 
# FLEDGLINGS: An Anthology

## Edited by Lynn Fowler

This anthology is © copyright 2016 Birdcatcher Books. Each story is copyright to its author.

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All stories in this anthology are fiction, and do not represent any real person either living or dead.

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### CONTENTS

Introduction

A Ball of Wool

The Late Valentine Lavercombe

The Seahorse

Park Dwellers

Konstantin

Personalised Plates

A Measure of Probability

When We Were Brothers

Butterflies

Eighty-Five Miles West of Geelong 1842

First Notes

Reunited

My Boy

Mama's Hands

I Remember Mr Toobey

Heart and Soul

The Lady Tree

The Wall

Red Vignettes

Tongue Tied

First Day on The Job

### More Contents

Embers of Life

Simply Simon

True Blue

Final Release

Kay's War

Guardian of the River Bank

Miss Elliot's New Dress

The Garden

The River Mouth

Hangman's Shoes

Setting Sun

1.17 A.M.

James - ADHD (A Dippy Happy Dog)

### INTRODUCTION

_Fledglings_ is a compilation of the best entries from Birdcatcher Books' 2015 Short Fiction Award. Contestants were not given a set topic on which to write, with the result that the entries covered a wide range of topics and genres, as is seen in this anthology.

Some of the authors are established writers who have been published multiple times, but for many this is the first time they have had work in print. The title, _Fledglings_ , reflects both this and the fact that the anthology itself is the first published by Birdcatcher Books. A separate competition to suggest a title for the anthology was won by Vicki Winter, whose story Guardian of the River Bank is included in this anthology.

Judging for the Short Fiction Award was blind, with no identifying information appearing on the stories. In the first phase two judges (Lynn Fowler and Val Henderson) worked separately, awarding each story a score out of 100. These scores were then added and averaged, with entries that scored above a pre-set pass score being offered inclusion in the anthology. In the second phase of the judging, the top ten entries were passed to a reading group who scored them solely on reader engagement. One of these unfortunately had to be withdrawn, leaving a first prize winner (Heart and Soul, by Carol Ann Martin), a second prize winner (Setting Sun, by Simon Crase) and seven honourable mentions: Konstantin, by Rachel Sweasy; First Notes, by Jessica Clements; Mama's Hands, and I Remember Mr Toobey, both by Jennie Linnane; The Wall, by Kat Pekin; Guardian of the River Bank, by Vicki Winter; and Hangman's Shoes, by Simon Crase.

I have also included one of my own stories, #ABallOfWool, written under the name of my fiction-writing alter ego, Grace L. Sutherland, and one by Val Henderson, James - ADHD (A Dippy Happy Dog)

Both as a writer and publisher, and as someone who is keen to see young writers develop their craft and go on to rewarding careers, it has been a joy to be involved in the Short Fiction Award and the publication of this anthology. I am hopeful that both the Award and the Anthology will become an annual event, and that many more writers will have the opportunity to have their work made available to the public.

It is my hope that, for the fledglings included in this anthology, their maiden flight will not be their last, but will see them launched into new careers as writers. For you, the readers, my hope is that you will enjoy hours of entertainment from this book, and will come back next year looking for the next anthology from Birdcatcher Books.

Lynn Fowler, July 2016

###  A BALL OF WOOL

#### by Grace L. Sutherland

"Um ... 'scuse me ... I think you dropped this."

Elizabeth looked up, curbing her instinct to recoil at the apparition in front of her. The girl was skinny; lank, mousy hair fell raggedly around her shoulders; lip, nose and eyebrows all sported piercings, not to mention several up each ear; a snake tattoo coiled from the back of her hand, around her arm and up to her nearly-naked shoulder. What there was of her clothing left very little to the imagination.

"Oh, thank you, dear. It must have fallen out of my bag." She took the soft pink ball of wool and returned it to the tapestry tote by her side.

"OK if I sit here?" The girl indicated the seat opposite Elizabeth.

"But of course, dear." The girl sat, and for some time they both remained silent, each looking out the train window whilst every so often stealing surreptitious glances at the other. Elizabeth kept a firm elbow on the handbag at her side.

Finally the girl spoke. "Are you knitting something for one of your grandchildren?"

"No, I only have one grandchild, and she would be a teenager by now. I have no idea where she is. But I love to knit, so I make things for needy children."

"Wow. That's really kind." The girl hesitated a moment, then went on, "I've got a kid. She's two and a half."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "My goodness! You don't look old enough!"

"I'm seventeen!" The girl protested indignantly. "Besides, it wasn't my fault. I was raped."

"Oh, you poor thing," Elizabeth commiserated. "Yet you kept the child?"

"Sure. It's not her fault that her old man's a pig. Me Dad wanted me to get rid of it, but I told him that would be over my dead body. He said he could arrange that, too. That's when I moved out."

"So how do you manage?"

"I got a room. It's not much, but it's a roof over our heads. I pick up a bit of work here and there – I don't do nothin' wrong, just housework, washin' dishes at cafes, runnin' messages, stuff like that."

"What about your mother?"

"Mum died when I was a kid. Cancer. There was just Dad and me after that. But most of the time there was just me, 'cause he was too busy drinkin' and gamblin' and chasin' every woman he laid eyes on."

Elizabeth nodded in mute understanding.

Finally the girl broke the silence. "What about you? How did you lose track of your only granddaughter?"

"Her mother died when she was five. That was also cancer. My daughter was the most beautiful person you could meet. She was pretty, a slim blonde with sparkling blue eyes, but far more importantly she was beautiful on the inside. Kind to everyone. Brought home enough stray and injured animals to start a menagerie. Full of life and fun. Wrote wonderful poetry. Why she had to die, and not that wretch of a husband of hers, is beyond me. He was just like your father: a drunkard, gambler and womaniser. I could even have forgiven him all that, but I could never forgive him for beating her as he used to. To this day I am convinced that his bashings helped to trigger her cancer. After my daughter died, he took their little girl and disappeared. I never heard from them again."

Elizabeth's eyes were misty. The girl's eyes were wide. "What ... what did you say your daughter's name was?" she stammered.

"I didn't. But it was Cara. Cara Elizabeth. Cara means dear one, and Elizabeth – which is also my name – means beloved of God. It fitted her perfectly."

"Oh my God!" The girl exclaimed. "That was my mother's name! And it is my daughter's name, after her. My mum loved poetry, too. I remember her reading a poem to me. Something like 'Swinging in sunshine, up in the air, free as the ... something, something ... wind in my hair.' I don't remember any more of it."

Elizabeth was now sitting forward, her gaze much more intent.

"You said your mother died of cancer. Do you know what kind of cancer it was? And by the way, what is your name, dear?"

"My name is Rose. Mum loved roses, especially the big yellow ones. When I was little my hair was really blonde, like hers, and she used to say I reminded her of them. Mum died of breast cancer when I was five."

"Do you know what your mother's maiden name was?"

"It was a two-part name. The second part was Jones. The first part started with a B ... Barton? Beetson? I'm not sure."

The older woman took a deep breath. "My name is Elizabeth Broughton-Jones. My daughter, Cara, had a daughter named Rose. She named her that because her beautiful blonde hair reminded her of the yellow roses she loved so much. She died of breast cancer when her daughter was five, leaving the child in the care of her despicable father. The lines you just quoted were from a poem she wrote." She broke off, her voice trembling. "The coincidences are just too great, my dear. I don't know how this miracle has come about, but I believe you are my long lost granddaughter."

Rose sat open mouthed. When she found her voice again, all she could say was "Wow!"

After what seemed an eternity, Elizabeth spoke again. "I am reasonably well off. I will not have my granddaughter and my great granddaughter living in squalor. You must come and live with me."

"You're kidding!" Rose gasped. "You don't even know me!"

"I've heard enough to know you are genuine. Here's my address and phone number. Get your things sorted out and come over as soon as you can." She scribbled on the back of an envelope out of her handbag and handed it to Rose, then leaned over and hugged her. "Now, this is where I get off. I will look forward to seeing you again and to meeting my great granddaughter soon."

A little later Rose was opening the door of the tiny room she rented above a delicatessen. As she entered, she smiled at the newspaper on the table and sent forth a silent thanks for reporters who felt it their civic duty to reveal every minute detail about the lives of the rich and not-so-famous. She was proud of herself, too. She had done her research well, and it was about to pay off handsomely. Memorising the few lines of the poem was a brilliant manoeuvre, and she was sure it had helped to clinch the deal. It would take a bit getting used to the new name, and getting her daughter to respond to a new name, too, but it would be worth it. She would be a really wonderful granddaughter – and heir – to Lady Elizabeth Broughton-Jones, the elderly, lonely, millionaire widow who loved to ride on trains and knit.

At about the same time, Elizabeth was entering the heavy wooden door of her rambling, dilapidated mansion. Her silent thanks was for lazy reporters who would blindly publish any story that was handed to them ready to print, without bothering to check the facts. She had known she would only have to ride the trains for a while before some gullible and greedy young thing popped up to claim her place as the long-lost Rose (who had never really existed.) Even though she could have done without the piercings and tatts, this child would scurry to care for her and meet her every whim in order to guarantee her place in the will, and so ensure that Elizabeth would never have to face her fear of a future in the dreaded nursing home. Only after Elizabeth's demise would she learn that the estate had disappeared many years before due to Lord Broughton-Jones' gambling habit.

Elizabeth dropped the ball of soft pink wool into the garbage. After a dozen or so stints on the floor of a railway carriage, it was too dirty to use. Besides, it had served its purpose well.

### GRACE L. SUTHERLAND

Grace L. Sutherland is the fiction-writing alter-ego of Lynn Fowler, owner of Birdcatcher Books. Lynn has been writing for most of her life, mostly Christian non-fiction, and having recently ventured into the world of fiction felt the need to use a pen-name to keep the aspects of her writing separate. At the time of publication she is working on her first novel, Next Year in Huntsville, which she hopes to release before the end of 2016.

Find her at:

http://gracelsutherland.com

 https://www.facebook.com/Grace-L-Sutherland-Writer-1653002318303985/

###  THE LATE VALENTINE LAVERCOMBE

#### by Les Davies

Delvene and I had been friends just about as long as we could remember; our fathers had worked together and our families had then lived in the same street in Adelaide.

Dad was a manager with a major wool broking company and when he had been promoted to take charge of one of the largest wool sheds in Western Australia he'd made sure that Delvene's father, his mate, was also promoted to the number two position; in short, we'd always been together. That was until Delvene's husband, Frank, had passed away about six months before.

I hadn't seen her since the funeral. I decided that it was about time for me to rectify that so, armed with a cream cake and a bottle of good Chardonnay, I made my visit.

*

It wasn't as awkward or embarrassing as I though it would be and we got on very well indeed, as we always had. The cake soon disappeared and the wine started to go in the same direction; we talked of people we knew, of old friends and then old times. Del rose from her chair and left the room suddenly, a bit of shuffling and banging upstairs and then she reappeared with a box.

"A big box of memories," she said and started handing me photos. There were photos of just about the whole of our lives, our respective yards in Adelaide, little school friends, Dad in his wartime uniform, our grandparents, our pets and so they went on.

I was really enjoying the exercise when Del got out of her chair again.

"I think it's time we had a cup of tea," she said as she marched off to her kitchen. I continued looking through the photos, then I found one that I thought was confusing.

"Del, this picture, do you remember anything about it?" She returned with two cups of tea, put them on the table then leaned over and looked at the picture, adjusting her glasses to get a better look,

"Ah yes! That's when we all went down to the beach at Glenelg for the day. There's your father and mother, there's mine and there we are playing in the sand."

"We'd have been about four and a half?" I questioned.

"Yes," she replied, "it was about two years after the war, 1947 I'd say."

"Who is that man looking at us, on the steps behind our parents?"

Her answer was automatic, "Oh! That's Dad's brother, my uncle Val."

"But your uncle Val died at sea the year before the war ended?" Del readjusted her glasses, looked even closer then dived into the box of photos, searching quickly for photos of her uncle Val that had been taken before he had died. She found three. One was a bit fuzzy, but the other two were as clear as could be. Holding first one then the other next to the one that I had found, it was clear that we were looking at the same man: uncle Val was standing on the steps behind us at Glenelg when he should have been dead three years since.

I'd been a widow for six years and Delvene was now a widow of six months. My much loved and very much missed husband had seen to it that I was comfortably well off after his demise. Unfortunately, because of his long illness, Frank hadn't been able to leave her quite as well off, so Delvene often had to scrimp a bit. The only thing missing from both of our lives, apart from our blokes that is, was a purpose. We both had grandchildren but they were all in their early teens and didn't need their Grannies as much these days.

We talked long and often about the mysterious uncle Val; she dug out the family birth certificates, letters, old Christmas cards and just about any documentation there was. It seemed that Val was her dad's younger brother, by far the cleverest and most talented member of the family, but as is so often the case with that sort of person, he was easily bored and was apt to get into all sorts of mischief to amuse himself. When war was forced upon them, Val was earmarked for a back room boffin's job but did a bunk one night. The next episode in his supposedly short life was a letter from the Military camp at Dempsey Hill in Singapore. He had joined the infantry and had been sent there to defend the Empire which, from the tone of his letter, he thought was very amusing. Then Del's grandparents, Val's mum and dad, started to get demands from some unsavoury characters regarding some very large and outstanding gambling debts. Questions addressed to Dempsey Hill were never answered; the police had to warn some very nasty people to keep away from the old folk. Then came the tragic news in a report that an evacuation ship fleeing Singapore had been torpedoed and sunk; the last heartbreaking report was of a badly rotted body being washed up on the beach with Val's identification tags. His parents were devastated for a number of months, but then seemed to come to terms with their loss.

Two bored old biddies (not extremely old), one with a bit of money and not much to do; we were intrigued by this man's life and death so we decided to become detectives, starting off with two tickets on The Indian Pacific from East Perth station to Adelaide. We'd decided that the train across the Nullarbor would be far more fun than an aeroplane. We checked into a nice little hotel just off the Rundle Mall. Armed with a set of enlarged Val photos, we caught the tram from Victoria Square to where the mystery began, Glenelg. Arriving there late morning we were at a loss as to what to do next. How to find out about someone who may or may not been there fifty years before? Then the answer came to me, when in doubt ask a policeman. As it happened we asked two, a policeman and a policewoman.

"I'm not sure, Madam, I have to confess that the face looks familiar, but I wasn't born fifty five years ago," the policeman said.

"You might try the library," added the obviously more intelligent policewoman. We did, but fifty five years is a very long time, although all the library staff took an interest none of them could cast any light on the mysterious Val Lavercombe or his picture. As is sometimes the case fate couldn't help herself and poked her nose in. Fate, in this instance, was an aged and nosey lady customer of the library who could not resist stickybeaking at the cluster of people looking at the photos.

"I've never heard of Val Lavercombe," a voice said loudly, "but I know who that picture looks like as a young man. It looks like Gareth Harrington, you know? That chain of shops, Harrington Chemists."

We were very excited, invited the old lady to lunch and questioned her closely. "Yes, Mr. Harrington started working in a pharmacy, bought it and expanded from there. He introduced some very successful beauty products."

"Is he still alive? Where does he live?" Our questions just poured out, but the old lady had told us about all she remembered and was more interested in eating as much of the menu as she could.

We'd finished and were just about to go our own way when the lady stopped. "Come to think of it, I seem to remember reading that old Mr. Harrington was going to expand into Western Australia and was going there to live near his family. That would be about five years ago." We thanked her, while trying not to show how excited we were. She was already dropping hints about a large gratuity. We went back to our hotel.

The next day we were wondering what our next move would be when the desk rang our room; it seemed that a gentleman would like to meet us and could we meet him in the lobby. We agreed and said that we'd be down in about ten minutes. He rose to meet us. He was immaculately and expensively dressed but his girth indicated that exercise was not part of his daily life. He started off in a friendly, conversational manner.

"I understand that you are looking into the history of one Val Lavercombe?" He asked with a smile.

"My late uncle," said Delvene. "I'm afraid we haven't been very successful; do you have any information that may help us?"

"Only that my clients, who are a powerful organisation, would dearly like to catch up with him." He stood and handed Del his card, his tone and manner changed to a more sinister and aggressive one. "Should you get any information, then my advice would be to let me know. My clients are not people to get on the wrong side of." He left without a smile or a "goodbye". Del and I looked at each other, both shocked at the change in his attitude and his threatening manner. We went up to our room, packed, checked out and got the first taxi to the airport.

It was good to be back in Western Australia, back in our own little, but safe, houses. We took a few days to settle in and then back on the trail, but with a bit more discretion. It was quite simple from that point; a look in Yellow Pages got us the head office address of Harrington Chemists. Gareth Harrington's address was a little harder. The office contacted his home, a young "minder" met us and interviewed us and it was only then were we invited to his home. The same young man answered the door of the Peppermint Grove mansion and showed us into a lounge area looking out over the Swan River.

A very old man, well into his eighties, rose to greet us. He looked at Delvene, then threw open his arms and hugged her. "Little Del, my lovely niece," he said with tears in his eyes. In minutes we were all crying. "You are my uncle Val," she sobbed.

We sat and talked for hours. He knew my family from the old days and in the beginning we talked of the people we knew, but it was inevitable that the conversation came around to Val's "death." We were sort of led into the subject when we related the incident of the sleazy lawyer's conduct.

