowler

### Children

A Big Book Of Short Stories For Small People

### Christian

My Little Chats With God by Lynn B. Fowler

Real, Radical and Revolutionary by Lynn B. Fowler