Val laughed. "They are a nasty lot but not too bright. They've been after me for well over fifty years and for a deal of that time I've been right under their noses. I'm safe enough as Gareth Harrington as long as you two say nothing." Then he told the story of his death; he'd been taking care of the accounts of that organisation, but discovered after a short time that it was, in fact, a criminal group. As he had been busy secreting large amounts of their profits away from the eyes of the tax man and the police he'd decided to take some for himself. The mob had eventually noticed that a big chunk of their capital had gone missing and it was at that juncture made himself go missing before the mob did it for him - so he joined the army and got himself posted overseas. He saw action in Malaya and later in Singapore.

"Gazza Harrington was badly injured when I carried him onto the junk that was evacuating us. We'd been in the same outfit from the start so I knew that he had no family, no friends as he wasn't a particularly nice bloke and, what was more important, he had no connection with the mob. He died just before the torpedo hit us, so I swapped my gear with his as the ship was sinking and that's when Val Lavercombe died and the unknown Gareth Harrington survived. His body being found was an added bonus."

He told us that he'd contacted his parents and Delvine's dad some months later and swore them all to secrecy. He'd taken some of the money he'd cornered to start his chemists' shop, using them to sell some natural skin creams he'd picked up from the Malay natives; the greater part of the money had funded some needy charities around the Adelaide area. Over the years he'd secretly kept in touch, he'd have never allowed the Glenelg photograph had he known about it. He'd surreptitiously funded the greater part of Frank's very expensive treatment without Del knowing about it.

"I'm well into my eighties now and rich enough not to care what that second rate crowd of 'wannabees' in Adelaide try on me. I can now enjoy the company of my one and only heiress until I have to go and explain myself to the real Gareth Harrington."

We said goodbye to Gazza Harrington for the first time and to Valentine Lavercombe for the second time six weeks ago. Now my very wealthy friend and I are wondering how Val is going to explain things to Gazza.

### LES DAVIES

On the outside I am an old bloke with five grandchildren but inside I am as young as I need to be.

I like to believe that I am reasonably fit, swimming one and a half kilometres three times a week and cycling ten kilometres plus at least twice a week. I gained my open water scuba diving ticket about three years ago.

I have taught myself to speak my mother tongue, Welsh, since coming to Australia. I already speak one African dialect and I'm presently teaching ( or trying to teach ) myself French.

As well as writing I also enjoyed painting however cancer in the palm of my right hand five and a half years ago resulted in me having to have most of that hand removed. I will try to return to painting at some stage.

Born in 1943, my first job was half a mile underground digging coal. Since then I qualified in engineering and have worked in a car factory, a copper mine in Zambia, a steelworks, contracting in Australia after I migrated in 1983, with my family, a biscuit factory and in the wool industry. I am now retired from things I formerly had to do and am busy doing things I want to do.

### THE SEAHORSE

#### by Susan Hood

Sandy as a hatchling turtle, I lay gazing at the ocean. The beach wasn't as crowded as normal because it was a Thursday. I was supposed to be in school.

The sun warmed my back and stole water droplets off my skin. I wondered what was deeper; the ocean or the sky? Maybe Tammy knows?

My big sister Tammy had woken me up this morning and said, "Hey Babs I had the wildest dream last night! I dreamt that a giant seahorse was at our beach and he promised to give us rides on his back if we came to visit him today!"

"But today's a school day," I told her as I sat up in bed.

"Aw come on Babs, a giant seahorse is way more exciting than school. And I've already figured out how we can cut school without Dad finding out."

"I dunno, Dad doesn't like us missing school." But Tammy wasn't listening to me.

"All we have to do is wait for Dad to drive around the corner after he drops us off near school. Then we hide in one of the gardens if anyone else comes by and when the coast is clear we'll just walk on down to the beach. So make sure you wear your swimmers under your dress and pack a towel in your schoolbag."

Tammy had just started her final year of primary school and she had already been in trouble three times. Being four years younger than her I didn't even know how to be so naughty. Cutting school was wrong, and I hated the idea of being caught, but I let Tammy talk me into it. I could never stand up to her, so if she said we were going to the beach then that's where we would go. And besides, it sounded way cool!

We hid for a long time in the bushes while other kids walked past with their mothers. Just like we used to when our Mother still lived with us. I couldn't watch so I buried my face in Tammy's backpack. When we emerged from our hiding place the street was strangely quiet and no longer familiar. Tammy held my hand and we ran as fast as we could across the road and away from the school. I felt like every teacher's eye was on me, and the principal himself was going to grab me by the ponytail at any moment.

Cars were rushing past in the opposite direction while we made our way to the beach. Tammy bounced along the pavement and I felt my excitement build with every step. I pretended we were on a secret mission, that the banana smoothies Dad made us for breakfast were to prepare us for an underwater adventure with giant sea horses and mermaids who would braid our hair with magical coral and seashells. Dad is good at being a Mum, actually his cooking is better than Mum's was, but still, he can't braid hair. A big creamy dog that looked like it had been painted in porridge followed us as far as the fish and chips shop – he was in on our secret.

The beach was bright and noisy, just as it should be. The smell of salt and sand was like a healthy meal and I nourished myself on the familiar scent of it. It was framed by jagged cliffs and the sea fanned out between them like a silk skirt with frothy white lace. The red and yellow flags were up, marking the safe place to swim and adults jogged along the boardwalk huffing and puffing in the brisk morning air. I savoured the moment, knowing that we won't get to live near the beach forever. I don't remember my parents getting divorced, I only know that Dad got us kids and the house, but the judge said that when I grow up, no one gets to keep the house so then the beach won't be ours either.

When we got to the edge of the boardwalk I kicked off my shoes and snuggled my toes into the gritty sand. The sun was still low in the sky and hadn't quite heated the tiny rocks yet.

"Tammy, do you think that Dad will be angry if he finds out we aren't at school?"

"Aw it's too late to worry about that now Babs, just think of the big old boring assembly we are missing and the stories we can tell our friends tomorrow!"

"But we will need to have a sick note to show our teachers."

"Yeah I'll write us some sick notes and pretend they were written by Mum. It will work because they don't have Mum's signature on record."

"That's really smart. But if Dad finds out, he might get angry at us, he might use that monster voice that he uses when he talks to Mum! And what if the police hear about it and try to take him away again!"

"Oh come on Babs, you can't spend your whole life worrying about that. They cleared him last time, so they will clear him again. We'll be ok."

I looked down and saw an old cigarette butt squashed and dried out - thinking it could blend in with the sand. We squeaked over to the rock pool where we laid out our towels and wriggled out of our stiff uniforms to reveal frilly swimming cozies.

"Do you suppose anyone here will think it's strange to see two kids by themselves at the beach on a school day?" I looked around nervously at a couple of sunbathers glistening with oil, an old man easing down the steps and a mother pushing her baby across the boardwalk in a pram with a sheet of cloth hiding the baby. Or maybe it wasn't a baby inside, and she wasn't really a mother, maybe she was on her own secret adventure?

"Come here Babs, I'll put this sunscreen on you, and if anyone asks I'll tell them that I'm your mother and I've decided to take you to the beach."

"I don't think anyone will believe that, you're too small."

"I'm bigger than you!"

I laughed at the silliness of it, but really it wasn't so far from the truth, Tammy was more of a mother to me than my real mother was.

As she rubbed the cream into by back I remembered the shame I had felt that day when I ran off on my own without telling anyone. I was trying to find a specific tree that I could see from my bedroom window. I didn't find it but I did find lots of other nice trees and gardens. When our neighbour eventually found me I was peeling from sunburn but I didn't know that I had been doing anything wrong until Tammy told me how worried everyone had been. When I was brought home Dad gave me a big hug and I saw water in his eyes. He made me promise not to leave him like that ever again. I promised, and I really meant it, I didn't want to hurt him by running off, I just did it because I wanted to explore and I didn't think that anyone would miss me.

We waded into the chilly water, I only went as far as my knees because it was still too cold. I climbed onto a rock and watched my sister dive in and begin her search for the giant seahorse.

"Hey Tammy, how big is the seahorse meant to be? Will it be able to carry us both at once?"

"Yeah, it's giant remember, it will take us on a ride all the way to the Great Barrier Reef and back!"

The day passed quickly as we tried to find the giant seahorse. We didn't find it but we did manage to build a sandcastle with a moat and a bridge that kept collapsing. If Dad had of been there he would have gotten the bridge to stay up. When we grew hungry we unpacked our lunch boxes and ate the Vegemite sandwiches on our towels. Two squawking seagulls came to join us and I gave them my crusts. They snatched and grabbed them off each other like adults with car keys. I hate that jangling car keys sound.

After lunch, I think Tammy might have been feeling guilty about taking me out of school and then not being able to find the seahorse, because she suggested that we play schools.

She found a bright red stone and drew on a large rock like it was a chalk board, she pretended to be a stiffly serious and started teaching me how to say the alphabet backwards in a sing song voice. By the time I mastered it the sun had passed to the other side of the sky and we had swum in the rock pool, the ocean bath and the bogey hole.

All too soon the clock on the surf club read 3pm and we had to hurry to get home before Dad did. We shook the sand out of our towels and changed back into our school uniforms. Tammy chatted away about how fun it had been, even without a giant seahorse and I agreed that it had been fun, but I felt bad about doing something wrong. The walk home was slow – up hill all the way. We stopped frequently for rests, but I hated every delay - I started imagining what Dad might say if he got home before us and we were not sitting in front of the TV like we usually were when he got home.

Tammy insisted that we take the short cut via the Berker boys' house which we normally avoided because they smell so bad. We held our breath as we ran past their house, then stopped for the next rest behind a block of units.

"Tammy what if one of the neighbours sees us coming up from the direction of the beach instead of the school? We'll have to hide every time we see somebody."

"Nah, I have an idea, we just need to get to the end of this street and cross the road, then we will be back on track from school, so how about we walk backwards all the way from here to the end of the street?"

"Will that work?"

"Of course it will, we just have to make sure we stick to the path as we're walking backwards."

So we got up and I poked my head out from around the side of the building. "The coast is clear!"

We resumed our journey home, this time facing backwards. At first it was hard to walk straight, and I had to keep checking over my shoulder. Then I got the hang of it, I just kept to the centre of the path in front of me and that helped me stay on track. My thoughts kept straying to how much trouble we would be in if we were found out, so to stop myself from worrying about it, I began reciting the alphabet as Tammy had taught it to me: "ZYX and WV, UTS and RQP..."

We giggled to each other at the picture we made, walking backwards and singing backwards and for a while it took my mind off my fears.

We rounded the corner to our street and from there it was ok to walk facing forwards again. But as we turned around, that's when we saw them; the Berker boys.

As they approached, Jarod the older brother said, "You girls are stupid, you're walking backwards and you're wearing school uniform even though you weren't at school today."

"Mind your own business Jarod!" Tammy warned.

"Why weren't you at school?" Jarod and his brother Peter had circled around us and Jarod was folding his arms like he was the boss.

"We were too at school, you just didn't see us" I winced at the ease with which Tammy told a lie, whilst I was secretly grateful for her quick thinking, it still made me cringe.

"I don't believe you!"

"Why do you care so much anyway, you never pay attention to whether I'm at school or not."

"Well maybe I do pay attention to you, I just don't always say so." He dropped his adult pose and took a step towards her. She stood her ground, but for once she was stumped for words.

Something in what he had said must have frozen her so I went to the rescue. I shouted "I'm not afraid of you Berker boys so you can just back off!" Then I ran forward and kicked Peter in the knee. He fell sideways and grabbed the hem of my dress pulling me down with him. I grazed my palms on the concrete and Tammy helped me up.

"Come on Babs, that's enough."

I couldn't believe it, Peter was calling out insults and rude sounds while hiding behind his brother, and Tammy wouldn't let me get him.

"But Tammy, we can't let those boobs get one up on us!"

"That's not what boobs means Babs."

"Oh gee I know what boobs really means, but still it isn't fair that they think they can scare us."

"You're forgetting that we still need to get home before Dad does, so there's no point hanging round fighting with those boys."

"Gosh you're right Tammy, and didn't they stink up the whole street, yuck!"

'Yeah they sure did," Tammy replied, then looked back over her shoulder and said quietly, "but I don't think I minded the smell so much this time."

We high-fived when we saw that Dad's car wasn't in the driveway. I was so relieved, I couldn't believe that we had gotten away with it! We unpacked our school bags, and hid our swimmers and towels just as we heard Dad's car pulling in. He came in the front door as Tammy turned on the TV and I opened up yesterday's homework.

Dad came in the door and I rushed towards him and jumped into his arms like I did every day.

He swivelled me onto his side and carried me into the lounge room.

Tammy ran up to us and tugged at my leg. "Dad I want a turn, I never got to ride the seahorse today."

He picked her up with his other arm and we grinned at each other across his bearded face. Dad's voice was deep and soothing, and I rested my head on his shoulder to listen to it rumbling inside him, "Alright Tammy, of course you can both have Daddy seahorse rides. But first tell me, why do the two of you have wet hair?"

### SUSAN HOOD

Susan (Lovato) Hood is a Sydney born writer who now resides on the peaceful shores of Lake Macquarie. Susan began her writing journey in 2012 and has since started her own creative writing meet up group in Newcastle. Susan's passion for the written word inspires the members of her group to keep at it and remain positive. Her personal adage about writing is that whether you believe you can, or believe you can't; you are right.

You can find Susan's creative writing group at <http://www.meetup.com/Newcastle-Creative-Writing-Meetup/>

### PARK DWELLERS

#### by Julie Elliss

Divorce turns lives upside down. Marriage should mean sticking together, right? My wife, Jesse, and I lasted a year once my headaches started. I live in our old caravan now near Bells Beach. If you looked at a map it's pretty much the bottom of Victoria but the town is a summer's dream. It's walking distance to a nearby pharmacy too. I'm on my way there now to fill my prescriptions before the next headache knocks me to hell. The path is in line with a creek and a suburban patch of scrub. If you walk here late in the afternoon you may spot a few kangaroos that come down from the paddocks for a drink. It's too early for them today and way too hot.

In the pharmacy I find the coolest spot under an air vent and wait for my medication.

"Brett Conwell, your prescription is ready," the pharmacist calls. I join another customer at the counter and hear her announce to Pam, the sales girl, her birthday is fast approaching. With more pitch she adds, "and my husband has a surprise for me!" She turns to me willing me to join in on the great news. "He's taking me out to dinner this Friday!" She picks up her parcel, hitches up her baggy shorts and leaves.

Pam sees me stare after the woman.

"She's doing something right," she said gesturing to the woman. "How does she have a man and I don't?" Pam dropped her chin and gazed up at me.

Pam is flirting with me! I smiled, unsure, and shot out of there.

Back home at the park, I take two of the pain killers and make my way to Patrick's van. There's a few of us here in this park, discharged from our marriages. I find him sitting under his makeshift veranda in board shorts and an 'ACDC' tank top. His grey frizzy hair is tied back in a ponytail and he's pulling a beer out of his esky.

"Brett!" He calls out. "Where the buggery have you been? I've been keeping the beer cold for ya." Patrick gestures toward the esky. "No offence, mate, but you look like crap."

"I feel like crap," I said pressing the cold beer against my head.

I sit down and gaze at the camping area to my left. People are gathering around their barbeques with tents and deck chairs scattered around them. Behind them I can see the beach. Soon the sun will set and the horizon will mirage a rainbow of pink and orange into the ocean. If you ever need a place to hang your head Bells Beach is the place to do it. I tell Patrick about Pam and the birthday lady at the chemist.

"The whole thing is messing with my head," I said.

"It's no coincidence my friend! You were there for a reason. Things don't happen by accident;" he said.

I love it when Patrick gets philosophical.

"How can you be so happy because you're going out for dinner?" I asked.

"Now hang on a minute," Patrick said throwing his empty bottle in a crate and reaching for another. "You are assuming the birthday lady is important. Let's not forget about Pam's input; she's a good sort. Maybe it's time you forgot about Jesse taking your home and focus on Pam."

I don't want to hear it but, hey, with Patrick you got to take the bad with the good. A trait that some marriages don't share.

The beer and the painkillers are not a good mix and I make my way back to my caravan. The park manager, Cliff Seaton, keeps the park as green as he can but the grass crunches under my feet.

My skull feels like a there is a hot spike stabbing the side. I make a sandwich; every swallow bringing fresh pain. My doctor told me they can block a nerve that causes the pain but they don't do it in Australia. When they first struck I had no control and spent days in bed while Jesse fluttered around the bedroom doing her usual thing. I'm saving for the surgery. My old boss gives me casual work sometimes; painting, washing windows and cleaning up a newly built home. I'm drifting off to sleep now.

"Brett! Get the hell out of there!" Patrick is screaming and pounding on my van. Other voices join in and someone is pulling at my door handle. "Fire!" they yell. That does it. I yank myself out of bed and realise my van smells like smoke. I burst out the door and smack right into Patrick. Catching my balance and spinning around I see part of the brush fence that lines the caravan park is ablaze and now with it my caravan! As sirens approach Patrick and I stand arm in arm and watch my only possession disappear in flames.

Suddenly realising our intimate pose Patrick breaks free and looks at me. "You'd be toast if I hadn't needed the loo, mate," he says. A fire engine arrives and men in orange outfits scurry to douse the fire but it's too late for my van and too late for my neighbour's mini garden shed.

People pat me on the shoulder; each slap sending a new bolt of lightning through my head. Cliff runs over and explains it was kids setting fire to the brush fence. There has been a string of it happening in the area lately. "The latest craze," Cliff gasps. Patrick doesn't say another word until we get to his van. He opens his door theatrically, "As one door closes another one opens," he says.

"Does it count when your door fries?" I spit.

In the morning I awake stuck to Patrick's vinyl couch. The small fan on the fridge doesn't stand a chance in this heat. As I peel my back off the seat I notice I had fallen asleep with my wallet still in my pocket. At least I had that. Patrick stirs and I apologise for being an ungrateful pig last night. He waves it off and pours us both an orange cordial. It's cool and sweet.

"What the buggery are you going to do now mate?" he asks scooping his hair back with a rubber band.

"Better get a new van and some clothes I guess."

"You need a loan, Brett? I've got a bit stashed away from my pay out."

I raise my eyebrows. Patrick has money? I'm talking about a guy I've seen in the same shorts since summer started six weeks ago and who eats noodles for tea most nights.

"I got a bit saved myself. Thanks anyway," I say. After breakfast – bacon on the barbeque and coffee – we walk around the park and assess last night's damage. Cliff is already out there pacing up and down the scorched fence stroking his chin.

"Hi, I've been on the phone all morning with the insurance company. Looks like we will get it replaced with a galvanised one. See if the monsters can burn that down, hey," he says. "Sorry about your van, Brett. Insured?" he looks at me shielding his eyes from the sun.

I cringe. "Course not, Cliff, I was saving for something."

"I'll see what I can do, Brett. There's an old van out back. Take a few days to get it up to scratch. You will have to put up with sunshine here for a bit longer," Cliff says pointing to Patrick standing in his board shorts and singlet.

Patrick raises his grey eyebrows. "We better stock up on some more beers," he says.

I stay behind and stretch out on Patrick's bed but I decide it's the worst I've ever laid on. It's more like a piece of foam than a mattress and it has me thinking if the man has money why didn't he spend any of it. Who am I to judge? I don't even have insurance.

Later, under Patrick's veranda we listen to a nineties music show on the radio and drink a few beers. Patrick's neighbour, Mrs Berges, joins us with her bottle of Apple Cider. Patrick points to the stars and gives us a lesson on astrology. Eventually we make our way to the toilet block discussing how handy a van with its own loo would be. As I'm washing my hands Patrick yells from outside.

"Brett! Kids at the bloody fence again, Brett! Buggers!"

I run out to see Patrick racing toward the back of the Caravan Park where the brush fence still remains. "Buggers! Buggers!" He is pointing to a bushy area behind the playground.

"Hang on Patrick!" I can just make out the bushes rustling ahead. As Patrick pelts closer the rustling becomes frantic. In the shadows I see a massive dark shape burst out of the bushes toward the fence! Discovering it is trapped it turns and faces Patrick. A great grey kangaroo over six feet tall fixes its black eyes on Patrick as he runs straight for it. Patrick's arms flail and his feet stumble in his thongs as he tries to stop. The kangaroo rears back on his tail and thuds Patrick in his stomach with its huge feet. Patrick snaps backward with his grey hair wrapping around his face. The kangaroo finds the gap in the fire damaged fence and hops through.

I hear a distant screaming as I squat by Patrick. His eyes are listless. It wasn't the kick that did it; it was the way his head hit the concrete path. Like a watermelon. I know the scream is mine because I know Patrick is dead.

People are peering out their vans and I can hear Mrs Berges calling our names. "Patrick! Brett!" A crowd ventures toward us and forms a circle around me and Patrick. I hear someone yell, "It was a kangaroo! Its rear was a metre wide!"

Grief hits me and brings me to my knees like no headache ever did. The police tell me the kangaroos are fleeing the paddocks as the new train line works are disturbing them. Mrs Berges brings me food and some new clothes. Cliff and Mrs Berges organise a small funeral at the local surf club where Patrick liked to hang. Jesse hears about the accident and the fire. She comes down from Geelong and visits me. She is standing legs apart and hands on hips sighing at the pile of ashes that was once our holiday van.

When Cliff offers me Patrick's van as it's in better shape than the other I nearly collapse with relief. Other than the hard mattress it is ideal. The surgery I'm trying to save for is going to cost thousands. It's bleak so I go out and buy a mattress anyway.

I can't wait to chuck the old piece of foam Patrick had slept on for so long. It is yellow with age and almost crumbles in my hands. I have no problem breaking it up to fit in the bin. I notice that the base is just a thin bit of ply wood resting on something lumpy. No wonder it's so uncomfortable. The ply wood is a tight fit so I grab a scraper and wedge it between the rims and ply wood. It's giving up with a creak and suddenly pops up. There lays some blankets and a couple of pillow cases stuffed with something. Probably Patrick's winter wardrobe, I'm thinking. Without this stuff my new mattress will be a perfect fit. I yank the ply wood out and throw the lot on the floor.

Reaching over to get my new mattress I barely notice one of the pillow cases has spilled open. A patch on the dirty white floor catches my eye.

Money!

I nudge the stuff with my big toe. Yes, money! I jump back and smack my head on the closet next to the bed. I drop the mattress on the offending pillow and slam the van's door shut.

"Now calm yourself, Brett." My hands are clenching and my heart is banging in my chest. I shake out the other pillow case. More money! Two pillow cases filled with notes. Sweat is dripping off my face as I toss the cash back in the cases and stuff them into the closet. When Patrick mentioned he 'had a bit stashed away' I assumed a bank account, not under his bed.

"What were you thinking, Patrick" I say out loud.

The money remains in the closet like an evil monkey for eight days while I ponder what to do with it. In my nightmares I pop open the ply wood and Patrick is laying there staring up at me like the night he died. "It's no coincidence," he says.

Should I try to contact Patrick's family about the money? In the two years I knew him nobody had contacted him or even bothered to attend his funeral. I close my blinds and lock the door as the wind blows wildly around Patrick's little beat up van. I count the money and it's more than I need. If Patrick was right and life events are not coincidences then he didn't die because of fires or kangaroos; he died because his time was up. I put the cash back in the filthy pillow cases and walk to the public phone box outside the park on the street.

"Hi, I'd like to make an appointment with Dr Jacobs please," I tell the receptionist.

"Sure, Sir, may I ask the reason for your appointment?' she asks.

"I would like the trigeminal nerve in my head blocked please," I say.

I know it won't be that simple but I jump out of the phone booth fisting the air. Yes! And look who I see walking toward me? The wind is whipping her hair across her face but I can see she is smiling. Suddenly I hear Patrick say, "It's no coincidence!"

"Hi, Pam," I grin.

### JULIE ELLISS

My name is Julie Elliss, I am 49 years old with two sons and work as a pharmacy assistant. When I was a child I read "101 Dalmatians" and have been in love with the escape of fiction ever since. I have recently started to write my own short stories to help people escape everyday life and have had two published in magazines. I hope readers will enjoy "Park Dwellers" as much as I did writing it.

### KONSTANTIN

#### by Rachel Sweasey

Konstantin Zabolotny heard his mother's voice breaking into the world of his dreams.

"Wake up lazy bones, it's almost dawn already!"

He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, willing himself back to sleep and into his peaceful dream. It had been so warm there, resting with the sun on his back. He hardly knew what it was to not be working, milking, fetching and carrying, struggling against the freezing cold. It had felt heavenly in the warm sun.

"Konstantin! The cows won't milk themselves, you know!"

"Yes, Mama. Coming." He had formed the words perfectly in his mind but he knew the sounds weren't quite so clear.

"Did you just groan at me, Son? Get up now or I'll fetch the water bucket!"

Konstantin forced his eyes open. He sat up, pulled the covers off himself and, placing his bare feet on the cold floor, stood up all in one move. The first rosy light of dawn was beginning to warm the sky and take the edge off the darkness in his room.

"Coming Mama! I'm awake."

He sat back down on the bed and rubbed his face in his hands. It felt bristly and lined: the face of an old man. He looked at his hands and saw they were rough, wrinkled and calloused from a lifetime of work. Konstantin frowned and twisted round to see Jane looking up at him sleepily. She reached out her hand and stroked his back.

"You okay, Kon?" she muttered through her sleepiness.

Konstantin sighed and climbed back into bed. "I'm fine. I was dreaming. Mama was calling me to milk the cows. We were back at home in Smolenski. It was cold."

"It was always cold, wasn't it? It's not real warm here this morning. Autumn's arrived. And talking of milk: now we're both awake, what about a cup of tea?" She smiled and turned to wrap her arm over his big chest.

Konstantin grinned and stroked her arm with his hand. "Good idea. Thought you'd never ask."

Jane gave him a pinch. "Cheeky! You're the one who woke me up, remember?"

"Okay, okay. I'm going. Honestly, if it's not Mama waking me to milk cows, it's my wife sending me off to make tea! When does a man get any rest?" He rested on one elbow to have a good look at his wife. Konstantin thought to say he loved her but instead just leant to kiss Jane lightly on the forehead.

Jane smiled back. "I know darling, I love you too. Now, make me some tea!"

He padded out to the kitchen, opening blinds and curtains as he went. The world was coming to life. Lorikeets were beginning to crowd the hanging bird table and fight for grain. A couple of Galahs flew in and flew off again when they saw the competition. Kon knew there'd be a pair of Rosellas later, but not until things had quietened down. He wondered for a moment if he could recall the bird names from Russia like he knew these Brisbane ones. No. He didn't even remember there being any birds.

He only remembered work, the cold, the milking, and the daily trudge to school. He recalled the morning routine: Mama waking him up so early, always so early; the freezing cold even inside their little home, and the way the wind would bite at this face as soon as he opened the door. Konstantin could still hear the crunch of snow under his boots and feel the cold handles of the milking buckets in his hands. He remembered the smell of the cowshed and the steam rising from the frothy milk as he filled each bucket. He would sing to the cows to calm and relax them: anything to help the milk flow quicker. He thought of their escape, leaving everything but Mama behind, hiding under mail sacks on the train; arriving in Australia as refugees.

The kettle boiled and the sound brought Kon back home. Gee, Australia had been good to him. He warmed the pot, scooped up tea leaves and sniffed them as they dropped into the pot. He filled it with water. As he set out cups and poured the milk he gave a thought to the dairy farmer who'd risen before dawn to milk it. Even with modern machinery in a warm land it was still a tough job.

Konstantin leant against the kitchen bench, folded his arms and scanned the photos covering the wall. There was his old Mama, in her chair with a blanket on her knees. Below it was his and Jane's wedding photo, black and white. Their children smiled out from a faded colour photo of them all: four happy faces covered in ice cream and grins, with the Pacific surf in the background. He thought of his Papa and tried to recall his smiling face. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. And then the grandchildren: so many blessings! Twelve so far, and another coming soon. Oh Mama, so many blessings. God has been good to us.

Konstantin poured the tea and picked up the tray. His eyes scanned the back lawn as he walked past the window. It needed mowing again, but with the cooler weather it should slow down soon. He thought of the grass around Mama's grave and realised too many Saturdays had gone by since he'd visited.

Jane was sitting up in bed and giggling at her iPad as Kon walked in with the tea.

"You should see this, love. Andy and Maria have made a little film of them singing and sent it to us. Watch it before they come over for lunch – you know you'll get interrogated as soon as they see you."

Konstantin flinched at the word, but tried not to let it show. Flashes of memory highlighted pain and fear long since passed. He never took it all for granted: this life of bliss with family in a sunny, free country. He remembered living in constant fear of government agents, of questions and searches. Even his teacher beat him for being a believer: had he not been paying attention to his education? His family had been so determined to hold onto their faith. Oh Papa, you were so strong.

"What time are they coming? I might go to the cemetery this morning. The grass will be needing a mow."

Jane studied her husband's face for a moment and could see where his mind had been. His Mama could still call him to her, even from her grave. Jane wondered if he realised that he always ended up visiting the cemetery on the days when he dreamed of Russia. She didn't mention it.

"They're aiming to be here for noon, but you know Andrei and Sarah. It may be one o'clock before they get here. You'll have plenty of time for mowing."

*

Jane rinsed the last of the breakfast things and drained the sink. She turned on the oven and collected cake ingredients from the pantry. A movement through the kitchen window caught her eye and she paused to watch Kon finish the lawn and load up the ute: mower, whipper-snipper, broom. She saw him smile as he tucked the worn little Bible into the pocket of his Hard Yakka yard pants. He'll make time to read to his Mama today.

Jane stuck her head out the back door, "Time for a cuppa before you go, love?"

"Always! Have you finished any of that baking yet?" He grinned as he knocked the grass off his boots on the back step.

Jane put two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on the patio table. Konstantin took a loud slurp of tea and sighed with satisfaction as he picked up a biscuit to dunk. They talked of the lawn, the birds, the children. The weather. They talked of nothing much, simply spending a few minutes together, making the most of the beauty of life.

At the cemetery Kon parked the ute in his usual spot. His was the only car there, as always. He carried the whipper- snipper and broom slowly up the hill to the Zabolotny family grave and paused for a moment to study the state of it before laying down the tools. I'm here Mamasha, I heard you calling. He walked back down to fetch the mower. As he started to mow he heard her reply.

Oh my boy, my Konstantin! You're so good to your old Mamasha. Your Papa would be so proud of you. He IS proud of you. Such a good boy.

Konstantin carefully walked the mower around the grave and avoided knocking the ones beside it. They all bore the same Russian Orthodox Cross.

Hey Anastasiya, my Kon has come to see us. He has made us proud with so many little children to love. Ah, my Andrei would have been so happy to see me become a Babushka.

Konstantin put the mower away and finished the edges with the whipper-snipper. He heard his mother talking with her neighbours and smelled their cooking. The sun on his back told him this was Brisbane, but his mind was in Russia.

The sound of the women talking faded away as he heard his Papasha read to him from his little Bible. Konstantin remembered the warmth of the fireplace as he enjoyed his supper in Smolenski. His Papa was exhausted from working in the fields; Mama's faced was strained with worry for her boy, bruised again by his patriotic teacher. Konstantin watched as his father carefully retrieved the Bible from its hiding place, took off the grubby cloth wrapping and reverently laid it on the table before him. Kon heard the banging on the front door, and saw the agents pour in to arrest his father. The cold wind rushed in with them, bringing a flurry of snow. Mama shrieked as they began to yell at Papa. Enemy of the state, they said. There is no God. Anti-state behaviour must be quashed. They knocked Papa to his knees and slapped his dear, soft face. The Bible was thrown against a wall. And then they took him away. Oh Papasha, I will see you again.

Konstantin swept away the loose grass from the grave and stood to take stock of his work. He rested on the broom and took off his hat to pray. Kon took his Papa's Bible from his pocket and turned to Psalm 23, reading in Russian: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall want nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, and leads me beside the waters of peace ....

The sounds of the city traffic climbed up the hill to where Konstantin stood, but he didn't hear them. He heard instead the sounds of Russia, his parent's voices, the cowbells sounding in the fields, the banging on the door. ... Goodness and love unfailing, these will follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.

Konstantin lifted his eyes from the page and slipped the Bible back into his pocket. He replaced his cap and said a bright and hopeful farewell to his Mama. See you again soon. Time to get home. Those little ones will soon be running in to give their old Dedushka a hug.

He grinned at the thought as he swung the broom around and trotted back down the hill. Home.

********

_Konstantin_ received an honourable mention in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### RACHEL SWEASEY

Rachel has been dreaming up stories most of her life and began writing some down in recent years. She lives in Brisbane with her husband, three children, 12 hens and one cat. Rachel is a student of literature and composition at Griffith University while also gaining work experience as an editor and proof-reader for Wombat Books.

### PERSONALISED PLATES

#### by Alicia Bruzzone

Louisa Ornella San Roggiano cried when her parents gifted her a car for her twenty first birthday. Louisa's father thought it was with happiness as he slapped her on the back and knuckled tears from the corner of his own eyes.

It wasn't. Louisa had coughed down a ball of malice before she could revert to hiccupping sobs in the driveway.

She hated it.

Not the car exactly.

Louisa hated the personalised number plate. No one in their right mind should ever call their daughter Louisa Ornella San Roggiano. With initials like hers, Louisa's fate had been decided since birth.

21LOSR. To one loser.

There it was, in black and white for the entire country to see.

Louisa hadn't always hated her name. There had been a time when she loved to hear her father's recantations, revealed in watching the pride and love on his face as he tucked her under her worn patchwork quilt and dimmed the light for bed. "Louisa from your mamma, she pick a beautiful girl a beautiful name. Ornella for your Nonna," as he crossed himself and kissed the golden crucifix that hung on a chunky chain around his neck. He'd always smile then, dimpled cheeks under dark stubble. "Now only the second mosta beautiful woman ever, and San Roggiano was a gift given to us by your a great grandfather, the greatest man in all of history. He worka hard, but he provide for his family, make San Roggiano a name to be proud of." He'd bulk out his arms like a gorilla, crowing to an invisible crowd. "Your mamma, she would not a married me if not for Great grandfather San Roggiano." He'd always puff his chest out a little more then, stubby thumbs jammed into curly chest hair that sprang from strained buttonholes on his shirt.

By the time Louisa's younger sister Teodora Ornella San Roggiano was born, Nonna Ornella had been relegated to the third most beautiful woman ever. Louisa still didn't know where her mother sat in the beautiful girl rankings. Not that it mattered when you had a daughter called Louisa Ornella San Roggiano and one called Teodora Ornella San Roggiano. The family had gained a tosser to go with their loser.

Louisa had discovered her lovingly chosen name held a terrible secret at school, where all good children go to die. They had been learning phonics. Darren Ridgemont was showing off, reading out names off backpacks and water bottles. Only Louisa's father had decided Louisa Ornella San Roggiano was too long to fit on her personal belongings, and with great heartache shortened her pedigree to four meek letters. Her initials, which Darren Ridgemont sounded out to the entire class. Then laughed.

Louisa could still hear the echo of that day in her mind. "L oo s r." His little lips struggled over the sounds, saliva flying as he elongated his 's' like he was impersonating a snake. "Loser? We have a loser in the class!"

High school hadn't been any kinder. Louisa tried taking up photography, dropping her middle name and claiming her initials were actually selected to reflect a particular camera type her grandfather had invented. That backfired miserably. Not only did carrying around a piece of photographic equipment incapable of selfies downgrade her status, but it turned out to be SLR, not LSR. Louisa cursed herself for not opting for the palindromic Returned and Services League. Not that pretending to hang with old people would have made her popular, but she would have claimed to be allowed to play the pokies like a cool rebel. That was all she ever dreamed of. Not being a loser. Her initials had followed her no matter where she went, plaguing her will ill fortune as she lived out their predictions.

And there it was on the car. Louisa needed to do something about it.

Louisa Ornella San Roggiano was a woman, so she knew there was a very simple solution to her problem. All she had to do was get married, and take her husband's name.

"Marry for love," her mother had warned Louisa throughout her childhood as she'd bent over dirty dishes and scrubbed armpit stains out of business shirts a size to small for the portly man who wore them. "Life can be hard, but love, it makes it worthwhile."

Louisa had been young and thought the advice sentimental in her earlier years, though as she'd aged and heard herself tied for most beautiful girl with Teodora, Nonna Ornella in third, Louisa had to wonder. It couldn't have been easy to respect a man still in love with his own mother.

Louisa had tried the dating route, but the only men in town willing to court a loser were losers themselves. She may have an unfortunate name, but Louisa wouldn't settle for anything less in a partner than employment and a regular bathing schedule.

The thought occurred to Louisa Ornella San Roggiano that the only way to get what she wanted was to be in charge. If she wanted to dictate parameters on her future husband, like annual dentist visits and use of deodorant, she needed to hold something over him. It was then she decided to disregard her mother's well-intended advice.

Louisa could find a husband who would do anything she asked, someone desperate but amenable. Someone about to be deported. Someone who would be able to stay if he were married to a local citizen.

While it is true organisations matching these pairs should not exist and are indeed highly illegal, Louisa wasted no time contacting one. Merely a week later she found herself in a café, sipping indulgent iced chocolate with extra cream and chocolate sprinkles across from Davy.

He was blue eyed and golden haired, with white teeth that seemed a little too large for his mouth. His nose was slightly crooked but still smattered with freckles down the centre, lending Louisa to believe it had been broken recently. Louisa thought he was beautiful, too handsome to require illegal matchmaking. There was no way the man in front of her was incapable of forming legitimate romantic relationships. "You aren't a serial killer, are you?" she blurted, living up to her name. If catching repeat offenders were as easy as asking, the police wouldn't required entire crime investigation divisions.

"Only my ferns," Davy assured her with a nervous grin. "I have not been home as of late to water them." He sheepishly ran a hand through his mop of hair as his face flushed, references to their awkward meeting now successfully brought up. "I like it here. I have work, a good boss. Back home I have pots of dead plants."

Louisa nodded as if she understood. Davy was Dutch, she'd only heard nice things of the place, if you overlooked the fact their shoes were carved from wood and they ate their hot chips with mayonnaise.

Louisa chanced a large sniff of air before she took another sip of her beverage. Davy smelled clean, scented of pine or at least something not congealed and decomposing. He'd already mentioned work, those were her two prerequisites. His surname could be Offalscrapings for all Louisa cared, as long as she was no longer a loser.

"So how about you?" Davy asked as he flashed sparkling cerulean eyes at Louisa, his index finger gently stirring the straw in the iced coffee he nursed. "Not looking for love?"

"No." Louisa sighed as she shook her head and sank into her seat. Her mother was going to be disappointed. "I need a new name. If we do this, you have to stay long enough for me to legally take your surname."

Davy looked at her with a dumbfounded look. "You do not even know what it is. Could you not change by deed poll?"

Louisa Ornella San Roggiano was well aware her father would never forgive her for willingly terminating her proud heritage by changing her surname on a whim. For marriage however, she had an out. She was a woman, expected to collect the name of the family with which she shared a union. "My name is Louisa Ornella San Roggiano. It spells loser." Louisa stared down at her drink and idly moved her straw in lazy circles, to hide her mounting tension. She hoped she didn't need to translate what that meant for Davy, as he looked a little confused.

"My name is Davy Otger van Enderbenstein."

Louisa's lips played out the mouthful of name, fixating on initials as she always did. He was D.O.V.E. More importantly - "is van part of your middle name, or surname?"

"Aah, van means 'of' or 'from.' Like a title to your ancestors; very common where I am from. You put it before your family name."

Louisa's face beamed as she spoke her potential name. "Louisa Ornella van Enderbenstein. L.O.V.E. My initials would be love." Her mother had said love was the reason to marry. Louisa could think of nothing better.

"We can be love bird, yes?" Davy asked hopefully, "LOVE and DOVE?"

Louisa reflected for all of two seconds. "Do you have a pen handy? I think we need to fill in some paperwork." Turned out she was looking for _love_ after all.

### ALICIA BRUZZONE

Alicia Bruzzone completed an Arts degree without much fanfare. Pregnant with her third child, she had vivid dreams she decided needing recording and put some of those studies to use. Since then she has written for her own amusement, even if no one else finds her funny.

Alicia has currently won seven short story competitions (not that she's counting), and has been short-listed and highly commended in enough others to feel special.

Her work features in numerous anthologies; which look really pretty on her bookshelf.

Alicia has a slight addiction to frozen coke and Disney Channel. Her family approves of both.

### A MEASURE OF PROBABILITY

#### by Wendell Watt

"What will I be?" I ask, pointlessly perhaps, because how would Lucy know? We are both eighteen years old, in our last year at school, facing the final exams and our next step into the real world. There are career choices to be made and not much time left to do it. Lucy has chosen Law. I delay, as usual.

We sit on the low stone fence in front of my house. The sun falls on us, warms the stone. The days are getting longer now and soon spring will be here. So time moves on and I'm split between being glad and feeling sorry.

Other fences you can't sit on like this. You have to jump off, in one direction or the other. Choices are never easy. I find there is rarely one single way that is the best, the only way to go. Pros are rarely all pro and rarely are cons all con. You have to weigh up, consider possibilities. That takes time.

"Make a decision about your life," they demand of me now - parents, teachers, the battle line of aunts. Jump, they mean.

So. Here we are, Lucy and I, sitting on the fence, a real one and the only kind my Lucy would ever sit upon. She is a spontaneous kind of girl. Her mouth crinkles, her green eyes throw sparks, her long straight hair streams out when she rushes off into her latest mad escapade. She'll start a school newspaper, buy wine under age, steal her dad's car. I watch from the sidelines critical, amazed and proud. Sometimes I am needed to help her safely home. Never wanting to be the first to do anything, I delight in my girl who does. She rocks the boat; I steady it. We are opposites, Lucy and I. We fit. It's simple mathematics.

When I ask her, "What will I be," she'll have an answer; she always does, for anything.

"You have to do what you love most."

"What do you love most?" I say.

She thinks. Then smiles and looks at me straight.

"Love," she fires out of the blue, and that really scares me. But as they say, the best defence is attack.

"Whatever are you talking about? That's not a career."

She is going way out of line and I refuse to follow. I am eighteen. I could love Lucy; I will love her when I grow up. I want to. We have kissed and other stuff. But I'm not ready for the heaviness of love.

*

I become a numbers man, a statistician. Numbers are easy; they are clear–cut and they follow rules so that you always know just where you stand.

Lucy has turned into a solicitor, a true law-abiding professional: sombre clothes, high heels, smooth hair, a smile less challenging, less "follow-me." But I still follow, and she still leads in less dramatic ways and, although we live apart, we are an "item" still.

Tonight we have met for dinner in the Thai Lotus Cafe at the end of a working day. This is our place. We often come here; I like the familiarity, the fact that we are known here, our names and what we like to order, and that we know the staff's names and our favourite dishes. I settled on the Pad Thai even before I arrived. Now I am ready for Lucy's bright chatter and I have my own new project to talk about. After I order a bottle of wine, Lucy takes off her jacket and sits pensive, resting her cheek on her hand. The light in her eyes is dimmed. Something has happened at work, I think. A difficult client perhaps?

But she comes quickly to the point, and the difficult client is me.

"Do you remember that old question: What do you love most?" she throws at me through the room which is bright and bustling, noisy with chatter and laughter, with people enjoying the moment ... enjoying the moment, Lucy.

"Uh-huh."

"How would you answer it now?"

"Well, let me think. I would answer wine. A good red wine. Like this." I raise my glass, take a slow sip and wonder what's coming next. I know what's coming next.

"For me it's love," she states, and stares, daring me not to remember.

To press the point she moves across to me, puts her arm around my shoulders and purses her lips. This suits me, if this is what love is, if it is kissable lips, softness ... and the rest. But what of the other part: the demanding kids, the sickness, health, commitment until death bit? Very scary.

I have been to the weddings of friends, watched the vows, the couple's radiance, the guarded looks hiding in the corners of eyes that confess if it doesn't work, we'll unwork it. If the children are too needy, the family house chores overwhelming, the work too possessing, the monogamy too stifling. I am a numbers man. I don't like IFs. I need to follow myself to a logical and perfect conclusion. In time, I will come to it. I will.

*

I don't know how Henry came about. He became, that's all. Suddenly he was there and Lucy was moving on.

"Friends, of course we'll always be friends," she said, and invited me to the wedding. I didn't go. Good luck to Henry.

After that I was lonely so, when I met an available lass, I proposed and she accepted. I did not invite Lucy and her man to the wedding.

*

The clock ticks through the years. I am walking down Martin Place after a business lunch and slow to look at the Anzac Day flowers heaped about the Cenotaph. A woman stops across from me, head down, reading the inscriptions on the wreaths. I glance at her and look again and bend down, stealthy like a Peeping Tom, trying to get a clear view of her face.

In a city as large as this, the probability is not great. But there is no mistake. I remember not only her face so well but the way she moves, the way she stops still, the way her forehead ripples when she tries to decipher things. It is Lucy, well-groomed still, dark suit, white blouse, not a fold out of place, but older of course and looking tired. I remember her old frantic energy and want to – need to – rush across and fold this woman in my arms.

If wishing ...

Instead I walk over and touch her arm, so very gently.

"Lucy," I say. "It's me. Evan."

The city falls silent. The only sound is my own heart pumping. She turns. I want her to be thrilled when she sees me; I want her to collapse onto my chest with joyous happiness but she offers only a gruff sizing-up.

"You haven't changed. Much."

"You look pretty good yourself." Her skin, like mine, has lost the glow and tautness of its youth. There are wrinkles; there are flecks of grey in her hair. "How are things?" I ask.

"OK."

"How's your life?" What else to say in the face of this desert of words. Our words once flowed like flood. Awkward, I go in fast. "Any family?"

"One. A boy." She takes the phone from her handbag and shows me photographs. Oh Lucy, how conventional you have become. The family album. Smiles and silly faces. "And you?"

"Married. Two children, girl then boy."

I want more than a hollow conversation, more ... My girl, always.

For once, I lead: "Lucy, come and have coffee with me."

"I should go back to work," she says.

But I steer her to this cafe and we sit together drinking coffee, eating croissants and talking. We are as we used to be with no Henry, no Jean to disrupt the flow. People come and leave and others come. We talk, so much to talk about, inconsequential, meaningful, all mixed up together as words fill hollows and years and laughter brings tears to our eyes and shadows lengthen. The city spins around us but, for all we are aware of it, it might just as well have dissipated into dust or smoke.

I burst through the old barrier, forgetting now why I had ever erected it. "Remember our question, What do you love most?" After so long, she deserves an honest answer. "I love you the most. I always have."

"And I love you the most. I always have, but couldn't properly say it."

"I was a fool."

"And now it's too late."

"Is it, Lucy; is it too late?"

She doesn't answer but remains still, so very uncharacteristically still, not breathing almost, and finally she stands up, blows me a kiss with a stiff hand and solemn face, and walks away.

Doors close behind. End of.

I lean over to hide years of ache and see that she's left her phone on the table top. The waitress hovers, all crisp apron and artificial smile. I order another coffee and slowly calculate the probability of hurt.

The equation involves people, families. The mathematics is simple. The logical and honest conclusion is here, is now, and there is no changing it.

Do I need to live the rest of my life like this? Following the steps by rote? Can I be erratic, errant, inconclusive?

I should hand in the phone to the waitress and go home.

I should.

The phone starts to ring. I pick it up.

### WENDELL WATT

I live in Sydney and my training and work has been in science, with writing also a part of my life. I have had articles - travel and other - published in various newspapers and magazines and a poem published in the book When Anzac Day Comes Around edited by Graeme Lindsay.

### WHEN WE WERE BROTHERS

#### by Vickie Walker

Dr Kenichi Takumi adjusted his white coat, placed a stethoscope carefully around his neck and entered the doors of Crawford Hospital. This was to be a fresh challenge, in a public hospital, a new beginning. Here he might feel he was giving of himself, instead of earning the big dollars private patients were prepared to pay. Here he could live with his conscience again.

His father would not appreciate this change. Kenichi felt his disapproval, even from the grave. "You throw away good work, good training. I taught you – hard work, make money, show people we important. You disappoint me."

Kenichi followed his father's wishes all his life. He never complained, working after school in the watch repair business they ran from home. As his father wished, he applied himself academically to become a doctor. "Education is the key. I come here from Japan with nothing. The war took my home and my land. But you can gain from our new land. You must have your education."

Specialising in endocrinology Kenichi built a successful private practice. His wife and children wanted for nothing. Yet he felt empty, like his work did not count. Long obedience to his father meant no change; he couldn't disappoint a proud man.

The death of his father, and the fact he turned 50, was the impetus he needed to branch out and do his own thing, become the person he, Kenichi, wished to be. He smoothed an imaginary strand of hair from his eyes and smiled as the doors closed behind him.

*

David Wallace was late. "And I've got a stack of appointments; won't have time to run through the patients' files before I see them. Blasted battery!" He kicked the battered heap that was his car, and dashed into the hospital, bulky files tucked under a well-muscled arm.

His job as Community Nurse for Diabetes Education brought him to the hospital, seeing new patients who would be on his home visit list when they were released. Being a nurse was all David ever wanted to be. A caring boy, he'd been raised by parents who instilled in him a sense of community spirit. At school he was always protecting children bullied by others; he felt the injustices of the schoolyard and often came home with a black eye.

School was followed by nursing training and stints in various hospitals before his wife was diagnosed with diabetes in her 40's and his interest steered to that area.

David's long legs carried him swiftly across the car park and into the hospital.

*

Jimmy Nelson lay, still tucked in bed. Today he was to go home. It'd been a long stint in hospital. After he'd collapsed at work, everyone thought he was a goner; smoking had finally got him. His lungs weren't good, doctors told him, but it was diabetes that could kill him, if left untreated.

Jimmy shrugged; maybe he was better off dead. Injections, how was he to afford all that palaver? His wife and kids, 'twas bad enough feeding them, keeping the roof over their heads; his factory job didn't pay much.

"Get a better job," his wife said. But what? No education; when dad died in that fire mum said I had to get a job. Bloody hard when you're 14 and aboriginal. People thought we were lazy. I did a man's work, learnt a man's ways, smoking out back with the blokes. Bloody addicted now to fags.

"Come on Jimmy," a bustling nurse greeted him. "Have you had your shower? The Doctor will be here soon and you've got the Community Nurse arriving before you go home."

"Stop fussing woman," Jimmy growled. "Don't need no community nurse to tell me what to do. Can't afford the stuff anyways."

"Now I told you about that. It's all free for you, the nurse will explain."

"Hmmph!" grunted Jimmy before heading for a shower.

*

Kenichi neared the end of his rounds. "Last patient," he said to himself and entered the ward. A frail aboriginal man sat, slumped in a chair near the window.

"Mr Nelson?" Kenichi queried. The man turned. He might have aged, but in his eyes Kenichi recognised the child of long ago.

Walking along the corridor David heard a chuckle that rolled back the years to his childhood, a chuckle he never thought to hear again.

They first met as babies; none of them remembered that far back, but they'd always known each other it seemed. Besides David's mum had a photo of the three of them, semi-naked, playing with a tin can of water, two dark heads and one blonde. The same street, houses in the same street – a Japanese family, an aboriginal family, a white family. It was one of those streets in a city, a mish-mash of cultures. All the children hung out together; the three boys bonded, finding kinship in play, despite a few years difference in age.

Kenichi's dad would sometimes bring the boys lollies on his way home from dropping off a clock or watch; which they'd share, coveted sticky globs grasped in dirty fingers. No-one knew what the other dads did; they didn't bring lollies, so their jobs mustn't be important.

The parents talked to each other in the street, chatted over a back fence, but didn't visit each other's homes. Only the children ran in and out of the houses or threw balls in the street. No one minded them, they were mere babies.

"We're the three musketeers," David announced. "Like on TV."

"Yes," Kenichi agreed. "All for one." He raised his arm as if lifting his sword. David joined him. Jimmy laughed, not sure who the musketeers were, but happy to be with his friends, and lifted his small arm too.

"And one for all!" David shouted.

Good days, long days, fun days. Kicking a ball, digging in the dirt, it didn't matter, as long as the three were together. Their race and colour meant nothing, it wasn't even noticed.

Things changed. At school, Kenichi and Jimmy were different, not white like the rest of the students, and the bullying started.

"It's the Nip!" shouted Billy Johnson. He and his mate blocked the gate into school.

"Yeah and his Abo shadow," sneered Frank. Kenichi and Jimmy ignored the taunts and tried to enter the gate.

Billy shoved Kenichi aside. "Don't think so sloe-eyes. Go back to your own country."

"I am in my own country. I was born here," Kenichi explained.

Jimmy was younger than the group but he was tough.

"Get outta our way," he demanded, edging past the bigger boys.

Billy and Frank snorted with laughter. "Ha ha baby face telling us what to do!"

Jimmy felt mad. "I ain't no baby! I'm six!"

"Ho ho! He's six, he's six! Still an Abo even if you're six." The boys thrust him in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

"Leave them alone!" David bellowed. He ran to catch up, having stopped to talk to another friend.

"You okay mate?" He helped Jimmy up. At eight David was taller than his classmates and easily stood over Billy and Frank. They backed off and raced into the yard.

"C'mon." David led Kenichi and Jimmy up the path. "We're late."

The mates stood together through the bullying and taunts that occurred daily from Billy and his mates. Kenichi, the eldest by one year, found it easier to deal with as he was bright academically and reasonable at sports. Jimmy struggled at school and was a small lad for his age, so bore the brunt of the worst teasing. The two older boys sought him out at recess and lunch when they could, a three-way alliance that gave the younger boy some comfort.

When he turned ten Kenichi had to go straight home after school to help pack watches or sweep the floor. By the time he finished, David and Jimmy were inside for their suppers. Yet the friendship continued in school, meeting at recess and lunch, and anytime they could. Three musketeers standing strong.

Then one day, Jimmy came no more to school. A 'For Sale' sign appeared and the family was gone. Kenichi and David overheard the adults talking about Jimmy's dad losing his job; they had no money and the bank took the house. Whispers were heard behind closed doors. Words filtered through keyholes of 'typical' and 'what can you expect.' Kenichi and David missed their mate; they were no longer the three musketeers.

David's dad received a promotion a year later and moved his family further north, leaving Kenichi on his own. By this time his father was pushing him to study more, work harder, so there was little time for play or leisure.

That was forty years ago. Now, in the hospital, the three stood, reunited by fate and circumstances.

"Bloody hell!" Jimmy exclaimed, his mouth opening. "What do you know? It's the three musketeers together again!"

"Jimmy, Kenichi!" David stood still. "What the...?"

Kenichi reached out and shook David's hand warmly. "Hello old friend."

The three threw snippets of conversation back and forth, each astonished by this sudden and unexpected meeting.

"You a fancy doctor now Kenichi. Made something of yourself you have." Jimmy grinned through broken teeth.

"Better opportunities I'd say," Kenichi answered. "And lucky. What about you Jimmy?"

"Not so good mate, health's bad. Me fags problem ain't helped."

Kenichi hugged his thin shoulders. "Now that's why we're here, to help sort that out. I think we've got some catching up to do, the three of us."

"Sure," agreed David. "Years of stories to tell. It's been a while." He perched himself on the edge of the bed near Jimmy's chair.

"Different lives mate," Jimmy said slowly. "Not so sure it's a good idea. Can't be mates anymore." His thin face creased.

"Wasn't a problem when we were kids, why now?" asked David. "Besides I've got to see you, I'm the Community Nurse."

"Blow me down," Jimmy pursed his lips, shaking his head side to side. "Another smart bloke. Well I'm stuck with you then ain't I?"

"And me?" Kenichi wanted to know as he leant against the window sill.

"I'm a poor aboriginal, you a rich doctor, how's that work?"

"We were as brothers once," Kenichi said. "Race and money didn't matter then, not to the three musketeers."

"World's harder when you're grown up; we didn't know any better." Jimmy was resigned to his lot in life, had been through too much not to be.

David thought for a moment.

"Maybe we did know, better than the adults did. Maybe that's how the world should be; see it as if we're still children. All for one." He stood, lifting his arm in the old motion of childhood.

"And one for all," Kenichi raised his arm.

Jimmy hesitated. It was different for him; the odd one out. Yet his curiosity about the others' lives niggled.

"Let's start with a catch up over a drink and see how it goes," Kenichi suggested. "That's safe, no pressure, just a chat." He looked at Jimmy.

"We were good mates," David agreed. "I'd like to hear all that's gone on with you two since we saw each other last. C'mon Jimmy, what do you say?"

"Oh okay, just a cuppa mind, I can't drink no more," Jimmy pointed to his insulin pack. "And no guarantees mind."

Kenichi nodded.

"Fair enough, as you want it. Anyway we have to get you organised to go home and get this diabetes under control. We can keep an eye on you, help you. If you like." He patted Jimmy's hand reassuringly.

"Yes, we'll look after you," said David. "Just like when we were brothers."

"Nah mate," Jimmy shook his head. "Not brothers, the three musketeers." With that he stood and raised his arm. "All for one!"

Two other arms shot out and joined his. "And one for all!"

### VICKIE WALKER

Vickie Walker writes short stories and poetry, many based on her love of all things Australian. She has been published in several anthologies – "Between Heaven and Hell" (2011 ed. David Vernon); "Summer: An Anthology of Award-Winning Short Stories" (2014 Morrison Mentoring); "Flourish" (2015 Morrison Mentoring) and "Northern Light" (2014 Toowoomba Writers' Festival) among others – as well as receiving a number of awards in writing competitions. She has published online through:

<https://open.abc.net.au/people/12484>

<http://orangepost.com.au/travelling-with-rheumatoid-arthritis/>

### BUTTERFLIES

#### by Rayna Bright

The man in the black leather jacket steps closer and Mei-Huan covers her face. Aware of him since he boarded the train two stations back, she'd been sitting on the floor in front of her seat with her head bowed. Mei-Huan knows him. She has seen his dark, beady eyes lusting after the ladies he is forbidden to touch. He is one of Lim's henchmen who drive Lim and his fancy ladies around; ladies who look down on the likes of Mei-Huan; ladies who wear expensive clothes and leave a trail of perfume.

The train slows and grinds to a halt.

She feels his eyes on her. Reaching out, he grips her arm and drags her to her feet. To Mei-Huan he looks sturdy enough to carry three sacks of rice.

"Please, I come with you," Mei-Huan whispers, her eyes downcast.

He snorts like a pig. Passengers gathering their luggage are too busy to notice.

"Please, you get my bag down please?" she asks, pointing to the rack overhead. He takes time to think. Finally, he releases her arm, reaches up and yanks her bag down.

"Thank you. You very kind," she says, smiling and bowing. He smirks. His eyes shine and his tongue circles his tobacco stained teeth. "You good man," Mei-Huan says, thinking, you pig, and rests her fingers lightly on his tattooed knuckles.

Stumbling deliberately, she quickly undoes her top buttons and watches his greedy eyes feast on her young breasts. The man in the black leather jacket is stupid. Only men with plenty of money are allowed Mei-Huan's body.

She'd tried to escape six months ago but Lim's henchmen had found her. They'd ripped her leather pouch from her neck, told her they'd teach her a lesson, and said, "You won't run away again." She'd cried for help but no-one cared. To them she was just another troublesome girl. They'd bound her hands and feet before throwing her into the back of a van without windows.

The man in the black leather jacket has found her but she won't go back this time. She would rather die.

*

There'd been a time when Lim had held Mei-Huan's respect and trust. Growing up in the tiny village of Golmund in the Province of Quinghai they'd gone to school together—their marriage arranged when she was thirteen.

One day, an Englishman backpacking across China arrived in their village. He used his Mandarin dictionary to ask Mei-Huan's mother for food and shelter. She bowed and gave him a bowl of pickled cabbage, and although he grimaced, he swallowed it down knowing it was a delicacy. Mei-Huan's mother had smiled. The stranger bowed and said, "Xie xie, thank you." Mei-Huan's mother then pointed to some empty rice sacks lying on the bare ground in the corner of the hut.

"Xie xie," he said, bowing.

Word of the stranger spread quickly throughout the small village, and everyone hurried to Mei-Huan's hut. Seated on the dirt—their thin legs crossed—they waited for a glimpse of the stranger with a bag strapped to his back.

He was young with hair the colour of straw, and to them his skin looked like raw chicken.

"Ba-reee," he said, pointing to his chest.

"Ba-reee," they chorused and giggled. In broken Mandarin, Barry explained he was from a faraway city with many people. The villagers laughed and nodded. One had caught his attention, his name was Lim. He seemed different—not happy like the others. Seated beside him was Mei-Huan, and from the way her eyes never left him it was obvious he was special. One by one the villagers dispersed, but Lim and Mei-Huan loitered. Lim pointed to Barry's book, then to himself.

"Oh, so you'd like to learn English," Barry said.

"Yoo, xue, ying, guo." Lim replied, grinning and bowing. "Ba-reee lao Lim."

"Yes, I'll teach you," Barry said, nodding.

Lim didn't want to follow in the footsteps of his father and be a farmer; he wanted to go to the big city Barry had come from. Barry began teaching Lim basic English, and Mei-Huan joined in. Her Mother tried, but soon gave up and went back to grinding rice.

"What's wrong, Mei-Huan?" Barry had asked one day when he found her sobbing behind her parent's hut.

"Lim, go Shanghai. Not take Mei-Huan."

"I'll talk with Lim," Barry said.

But Lim was adamant; he was going to Shanghai to make a lot of money and drive a car. Mei-Huan would be like a rock around his neck. And only his promise to send for her had dried her tears.

Lim left the village when Mei-Huan was barely fourteen. Above the din of peasants, goats and pigs he yelled he would write her a letter. Mei-Huan cried and waved until the train disappeared.

Three years passed with no word from Lim.

Her mother told her to forget him that he would never write. But Mei-Huan believed he would honour his promise.

Then, one day Mei-Huan's younger brother came running towards their hut waving an envelope. The family quickly gathered. No-one had received a letter before and as each took a turn of holding it their eyes widened.

With trembling hands Mei-Huan gently prised the envelope open.

"Lim?" her mother asked.

A wide grin spread across Mei-Huan's face. Unfolding the letter like it was silk, money and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

"Ooooooh," cried her mother, and bent to scoop up the money.

Mei-Huan studied the paper.

> Residency Permit

> Permission is granted for Mei-Huan Chong,

> female, aged eighteen from Golnud in the Province

> of Quinai to enter Shanghai.

> Signed

> Sang Chen

> Register of Arrivals

> Shanghai

> Dated this second day of March, nineteen eighty-four

After stumbling over the words, she explained the money was for her train ticket to Shanghai.

Mei-Huan cried and hugged everyone. Pressing the letter to her chest, she ran to tell her best friend, Chun.

"Chun! Chun!" Mei-Huan shouted as she banged on the door. Both girls giggled and danced around and around until they fell to the ground and the blue sky spun above them.

*

Mei-Huan stands at the railway station one week later, wearing her best tunic, white socks, and black cloth shoes. Clutched in one hand is her black roll bag, and in the other, a third class railway ticket. She'd lingered, not wanting to leave, but she'd promised Lim, and to save face she must go to Shanghai. She'd promised her mother she would write and as the train pulled out of the station she'd waved until they were just a speck.

Mei-Huan shivers; she's never been without her family. A knot forms in her stomach and works its way to her heart. It feels like something has been ripped out. She remembers her tongue searching when she had lost a tooth, only to find a hollow space. Her heart now feels like that—a hollow space.

You silly, she tells herself. Your heart will fill with love. You will marry Lim and have a child and he will buy you new shoes. Pleased with this thought, she squeezes in between a woman holding a rooster and an old man puffing on a cigarette. She nurses her roll bag containing the rice cakes she will eat during the two day journey. The little money she has saved hangs safely in a pouch around her neck.

The third class carriage is full of farmers with their animals, and the stink of sweat and manure makes her nostrils burn. Covering her mouth and nose with her jacket sleeve she wishes she'd bought a second class ticket. The hot sun blazes during the day, and at night, the cold air chills her bones.

Exhausted and hungry, Mei-Huan arrives at Xi'an, relieved to find the train to Shanghai doesn't allow animals. The hollow space in her heart begins to fill and she sings a nursery rhyme to herself, one her mother had sung to her as a small child.

> "Away goes the butterfly,

> To catch it I will never try,

> The butterfly is about to alight,

> I would not have it if I might."

Ten hours later the train pulls into Shanghai. People swarm along the platform, shouting to each other. They cover their noses to avoid the stench coming from the young girl in the soiled tunic making her feel as small as a grain of rice.

"Lim. Lim," she cries, searching the crowded platform as tears trickle down her grubby face.

Two hours pass. The sun disappears behind the tall buildings and she shivers.

Slowly the black sky comes alive as hundreds of coloured lights wink at each other. She's never seen such a beautiful sight. People laugh and music fills the air. She forgets her empty stomach and aching head and feels like dancing. Maybe Shanghai is not such a bad place. If only Chun and her family were here.

A fat man with no hair, mopping his head with a rag, pushes his way through the people. He stops when he sees Mei-Huan.

"Mei-Huan?" he snarls. She bows her head and smiles.

He grabs her arm, and drags her to a car big enough to hold her entire family. And as they drive away the coloured lights begin to fade like Mei-Huan's happiness. Tears run down her cheeks, a sharp pain slices through her heart and she longs for her family and Chun.

*

The poor, peasant boy from Golmud no longer exists. He had quickly discovered hard work didn't make you rich, but men carrying guns did. First he bought a nine millimetre pistol and held up a liquor store. It was so easy he held up another. Then another. But wanting more, he became involved in drug trafficking.

Within a year he'd established his first brothel and discovered wealthy men pay big money for virgins. It was after he joined the Triads - the most feared men in China - he remembered Mei-Haun. She would make him lots of money. Lim would bring her to Shanghai, but not to marry. She would work in his brothels.

*

The carriage has emptied. Tucking her roll bag under his arm, the man in the black leather jacket clutches the back of Mei-Huan's neck and marches her outside. Standing beside the train, Mei-Huan turns, lowers her eyes, and focuses on his crotch. His face lights up, as she knew it would. He drags her away from the train towards a clump of trees. When she stumbles, he winds his fingers through her hair and hauls her behind him. Puffing, he throws her to the damp ground and fumbles with his belt.

The moon and stars appear from behind a dark cloud and Mei-Huan sees that his trousers are down around his ankles. Scrambling to her feet, she pulls a knife hidden in the pocket of her dress and lunges. Pitching backwards he falls heavily to the ground. Mei-Huan quickly drives the blade into his throat. He lurches; she jumps sideways and plunges the knife in a second time. He gurgles. His body jerks forward. He slumps to the ground and his face crumples in the dirt.

Grabbing her roll bag, she runs until the lights from the train disappear and she feels her lungs burn. Collapsing onto the soft, green grass, her weary eyes close, and she imagines star dust sprinkling over her exhausted body. And when Mei-Huan sleeps she dreams of paddy fields and butterflies.

###  EIGHTY-FIVE MILES WEST OF GELONG 1842

#### by Rayna Bright

Nellie wakes to the sun beating through the threadbare hessian bag draped over the small window. Sweat drenched, she slips out of bed and tiptoes to the door. Outside, the air is still, the only noise a low buzzing from the blowflies around the manure pile.

Snapping off a blue gum for a swat, she picks her way through the wild wattle scrub toward the willow tree by the river Jim calls The Barwon. She hitches her nightie to her knees. Seated on the grassy bank, she dips her toes into the cool water and feels the willow's roots beneath her feet. Through closed eyes she imagines the rolling waves of the ocean back home in her beloved Geelong. Sighing, she clutches the hem of her nightie and makes her way up the bank. Strolling back inside the timber hut she finds Jim nursing Mary, their infant daughter.

"Whata ya reckon?" he asks, sweeping his hand around the small room, a grin from ear to ear. By the time they'd arrived last night it'd been too dark for Nellie to get a good look at her new home. There are two tree stumps for chairs, a rough, timber table, three stacked crates for cupboards, and on the wall a small mirror hangs from a piece of wire. A large tin basin sits next to the fire for washing. More hessian bags are strewn across the bare dirt floor. Nellie is suddenly grateful for the crockery, utensils, and linen her mother has given her.

*

Standing beside the half empty water-well Jim looks skyward. Dark clouds have been gathering in the west for the past two months, and not once have they produced a single drop of rain.

"Bloody clouds, never come to nuthin," he mutters as he saddles Henry then rides off in a cloud of dust.

To protect her pale skin from the blazing sun, Nellie reaches for her wide-brimmed straw hat and steps outside. She looks around. There's not a blade of green grass to be seen. Dust swirls around her feet and covering her mouth with her pinny she heads for her vegetable garden. After inspecting the withered plants she tucks up the hem of her calico skirt, strides to the barn, then heads to the river a bucket in each hand. Half an hour later, her back and arms ache and sweat drips from her flushed face. When she trips on a rock and precious water spills over the parched ground, Nellie deserts the buckets and trudges back to the hut.

That night and every other night, as Jim sleeps, Nellie lies awake for hours, praying for rain.

On the eighth day her prayers are finally answered. The rain arrives. Before nightfall the well is over-flowing. Ten days later shoots of grass form a green carpet over what was once sun-baked soil.

*

As the sun peeps over the horizon Jim saddles Henry. Nellie watches, biting hard on her bottom lip. He's never left her on her own all day and she's scared.

"I'll be back by sun-down," he says, picking up a tucker bag filled with bread and cheese. "I gotta go Nel. Gotta git more land cleared. 'Sides, nuthin' out here gunna hurt ya."

She nods and looks down at her palms, tears welling.

"I promise to git back as soon as I can," he calls, digs his heels into Henry's flanks and gallops towards the scrub.

The grass is damp beneath her feet, the air cool, but already she can feel the first of the sun's rays prickling her skin. Brushing a stray strand of hair from her face she traipses back inside, locking the door behind her.

*

With only one tree left to fell and the sun fading behind tall blue gums, Jim swings his axe in haste, misses and slices deep into his leg. Crumpled on the dusty ground, his eyes close and he slips into a world of darkness.

Hours later his eyes flicker open to see a silver-haired aboriginal woman bending close to his face. He smells her pungent breath and grimaces. He's alive, but his left leg feels like it's been split in two. He tries to sit up but his spinning head won't let him.

"Guuwayn," she says, pointing to his leg, "Ngindou," holding up the axe. He gives a weak nod. Sweat trickles down his face as he reaches down to brush his fingertips over the oozing gash. "Walangek tyarrwila," she says, pointing to herself. Pulling a clean cloth from her dilly bag she wets it with water from his blackened billy.

Flat on his back, his jaw clenched, Jim feels her bony fingers bathing the gaping wound. His stomach pitches. He points a shaky hand at his saddle bag. She nods. Inside is a needle, cotton, scissors, and whiskey - a bushman's first aid kit. He threads the needle, gestures what needs to be done, and when she grins, he sees that most of her teeth are missing.

Downing a few swigs of whiskey, he stuffs his fist into his mouth as the needle pierces his skin. Bathed in sweat a few minutes later, he watches her drip a milky sap over the wound before wrapping it in a clean cloth.

As night falls, so does the temperature. Squinting to adjust to the darkness, he watches her move amongst scrub collecting firewood. Warmed by the fire, he opens his tucker bag and offers her bread and cheese. Giving a toothless grin, she squats down beside him and as the fire crackles, they eat in silence.

"Nginduu kuma," she says, resting her head sideways on her clasped hands.

"Ya mean sleep?" he says. Nodding weakly he closes his eyes.

Woken by his throbbing leg at sun-rise, he tries to stand but topples sideways. There's no sign of the aboriginal woman. Henry is tethered to a nearby tree munching tufts of dry grass, and a kangaroo skin bucket of water sits close beside him. He hears a rustle. Any sound in the quiet bush is magnified. When a flock of galahs screech and take flight, his heart pounds. With his gun out of reach he grabs a nearby branch. The rustling intensifies Henry tosses his head and snorts. He sees a dark shape move out from the tall gums and holds his breath. When the aboriginal woman emerges he breathes a deep sigh of relief and drops the branch. Crouched beside him she opens her dilly bag to reveal yams, and more paperbark to dress his wound.

*

The two candles Nellie lit when she began waiting for Jim have burnt down. Unwilling to waste another, she pulls the hessian bag from the window and climbs into bed. Half- moonlight is better than complete darkness. When woken sometime later by the hot sun beating through the window, she sits bolt upright.

Mary cries. Gathering her up, Nellie places her in a hessian sling and offers her a breast. She waits 'til Mary falls asleep then picks her way down to the river. Seated on the grassy bank, her swollen eyes sting as she nervously scans the horizon.

It's mid-afternoon and still no sign of Jim. Looking to the west she watches dark clouds blotting out the sun, and although sunset is still three hours away, light is fading fast. Thunder rumbles like stampeding oxen. Lightening illuminates the sky and it begins to pour. Nearby, a giant blue gum crashes to the ground and Mary screams with fright. She runs back to the hut stepping around potholes that are already over-flowing. Once inside, she bolts the door behind her. Rain lashes the window, and sweeps into the barn. Spooked, the sheep are charging around in circles. Worried for Buttercup, Nellie runs through driving rain and pelting hailstones to the barn where she finds her ramming her stall. With sodden clothes and hair plastered to her face, she ties a rope around Buttercup's neck and leads her outside. As thunder booms around them, a terrified Buttercup kicks out her back legs, knocking Nellie into a pool of mud. The barn groans and palings fly off in all directions. Seconds feel like minutes. Hauling herself to her feet she grips Buttercup's rope and sloshes through ankle deep muddy water towards the hut.

Safely inside, she takes Mary in her arms and tries to calm Buttercup, whose velvet eyes are wide like saucers.

Two hours pass. The rain's a soft drizzle, the wind a slight breeze. Keen to inspect the damage, Nellie places Mary on the bed and steps from the hut into a sea of swirling, muddy water. The cart lies upside down with one of its wheels snapped off, debris is strewn all around, rubbish floats in the well and her vegies are flattened. Sobbing, she scans the horizon for Jim.

At the sound of Mary's blood-curdling scream she rushes back inside. Her heart pauses, stutters. Mary has fallen from the bed and Buttercup's front hoof is precariously close to her tiny body.

"M-a-r-y!" she cries, hurling herself forward. Buttercup stomps backwards tossing her head. Weeping, she gathers Mary up and gently cradles her broken arm. "S-h-h-h-h-h-h," she croons while scanning the fireplace for sticks to make a splint.

When Mary eventually falls asleep, Nellie leads Buttercup outside and ties her inside the rickety barn. Back in the hut, and overcome with fatigue, Nellie lies on the bed and soon falls into an exhausted sleep.

*

For three days the aboriginal woman bathes and dresses Jim's wound, feeding him berries and grubs he'd never have imagined were edible. Now, sitting astride Henry, he begins the slow journey home.

Watching flood waters surge across open paddocks, a lump forms in his throat. Three miles from home and anxious to know his girls are all right, he digs his heels into Henry's flanks. When he sees the hut in the distance, he leans forward, strokes Henry's damp neck and says, "It's awlright boy. You can slow down," and Henry snorts.

"Nellie," he shouts, pounding on the locked door.

The door flies open and Nellie leaps into his arms.

"Where woz ya? I woz scared."

"Sorry love, but I cut me leg," he says, lowering her to the ground.

"Oh no! Gimme a look!" she says, examining his torn, bloodied trousers as he limps inside.

"Struth. What happened to Mary's arm?''

"There woz a terrible storm," she says, and her head drops. "I had ta leave 'er on the bed while I brought Buttercup inside wiff us and she rolled off and broke 'er little arm. It woz terrible," Nellie mumbles between sobs.

Jim hurries to gently pick her up, careful not to touch the splint. "I'm gunna git ya all fixed up," he whispers.

Tugging his arm, she says, "But how? Ain't no doctors round 'ere," and bursts into tears.

"There woz this aborigine woman that fixed me leg up."

"An aborigine?" she says.

"Yeah. She saved me leg," he replies, then tells her the whole story.

Awake at first light, Jim steps outside. Dodging puddles of mud he heads for the barn. Although half the palings are missing, he finds a contented Buttercup chewing on her cud. "We'd betta git ya milked," he says, and she gives a slow m-o-o-o.

With the cart mended and hitched to Henry, Nellie packs bedding and food for their journey in search of the aboriginal woman.

Shadows are lengthening by the time Jim pulls Henry to a halt under the protection of a weeping willow. Unaccustomed to sleeping outdoors, Nellie discovers the pleasing scent of the Golden Glory wafting across the river.

Woken by the soft warbling of magpies, she watches Jim relight the fire, and within the hour they're back on their way. By early afternoon, Jim spots the aboriginal woman under the shade of a scraggy coolabah tree with three other women. Looking up, she grins, and hurries over.

"Mathimuk," she says, peering at Nellie, adding, "Minggayin," when she points to Mary. Jim nods and shows her Mary's tiny arm - still held in place by Nellie's splint.

"Walangetk nyernda," she says. Extending her gnarly hands she grabs Mary from Nellie's arms and strokes her tiny cheek.

Nellie reaches for Mary, but Jim grasps her by the shoulders.

"She's gunna be awlright," he says, and she has to believe him.

### RAYNA BRIGHT

An avid reader and writer, Rayna lives in a seaside village on the northern coast of NSW, Australia. Her penchant for writing flash-length stories has seen her stories published in Microstory (U.S.), Forgotten Tomb Press (U.S.), Bones II (U.S.), Henry Lawson Anthology, (Australia), 'On a Dark and Snowy Night' Anthology, (Zimbell House Publishers, (U.S.) and in several regional anthologies.

### FIRST NOTES

#### by Jessica Clements

Most people I know can remember the first time they played, the sound of the first notes bursting into air. Dad says for him it was like finally being given glasses after years of not being able to see. The world was suddenly defined in ways he never knew existed and everything seemed brighter somehow. From what he's told me it was the same for Mum too and I can almost imagine it when I look at the photos from when she was young, and later in the many pictures of concerts and orchestra rehearsals that are scattered throughout the house. More than anything, I can hear it in the way her first notes come slipping through our stereo, as smooth as the ivory silk of wedding gowns and bright as a star before it falls.

I don't remember the first time I played or even the process of learning, it was just something that was always there, like being able to curl your tongue or flexing a foot into a pointe. My first violin, now leaning in a stand on the mantle, is so small that no one believes it's real.

The closest I come to knowing what those beginning notes feel like comes when I fail to make it into the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. I can imagine how it must have felt to begin because to stop feels like someone has turned something off inside me and suddenly everything seems flat and lifeless and dark.

Always the teacher, Dad tries encouraging me to play. He shows me new pieces of sheet music he's hunted down and bought off the Internet, everything from Bach to Metallica. He buys me that new hard case I couldn't afford, and fills the pocket with a shiny, untouched block of rosin. It's a small, hockey-puck-sized round of amber that reminds me of velvet lined cases and golden-stained wood. When I was younger he'd tell me off for loading on too much on my bow, dragging it over and over until a deep cross was etched on the top. I'd whip my bow through the air and watch the excess escaping, white clouds forming like whirlpools in the sea. But during these months between high school and University, I can't look at these things without feeling another jolt; a small internal collapse that, like music, I can't put into words.

Instead, I make it into my second choice: music teaching. I only included it on my application in passing, something to fill up a gap so I wouldn't look so sure of my chances on getting in to the Conservatorium. It wasn't that I was overly confident, but being accepted was just something that I assumed would happen, something I'd never questioned because there seemed no other choice. I'd been given my mother's hands as well as her face so naturally everyone, including myself, assumed I would take after her. Dad was talented too of course, but even he used to say, "there's talent, and then there's your mother." She died when I was six. Most of what I remember of her comes from things I've heard or been told, or what I've made up from the remnants that still live in our house. Her hundred-year-old German violin, a wedding present from my father, sits on the mantle next to mine. Every now and then I'll see him pick it up and cradle it in his hands for a moment before putting it gently back in its stand, the f-holes staring out into the room like two long, sad eyes.

By the time uni begins, I'm unpracticed and sloppy and fall over notes as though they are potholes. I'm sure people look at me questioningly, like they can't believe I even got into a teaching course, and maybe should've tried for music appreciation. But it takes all my energy to concentrate on not dropping my violin, so I don't notice their faces. The first semester is mainly theory anyway. I can get away with playing only two or three times a week. I dread next semester, when we are expected to teach primary school-aged children at the college in town and it becomes real.

I come home every day the first week exhausted and depressed, dropping face down on my bed in the afternoon and not getting out until morning. Dad tries to cheer me up, but he looks just as tired as me. One night he mentions in a roundabout way that he's worried about me. He asks if I miss playing. I shrug and say, 'not really,' even though for months now my left arm has felt empty and too light at my side, and I've developed a habit in the way I hold pens in my right hand.

"You can always try out next year, I guess," he says.

Dad's a gentle man who teaches unappreciative teenagers during the day and sits in a recliner with his headphones on listening to Mum at night. We haven't spoken much over the holidays about my results so I assume his tiredness and questioning is disappointment over my sudden twist in career paths. Until one morning I come out of my room and slump in the chair with my head in my hands, staring confusedly at the bowl of cereal in front of me.

"God I hate teaching," I say, "I can't understand why anyone would torture themselves with it. I'd rather not play at all."

I look up in time to see Dad's face falling like a thumb sliding down a piano in glissando.

I manage to avoid his eyes for the rest of the semester, manage to pass my subjects even though theory examinations have never been my strong point. I manage to avoid thinking enough about it all to get through, but it hits me when the second semester arrives and suddenly I'm fronting up at a school holding a book of notes and a case that has begun to take on the smell of hall closets.

I find my way to the office and get an idea of how expensive the school is when the woman tells me the music rooms are "in the tower." Moments later I'm climbing a maroon staircase that spirals up a narrow space and ends on a landing, small rooms jutting into the spaces along the top. All they've told me about the student who will attend private lessons with me once a week for the rest of the semester, is that he's six, a beginner, a boy. As I open the door, I imagine a snobby little boy in perfectly creased grey pants that will make the semester a living hell, kicking at my shins in refusal to even pick up his bow.

Instead, I get Christopher.

I'm right about some things. He is wearing a tiny uniform with neat grey pants. His almost white-blonde hair is parted near the side and falls in straight silky pieces. He is also exceptionally polite, though at first I can't tell if this is merely shyness. But within the first few minutes I know he is not the devil child I've been expecting. Even worse than that, he seems eager to learn and horrifyingly, I realise he's relying on me to teach him.

In the beginning, the process is painful and I am not yet in the right frame of mind for patience. Christopher's first notes scratch at the surface like railway tracks and sound like the fluoro orange of electrical sparks. I try to teach him how to hold his bow, smoothing my hand over his tiny fingers that are so pale they are almost translucent. I help him to tap the rhythm out with his feet. I move his fingers on the desk to soundless notes, and listen tirelessly to renditions of "Twinkle Twinkle," that after weeks still sound like he's playing them on one note.

By the time September holidays approach, Christopher's no better and his enthusiasm has significantly waned to the point where he's become the boy I'd expected to get in the first place. He's also grown more silent if that's even possible, and avoids my eyes, although for that I am thankful. His face has begun to remind me a little too much of my own.

One day he throws his bow on the floor in a silent gesture of refusal and frustration that coming from him is almost as dramatic as a full-blown tantrum.

"You're doing great," I reassure him, though how believable I am, I can't tell. "No one picks up violin easily. It's tough. You'll get it."

"No I won't," he says, staring at the ground, bottom lip uncurling.

At dinner I look over my lecture notes for something that will help a boy that is tone deaf and has no rhythm learn how to play. Unsurprisingly, I come up with nothing. When I hear how well the other student teachers are doing with their kids, I can't help but hope I'll be expelled if Christopher doesn't get it.

Then on the day of our last lesson together before the September holidays, we have a small breakthrough. He can finally move his fingers to notes that, if I cringe, almost sound in tune. He can move his bow smoothly over the strings with just about the right pressure to make sound. Unwillingly, we both go off to the school break, smiling.

*

During the holidays, he's on my mind. I see his small face and baby fine hair in things like yellow sand and dolls with soft plastic faces. I can't help but think of ways to teach him. More than that, I try to think of how I can help him enjoy playing the way I used to.

One night at dinner, I'm moving food around my plate thinking of him when Dad pushes a box in front of me.

"These might help," he says.

I know what they are even before I look. He's kept video recordings of my lessons with him as a child, the ones where Mum stood beside me, playing first to demonstrate the way things were meant to sound.

"I forgot about these," I say.

When I was younger, I'd sneak out of bed and watch through the narrow door crack as she flickered in colour across the screen. But it's been years since I've seen them. I've been trying to avoid the practice room all year. It's filled with tapes of her recordings: labelled and stored neatly in the bookcases that line the room. There are photographs and boxes filled with handwritten notes printed on ageing paper, and programs Dad's kept from all the concerts she played around the world. Then there is her degree, right next to a space in the wall Dad told me would someday be filled with mine.

I take the tapes from Dad and stare at the covers I know by heart and realise I've never told him about Christopher. I wonder how many Christophers he's had to teach over the years.

The tapes sit there for almost the entire two weeks of the holidays untouched. Instead, I go for long walks along the beach, trying to imagine a time when my mother might have walked along this sand before, on a night when the sky stayed hazy and light as though the sun had never quite set. As usual, her playing is drifting through the air as I walk through the door. Bach and Handel were her favourites, pieces with deep, soulful sounds that fill our small house like a cathedral. But lately Dad's been playing others full of brighter notes that, like her face, I can't quite remember. Pieces that make me wonder what else is in that room that I've forgotten. On the last day of the holidays, I come home and say, "I think I'll watch those tapes now."

Dad smiles and sits on the chair next to me, waiting as I push the first tape into the player. I watch the back of my four-year-old head, dark ringlets hanging at my ears, the small violin in my arms. Dad's at the piano, Mum's by my side. She always plays first and then I follow.

Even though I can't remember the way it felt to hold the bow in my hand, to make the sounds, I can remember the way I heard the sounds. The way I saw patterns in the music as she played, the notes peaking in coloured hills and dancing like the surface of the ocean. I remember Dad lifting me up into the air when I got it and telling me I was just like my mother, and because it was him I believed it.

"Some kids have trouble following the notes when they're young," Dad says. "Teaching's not just about books. You have to find something that works for each of them. You didn't pick it up as easily as you might have thought." Then he smiles and says, "You were the same as your mother with that."

The next day I'm standing in the room with Christopher. It feels like a year has passed since last time.

He looks confused when I take his sheet music away, and even more confused when I open my case, which until now has sat in the corner against the wall at every lesson.

"Close your eyes," I tell him. "Just listen."

When I finish I place his tiny violin in his arm and tell him to play. It's not perfect, and the improvement in his playing to anyone else would not be anything amazing, but to me his first notes come out sounding as beautifully golden as his violin, his smile is a crescendo of sound.

A couple of months later I make a copy of my second audition piece and send it to the school with Christopher's name on it. I realise he's probably moved on to tennis by now, but whenever I'm playing an elaborate version of "Twinkle Twinkle" as a warm-up in class and I see yellow stars dance in my head, I think of him and imagine he still plays.

### JESSICA CLEMENTS

Jessica Clements studies English at the University of Adelaide. Her stories have appeared in various Australian literary journals and online.

### REUNITED

#### by Helmine Kemp

Sarah stared out of the window nervously scanning the faces of the passing pedestrians. Soft music merged with the clatter of crockery and the Wednesday lunch crowd chatter underscored the continuous whoosh of the coffee machine. Her hand twitched as she played with her scarf, remembering the cool and business-like phone call that had brought her here. She'd given up hope of ever hearing from Melissa.

"Sarah?" The soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

She looked up, instantly recognising the young woman standing there. After all this time, the eyes and that pert little mouth were the same. Sarah jumped up and impulsively wrapped her arms around the tall, willowy young woman. Her embrace was met with a stiff resistance. Reluctantly Sarah released Melissa and sat back down.

"I haven't been here before, it looks nice." Melissa's voice quivered gently as she slid into the chair opposite. Surveying the café she turned and her eyes briefly met Sarah's. Hurriedly she cast them down to her lap where her fingers fidgeted with her belt.

"Yes, it's one of my favourites," she said swallowing down the impulse to ask all the questions crowding her mind.

Laughter rose from a table in the corner making Sarah and Melissa's uncomfortable silence even more noticeable. There was so much to talk about, so much catching up to do, and yet they couldn't find a way to start. Melissa seemed absorbed in her belt and Sarah waited.

When the laughter from the other table subsided, Sarah broke the spell.

"It's so lovely to see you. You've grown so tall."

"It has been fifteen years." Melissa darted a glance at Sarah and her features softened momentarily. "You haven't changed much ... although you've gone grey." She disappeared back behind the mask.

"Oh yes, I used to dye it honey brown back then."

Sarah blinked away the images of a young, laughing and carefree Melissa and focused on the tightly held Melissa in front of her.

"I was so glad to get your call," she said, biting back the "at last" poised on the tip of her tongue.

"Were you?" Melissa frowned, "I wasn't sure . . ."

"Hi Sarah," the waitress interrupted. "So, this is your granddaughter?" She beamed at Sarah but stiffened slightly when she saw Melissa's face. "Can I get you anything?" she asked.

They ordered coffees then silently studied their menus. A group of young mothers surrounded the table beside them, scraping their chairs and laughing loudly as they arranged the prams, effectively locking Melissa and Sarah in.

Melissa's voice barely carried across the noise. "I'm sorry, this is harder than I'd thought it would be."

"Is something wrong?" Sarah moved her chair closer to the table and leaned forward, fighting the impulse to touch Melissa's hand.

"Something wrong? Well of course there is, you're my grandmother but you're a stranger."

Sarah blinked away the tears forming in her eyes and Melissa added, "I'm sorry ... I want to talk to you ... but I'm doing a bad job of it."

"What do you want to talk about Melissa? We can talk about whatever you like."

Just then, the waitress placed two coffees on the table and took their lunch orders. Melissa cleared her throat but just stared down at her hands as they twisted empty sugar sachets into strange, distorted shapes.

"I don't understand what happened," Melissa finally said. "I found an old photo, the one of me climbing those big Morton Bay fig trees in the Botanic Gardens. I remember it, you and gramps were there. It brought back memories ..."

"That was a fun time, wasn't it?" Sarah said, "I've missed you."

She reached across and touched Melissa's hand, but Melissa pulled back and picked up her cup.

"But, it was your choice," Melissa's eyes moistened as she stared at Sarah.

"My choice? No, you can't believe that. I was shut out."

"I didn't shut you out. I waited for you but you never came."

"Oh Melissa, I so wanted to, but I couldn't get near." Seeing Melissa shake her head, Sarah rushed on, "Didn't your mother explain?"

"Yes, mum explained alright. You were too busy with dad's new family, that's why you didn't visit anymore. You and gramps ... just didn't love me ... enough." A stifled sob finished her sentence and her shoulders hunched forward. She reached for her bag and started to rise.

"No, wait!" Sarah exclaimed a little too loudly, attracting furtive looks from the mums beside them.

The waitress appeared, blocking off Melissas retreat. She sat as the waitress placed two meals on the table and fled. Melissa again moved, ready to make her escape and Sarah grabbed her arm.

"It's not true, please let me explain."

Melissa hesitated, then put down her bag and sat down.

"It was your mother; it was Wendy that shut me out. She didn't want your father or his parents in her life, or in yours, after the divorce. She refused any requests to see you." Sarah felt her throat constrict but Melissa's shaking head urged her on. "It wasn't my choice. Melissa, you must believe me. I could never have abandoned you voluntarily. I loved ... love ... you so much."

Tears spilled down her cheeks and she swiped at them aggressively. The memory was crystal clear and she tensed, again feeling the pain and the sense of helplessness she had when Wendy had denied her access. She couldn't lose Melissa again.

Ignoring the stares from other diners, Sarah continued loudly, "I've missed you so much. We never stopped loving you."

"I've missed you too, Gramma." Melissa's face contorted with obvious pain.

"Your mum and dad had problems. It shouldn't have, but it affected us all."

"I remember them shouting at each other; it used to scare me. Strangely, after dad left it was at least peaceful, maybe even easier, but I missed him so," Melissa said as she slumped into her chair.

"It was especially hard on you. If I could have changed anything ..." Not for the first time Sarah wondered if she could have tried harder, challenged Wendy more.

"Tell me," Melissa pleaded, her eyes glistening with unreleased tears.

"Melissa, well, you know there was a lot of tension and your parents fought all the time. Watching that marriage fall apart had been hard, especially when there was nothing I could do. When your mother discovered Terry was having an affair everything came crashing down. I don't know all the details." Sarah sipped at her water trying to shift the lump forming in her throat. "Things changed dramatically then, the divorce and not being allowed to see you. At first I saw you during your dad's visits but when Terry and Andrea got married I wasn't allowed to see you anymore. Your mother was adamant. I didn't cope well, losing you, missing Terry and then Gramps' illness and his sudden death; they were big blows, one after the other. Then I got sick ..." Sarah couldn't go on, the memories choked out her words.

"Oh," Melissa said quietly.

"They were Wendy's rules. I desperately wanted to be part of your life but ..." Sarah faltered desperate to make Melissa understand. She wondered why the letters hadn't explained.

Melissa looked at her watch and placed her napkin on the table. "I'm sorry, I have to go." She stood up. "I need time to think."

Sarah reluctantly released her from their awkward embrace and she watched Melissa merge with the pedestrians on the crowded footpath. A persistent dull ache settled in her chest, a pining for all the things that could have been, if only ...

*

Friday evening had come around quickly and Sarah, sitting quietly in her lounge room, was rereading the same passage in her book for the fourth time. She kept replaying alternative dialogue for the Wednesday meeting in her mind. It played over and over, on a continuous loop that found no satisfaction. A loud knock startled her and she hurried to peer through the peephole. She opened the door and a distraught Melissa, hair flying and fists clenched, stormed past her into the room.

"She hid them from me! She knew what they meant to me but she kept them and lied," Melissa cried as she paced back and forth.

Sarah's guided Melissa to the sofa. "Why don't you sit down and tell me what this is about."

Melissa flung herself down. "I found your letters ... and the photos. They go back years; there was even one from last month."

Sarah's hand flew to her throat, that's why Melissa had never responded. "Oh my god! All of them? You never got any of them?"

Melissa sprung up and paced again. "All these lies! I found them, hidden in her wardrobe. She'd buried them in a box under my old school reports."

Sarah was speechless.

"She doesn't know I've found them." Melissa again threw herself into the sofa "I don't want to hear her excuses. If she lied about this, what else has she lied about?"

Sarah trembled, her own anger threatening to erupt and she quickly sat down to steady herself. Sitting close but separate on the sofa, they were both buried in their own thoughts and turbulent emotions. The tension and anger eventually gave way to questions. Melissa talked about what she'd read for the first time that afternoon. The photos and news and her surprise at the love in those letters and the pleas for a reply. She'd always believed she'd been rejected. Finally, Sarah wrapped her arms around her granddaughter, at last able to hold her tight and this time there was no resistance.

A loud pounding and shouting at the door broke the spell. The stranger on the other side of the peephole was strangely familiar to Sarah.

"Let me in, I know you're in there," the shrill voice screamed and Melissa recognised her mother's voice.

When Sarah unlocked the door, Wendy burst through, brushing Sarah aside as she raced towards Melissa.

"I knew I'd find you here. You have to let me explain Melissa." Wendy turned to Sarah, her eyes on fire. "And you stay out of this."

Sarah clenched her fists, "I think you've sidelined me enough already. What a wicked, wicked, thing you've done."

"That's right, it's about you isn't it?" Wendy sneered, almost spitting the words into Sarah's face. "When your son ... when Terry left me for 'that' woman he took my life and dreams too. I was left to raise a five year old on my own. Instead of a happy family, a houseful of children and a comfortable life like we'd planned, he left me to struggle on my own. He thought paying maintenance was enough compensation. Well it wasn't." She stared at Sarah, her lips tightening. "Your visits made it harder. You'd waltz into Melissa's life and charm her, load her up with gifts, turn her head with all your attention. She came back from those visits so excited and it was "Gramma said this" and "Daddy said that," on and on. But me, I had to do the hard stuff, to be the disciplinarian, to say no to things because we couldn't afford them, while I struggled to scrape together a living."

"It needn't have been so hard you know Wendy, we could have helped, made it a little easier, if you had let us."

Wendy's eyes widened as she shrieked, "Oh no, it wouldn't have been easier. You'd have taken my little girl away from me. She is all I have and I wasn't going to let either Terry or you take her away from me."

Melissa stood up abruptly, her eyes fixed on Wendy in a cold stare.

"So it's all about you now. Well, I have news for you Mum, I'm not a possession, I'm flesh and blood, and I have feelings. All this time you let me believe that my Dad and my Gramma didn't love me anymore. Do you know how that felt? I grew up believing the people I loved and adored had rejected me. You didn't care about my suffering. You took my Dad and my Gramma and Gramps away from me."

Wendy stepped towards Melissa so fast she almost fell to her knees.

"You got over it, you forgot them. We were happy and had good times together. I did everything to make up for your missing father; I tried to give you everything. You were happy weren't you?"

"It wasn't enough. And no I haven't got over it." Melissa, with tears streaming down her face, turned her back on her mother. "I'll never know my Gramps thanks to you."

Sarah's legs felt weak but she forced herself forward to comfort Melissa, as Wendy, lips quivering, stood looking on.

"I'm sorry Melissa, I really am, but in the end it worked out OK didn't it? I know now that it was wrong to keep the letters from you. But once I started hiding them ... Oh Melissa, please forgive me. I only did it because I love you so much and couldn't bear to lose you," Wendy pleaded.

Melissa's steely gaze fixed on her mother, "Does this look like everything turned out OK? Maybe you have lost me after all Mum." Frostiness underlined every word as she added, "I think you should go."

A question formed on Wendy's lips but Melissa cut her off. "I'm not sure when I'll be home. I'm staying here for a while."

Tears overflowed Wendy's eyes. She grasped the door knob and slunk from the room, her sobs echoing in the corridor as she closed the door.

Melissa and Sarah collapsed into the sofa, their emotions too raw to expose with words. Then they distracted themselves by fixing the spare bed. They wordlessly clung to each other before retiring to bed.

Sarah fought with her quilt and sheets all night, creating a tangled mess. Worries about what would happen now dogged her. A small kernel of sympathy welled for Wendy; her motives could be understood, but not easily forgiven. She cried for her own losses, all those precious moments that could never be recaptured. At least they could start again, but it was too late for Allan.

In the morning, Melissa stumbled into the kitchen, hair tousled, shoulders slumped and dark circles under her eyes. Over a coffee and a piece of toast they talked.

"It wasn't easy for her raising me on her own. I know Mum tried to make our life happy, to give me the things other kids had. It doesn't excuse her, but I guess she was afraid. She lied to protect herself," Melissa said, her voice tired and husky. "I'll have to talk to Mum, more calmly this time. She has to see how much she has hurt me ... I still don't know if I can forgive her." She touched Sarah's hand. "No matter what, she has to accept that I want Dad and you in my life."

After Melissa left, Sarah sank into her chair. She smiled at the thought of being reunited with her granddaughter. Her dream was finally being realised.

She hoped Melissa and her mother could work things out although it was going to take some time for Sarah to forgive and forget. Melissa's quiet strength and determination had shown through over these few days, impressing Sarah and her heart burst with pride.

Maybe Wendy had done some things right.

### HELMINE KEMP

Helmine Kemp is based in Adelaide, Australia. She has a lifetime of learning and work and travel experience behind her. After raising a family and years of scribbling snippets of stories whenever time allowed, it was time to give way to the burning desire to write. A former public servant, with a Science degree, Helmine has studied writing, completing a Grad. Cert. in Creative Writing at Adelaide University and several writing courses at WEA and the SA Writers' Centre.

Helmine has completed several short stories and her first, yet unpublished, literary thriller novel 'Deadly Secrets'. She is currently writing her second novel, with a continuing emphasis on political and crime thriller themes.

### MY BOY

#### by Jennie Linnane

My young "bitzer" had been loitering around the fowl yard. Investigation revealed a gap under the fence, a feather-trail into the bush and the remains of our best layer. This was serious! Dad's opinion of my adopted stray had not risen sufficiently in the past year to exclude him from blame, so I buried the feathers and mended the netting. I felt furtive in deceiving my parents, but the compulsion to save Rusty from extermination overrode my tyrannous conscience.

Mum soon noticed the absence of another hen and Dad instantly blamed "that good-for-nothing Rusty" he'd seen sniffing around there. I tried reasoning with myopic Dad that Rusty had probably smelt foxes or tigers. He swung his eyes to me and with a scornful, slightly humorous air asked "Don't they teach you anything at school?" – which seemed a peculiar and irrelevant thing to say just then.

He glanced at Mum, attentively feeding the toddler, and announced: "Well, there won't be any more missing from now on." For a moment his serious stare held Mum's gaze ... and the spoonful of porridge remained suspended, little mouth comically attempting to receive it.

Mum began urging us children to hurry or we'd be late for Mass and Rusty's alleged poaching lost focus. Later, I felt a sensation foreboding, for upon our return he was not there to greet us. Worriedly I searched the yard and descended the stone steps to the wharf, sauntering back in thoughtful abstraction.

Mum was clearing up after Dad's breakfast. He relished omelettes and this did nothing to improve the potential for Rusty's future. "No, I haven't seen him," she said, briefly glancing at me and kept wiping the table, "but dogs do wander off sometimes to find mates."

Dad, still seated at the table, shook out the Sunday Mirror, glanced at Prime Minister Menzies and turned the page.

"Rusty's probably in Timbuktu by now with a girlfriend," he said, grinning. I had no idea where this Timbuktu was but knew it wasn't anywhere near us. "Or he might've fallen over the cliff chasing those tigers," added the jester of the throne. Hearing no response, he shrugged and resumed reading. I began to suspect Dad of some "shonky" activity and scowled ferociously at the shielding newspaper.

Mum had nothing more to say and, her manner brisk and purposeful, crossed to the stove to stir something. I stared wonderingly at her back, the naivety of my years interpreting her silence as indifference. How wrong I was! How Mum's dear heart ached for me that anxious, long ago day!

At school, even during the Rosary, I brooded over Rusty. Later at home the possibility of his finding a girlfriend seemed plausible and resentment struck that he would actually desert me. However, the presumption that she was a local dog generated hope and I ventured outdoors and wandered observantly down the hill to the shops. After receiving negative responses at the grocery store and butcher shop, I entered the post office. A breeze slammed the door behind me.

"Go out and re-enter in a quiet, courteous manner," ordered the imperious postmistress.

"But ... it was the wind," I explained.

"Don't answer back!" she snapped, pointing to the door and promptly I obeyed.

No one liked Miss Priddle. She was a moody individual who responded to other people's pleasantries only in curt monosyllables. Her attitude was invariably sour – as though the delightful day filled with birdsong was nothing to her; as though Marjorie Jackson's win of gold was an every-day event. And she was mean: one latecomer, bounding up the steps at closing time with a letter wanting a stamp, complained to everyone that she fastened the door, turned from his entreating face at the glass and yanked down the blind.

"I will not set a precedent," the postmistress protested defensively next day to Mum's indifferent ears, "and have hoards of disorganised people incapable of respecting office hours, extending my working day, which is quite protracted enough!" Mum kept a quiet tongue.

Later shuffling papers, Miss Priddle barely lifted her penetrating eyes to me. "Now, what are you here for?" she asked and I told her about Rusty. Her attention remained loyal to her task and long moments tip-toed by before she deigned to reply.

"Hmm," she said, sliding the assembled papers aside, "what colour is Rusty?"

A shrug mistakenly implied impudence: "Well – a rusty colour!" I answered.

The tacit "of course" registered and she evil-eyed me. "Oh indeed! A rusty colour," she scoffed and her tone betrayed annoyance at her oversight and my audacious seizure upon it. "No, I have not seen it, and if you people will persist in allowing your nuisance animals to roam at all hours, you must logically expect that in all probability they will eventually succumb to dire misfortune."

I peered at her with unblinking eyes wishing she'd speak plainly – and I wondered if dire meant die. Leaning over the counter, she responded condescendingly to my obtuse stare: "He might have got run over!" and moved her face disconcertingly close to mine.

Run over! I hadn't thought of that and hated her on the spot for suggesting such a horrible thing. The irrational compulsion then seized me to go round the counter and strike her with all the strength my first decade of growth had provided ... but on reflection, verbal retaliation seemed wiser; the protective stockade and the door's proximity lending courage.

"My dog isn't a nuisance," I protested, "and we don't let him roam around, and you say mean things and make people sad ..." My voice had risen with each word, the final blunt truth escalating in an insolent shriek, "that's why nobody likes you!" I frightened myself!

Intent upon escape, I collided with white-bearded Mr Morelli who lived opposite the post office. His eyes shone with sympathetic softness for the distress he perceived in my hasty departure. He regretted that he hadn't noticed Rusty about but bestowed a gleam of hope when, presenting his palms heavenward, his celestial bass resonated, "Don't-a worry; he'll come-a home when he's-a hungry," and the kind, positive intonation in his voice conveyed a firm belief that it would be so.

Friends joined the search. Renewed hope generated renewed vigour – which ironically increased the anguish of subsequent disappointment. There was no recourse but to turn homeward with the fragile hope that Rusty would be there. Our little group of searchers gradually dispersed with the usual parting "Hooroo!"

No joyful, prancing dog hurtled out to welcome me. The aroma of cooking lingered around the rear of the house but, uninterested, I continued dismally along the path towards the cliff, there to ponder upon Rusty's fate – perhaps he had fallen over the cliff as Dad had mockingly suggested.

I moved faster. Approaching the cliff I spied a magnificent orbiting eagle. In my masochistic imagination Rusty squealed in terror and pain from the grasping talons as he was swept up to some tall eucalypt housing a nest of voracious eaglets. Swiftly, I transferred my gaze from the disturbing heights to the equally frightening depths, but there was no sign among the rocks of a battered, drowned dog.

The fatigue of the long day added weights to my feet as I turned towards the house, but stopped abruptly. A patch of freshly dug earth rose like an island in the brown sea of stubble, the yellow clay on top suggesting a hole of dog-grave depth. Stunned, I stared at the plot. "Did Dad shoot Rusty while we were at Mass yesterday?" I whispered incredulously.

Back at the house I confronted Dad. He affected innocent bewilderment and glibly dismissed the dog-grave notion, but eventually he wearied of the charade and claimed an intention to plant a lemon tree there. Another lemon tree? Strange that he had not revealed this innocent plan at first enquiry, mused my sense of logic.

We all knew how carefully Dad attended his trees, warding off fruit fly, birds and possums. His assumption that I would mindlessly accept the absurd contrivance fuelled my hostility: "You wouldn't plant anything way down the back in stony ground where possums could get it. Don't fib, Dad!" I cried, risking a clout, although I knew the distance between us exceeded his reach and once ensconced upon his throne with the sacrosanct newspaper, His Majesty was not easily stirred.

Mum observed me with an alarmed eye. "Mind!" she warned, shaking a finger. (Dad's toying, indulgent mood had encouraged my forthright protest but had he been angry I wouldn't have dared.) He adhered to his story with ridiculous obstinacy supported by an affected virtuous expression, and so, finding no ally in Mum and no confessor in Dad, I returned to the grave to confront the evidence.

I approached it slowly. My knees sank to the ground. The action of placing trembling hands into the earth to push it carefully aside was physically simple, but emotionally I had a tomb to excavate. Having reached the dregs of my courage, the fear even of touching the grave intensified with each hesitation. However, the need to know overruled the fear of knowing and a few moments later my fingers felt fur – and recoiled as if scorched.

In some unaccounted measure of time my sobbing sank to a diminuendo of moans and I stumbled into the bush for flowers. The little plot sufficiently decorated, my palms met in supplication to St Francis of Assisi (who had reneged on his duty to Rusty, it seemed) for the care of Rusty's soul, if soul he had. And then I left it behind me.

Arriving home from school the following day, still miserable, I learnt that Miss Priddle had visited Mum and predictably I was sent on my nervous way to apologise to the intimidating woman. After loitering for some minutes outside the post office I entered and stood contritely at the counter.

Miss Priddle pushed up her lips and surveyed me over her spectacles. "Well, Miss Impertinence? What have you to say to me?"

An anxious stammering hindered and I tried again. "S-sorry I was rude to you Miss Priddle, and ..." But the little speech of regret and an optimistic appeal for compassion, so hurriedly rehearsed all the way down the road, was abruptly waylaid as defensive feelings burst forth: "but– but you made me so angry, and ..."

"Silence!" she screeched. "None of that! I require an earnest apology, not an exhibition of brazen defiance. Commence again. Chin up. Eye to eye," she directed in staccato syllables. "I'm waiting." And on the counter her metronome fingers tapped out the tense seconds; her large eyes paralysing.

And so I conveyed my regrets, which underwent several amendments until she was satisfied. Duty done, relief gained, I turned to leave but she hurried forward to fasten the door and surprised me by commanding: "This way – out the back." I thought further penance was looming and followed repentantly to a latticed enclosure. She didn't speak, but for a moment her eyes held mine prisoner, and then her gaze swung away to the dim corner where a lump moved under a rug; wisp of brown fur identifying.

"Rusty!" I shrieked, and bolted towards him, but she restrained me.

"Careful now!" she warned. "He's injured." Her grip relaxed and I knelt beside him. His head emerged from the rug and he whined and licked my hand.

"It seems he was in a dog fight," she explained. "Boys playing in the storm water pipe this morning found him licking his wounds. Mr Morelli carried him here and kindly assisted with the bandaging." Rusty whined and attempted to stand but Miss Priddle gently patted him down. "Not yet young fellow," she said in a soft, gentle voice I had never before heard from her.

"How will I get him home?" I asked her. "Dad's on the late shift, and ..."

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "your mother explained. Mr Morelli generously fetched his wheelbarrow to convey Rusty up the hill to your house." She shook her head. "Vin– Mr Morelli, is much too obliging. He's not a young man now and his back troubles him. I couldn't allow it." Miss Priddle's tone evinced tender concern when she spoke of Mr Morelli.

After ensuring Rusty's wounds had ceased bleeding, she wrapped the rug around his bandaged form and carried him to the barrow. The incongruity struck me at once – I could not reconcile the image of proud Miss Priddle with the labouring bearer of that wheelbarrow full of scruffy dog. Homeward she struggled and I allowed admiration and gratitude to fill my heart and left resentment behind at the post office with Miss Priddle's dignity.

After the postmistress's earlier visit that day, Mum, sworn to secrecy (my apology to be uninfluenced by indebtedness) baked a cake to give to the woman on our return. As Miss Priddle was leaving I thanked her, almost succumbing to tearful emotion, and rushed forward and flung my arms around her waist. The gesture embarrassed us both. I wished I had resisted the impulse but retracted that wish when I caught the renegade smile that teased her disciplined lips and noticed the moist shine of eyes, bright in the flushed face. Suddenly I thought her unusually pretty!

Rusty gradually recovered under my doting ministrations, guided by Mum. Thereafter Miss Priddle and Mr Morelli (often encountered together now) always enquired after the "young fellow", even when young no longer applied to him. I speculated occasionally about the alleged possum – Dad's afterthought, following the mythical lemon tree story – in the grave down the yard, and always wondered about it.

A few years later when my fund of wisdom had increased and my silence could be trusted, Mum revealed the identity of the grave's occupant. Rusty, sniffing at the fowl yard fence that Sunday, had detected the scent trail of a marauding dog belonging to a family whose drunken, belligerent behaviour instilled fear in most neighbours. Dad had suspected that this neglected animal was the "chook killer"; had caught him that awful morning. Rusty of course had fled in terror at the blast of the shot.

It was easy now to appreciate why I had been denied this knowledge – given my childhood tendency to "blab" – and I regretted the anguish my leap to conclusions and incensed behaviour had brought upon my parents. Equally though, I allowed self-forgiveness.

I was well into my late teens when our beloved pet passed away: a grand old scruffy-looking, arthritis-ridden, deaf and half-blind bitzer of a dog, but a well-loved family treasure that had grown into our hearts, and into the hearts of many others. Dad honoured Rusty with a fine resting place in Mum's rose garden; a grave with a mosaic of river stones protecting his body from disturbance. It was headed by a large triangle of sandstone upon which he had inscribed with a careful, clever hand: Rusty – our boy.

### MAMA'S HANDS

#### by Jennie Linnane

My grandmother had beautiful hands: smooth, unblemished and unaffected by the usual mutations which come with age, although she was past sixty, and it was to her a great sacrifice that the fingernails had to be kept short. "Always take care of d' hands," she said to me during the Christmas holidays. She flexed her long fingers above the piano keys, reached for one of Chopin's nocturnes, and moved into the piece.

As the resonance of the last note faded to silence she turned her grey head toward me and lifted her eyebrows expectantly.

"Beautiful, Mama!" I responded, as I was meant to ... and as her recital merited.

"Ya," she agreed, smiling and nodding. "I think so too."

Mama was neither vain nor falsely modest, but she knew her worth as a pianist. From her introduction to a piano, her feet dangling from the stool, Eva progressed to serious study of musicianship and, growing up in Germany, had performed in many concerts. Her inherent rapport with the instrument taught her to extract the notes with the most conscientious precision, delicate sensitivity and at times, vigorous and animated passion. But it always irked her that she was never able to conquer pre-performance nerves.

Later, the course of two young lives changed forever when Eva turned away from an imminent career to marry dairy farmer Otto. They immigrated to Australia to settle in a farming community. Mama never regretted her decision.

"Efery one of us can do at least one thing special," she told me. "Papa, a good farmer he is; best cattle in d' district he breeds. In time, your special gift you will find, my Annie. And me?" She splayed her exquisite fingers and gazed at them with undisguised admiration, viewing them as God-given "tools" with which to exercise her God-given skill. "Embroider a doily or paint a picture dese hands cannot do. And cook? Oh boy! On my failures d' chooks grow fat! Aah, but draw music from d' piano, dis dey can do," she asserted and I recognised the familiar balance of self-deprecation and praise – an endearing quirk of Mama's nature.

My grandmother had been preparing for the annual concert held in the local School of Arts. She practised after milking – milking was excellent exercise for the fingers, she informed me – and after washing dishes and clothes, hands in rubber gloves. Even during lunch she rehearsed difficult phrases repetitively while Papa stoically munched on her terrible rye bread, sending it down to his protesting stomach with her equally disagreeable sauerkraut.

To Mama, cooking was oppression, so Papa often assumed the responsibility to allow her respite from the hated chore – his ostensible generosity of spirit a pretext to ensure we ate a decent meal occasionally. Papa's cooking was surprisingly good, and Mama, grateful for the emancipation of perceived slavery, and eyeing his steak and kidney pie with unaccustomed interest, kissed his cheek and presented a bread-and-butter plate for her own serve. As always, he berated her for not eating enough good food.

"Food! I don't care about food," she scoffed and the trim little body bore the truth of that remark. Her meal was gone in a moment. She rose from the table and with an appreciative word to the chef, returned her eyes and hands to where they most wanted to be.

The next morning Papa, spreading butter on his bread, grinned at me enigmatically and asked, "What did d' baby chickens say when an orange in d' nest dey found?" He leaned back in his chair, put up his grizzly brows and waited.

It seemed mean to deprive him of "surprising" me with the response to his pet riddle so I shrugged, "Don't know Papa!" and he was pleased with my dutiful ignorance.

"'Look at d' orange Mama laid!' Hehhehheh! Good joke, ya?" he said merrily, and we chuckled together – again. Then, after a scan of the breakfast fare he affected a demanding tone and boomed: "Woman! Where is d' marmalade?" Mama always set a dainty, well-stocked table for us with beaded nets protecting the milk and sugar and a bright cosy on the teapot, but this time she had forgotten Master's sacred jam.

In the adjoining room the music stopped abruptly. Mama lifted her hands with elegant grace as though to minimise the jolt of the disruption, and turned an exasperated countenance upon Papa. When she spoke, her voice seemed to emanate in rhythmic waves of inflection, rising on the last querying syllable: "In d' middle of Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique you are asking for d' marmalade?"

She spoke with withering incredulity, as though never before encountering such callous insensitivity, and shook her finger at him. "Two strong legs and two good eyes you have Otto ... look in d' pantry," she said in a clipped tone and, with an air of having reprimanded a lazy child, returned to Beethoven.

Papa bore it all good-naturedly. He regularly teased this resolute wife of his and a twinkle danced in his eyes whenever his banter elicited a reproach.

"Much fiery spirit she has," he told me quietly behind a hand. "She would tell d' tax man to jump in d' lake! But gentleness she has also. Dis bad leg – her it hurts more dan me," he said. Love softened his eyes as he gazed upon the straight-backed figure lost in the mood of the masterwork; music rendered more beautiful by the sensitive, caressing fingers.

A week before the concert Papa drove Mama and me into town in the Oldsmobile, a relic even in those days, and while he admired the latest farming implements we searched for a gorgeous outfit for Mama.

"Dis is for a fery important occasion," she informed the sales woman who brought out dress after dress, and my grandmother looked them over loftily and renounced them all as unsuitable. But when a truly exquisite gown was offered – and she condescended to check the price tag – her delusion of affluence disappeared and she struggled to hide her astonishment.

Though she was too proud to admit it, Mama was by nature frugal and could not recall the last time she had spent good money on a mere dress. However all concern for cost vanished when she was handed the black crepe de Chine.

"Ah, d' fery thing!" she declared jubilantly.

Mama liked sometimes to sing, especially when she was rhapsodically happy. With the box of precious silk safe under precious hands, she sang Gounod's Ave Maria all the way back to the farm, most of it in her upper register – which was rather a trial for Papa and me because her singing was as awful as her piano playing was superb.

On the day of the concert Mama practised her recital piece stopping only at mid-afternoon. I hurried the tea tray out onto the veranda, cups and saucers noisily objecting to the bustle, and refreshed, she went indoors to bathe and dress. I watched fascinated as Mama in black evening gown and pearls, concentrated on the careful meditative process of arranging grey plaits into an elegant crown-like coil and then applied a touch of colour to her face.

Lastly, she donned black shoes and guided her fingers into the protective sheaths of black lace gloves. Mama looked truly regal and it struck me then that age does not always steal a woman's beauty. When Papa saw her he drew back and slapped his chest dramatically.

"Ah! A goddess I be seeing, ya? Beautiful you are, Eva!" he exclaimed and I heard his complimentary "Hmmmm!" as he reached out his arms for her waist. "I be finding it fery hard to stay away from you now," he told her in a lowered voice and she slapped his hands away and nodded towards me, standing there grinning.

"Not in front of Annie," she half-whispered, but I caught the transient, secret smile she gave him and his slow wink in response. Though still a teenager I was attuned to the gist of the little exchange and felt a glow of pleasure in my grandparents' happiness.

We stood by the rose garden waiting for Papa to bring the car across the paddock from the shed. We had been waiting a long time and Mama became fidgety and kept glancing at her watch.

"D' damn car would play up today of all days," she complained, scowling as the mechanical coughs and shudders convulsed towards us. "Time is getting on, and I late to be hate!" She looked momentarily startled and I spluttered a trill of laughter at the bungle. But her face grew even more distraught.

I noticed the sparkle of incipient tears and belatedly empathised. "Mama, are you feeling nervous about playing for all those people today?"

A look of pained dismay suffused itself over her features. "Nerfous? What are you saying, girl? Nerfes are a luxury I cannot indulge in," she stated imperiously. "Nerfes? Neffer!" And a hand-flap consigned the absurd notion (I imagined) to a mental dungeon reserved for faulty tempo, inaudible pianissimo, spoonerisms and unpunctuality.

Her too-bright eyes swung away then, distracted by the mournful cadence of crows, and lingered on the heavens where clouds, like spider webs, spread gauzy filaments across the summer sky. After a moment of contemplation upon her inflexible assertions, wise Mama extended a belated concession: "Of course, nerfs often do produce better performances, Annie," said she who well-knew. And to assist this opiate to soothe away encroaching tension, she again lifted her noble chin and fell silent.

I followed the new direction of Mama's eyes to tall gums standing in relief against the hazy mountain holding up the sky. She remained quietly serene, yet her fingers continued to fidget. Finally, glancing again at her watch, she glared at the decrepit Oldsmobile and mouthed something in German – caustic, as might be supposed.

But to me her hostility seemed ironic: the old car had remained in my grandparents' possession all those years chiefly because of Mama's frugality and her stubborn unwillingness to spend money on a better vehicle.

At last Papa was able to resuscitate the dying motor and it sputtered into palpitating life. And it was then, while Papa was driving across the paddock towards us, that I heard a loud bellow coming from the direction of the dam.

"Mama," I said, "why is that cow humping her back like that – up on the dam?"

Mama shaded her eyes from the westering sun and squinted across at the Jersey cow. "Gott in Himmel!" she squawked. "Calfing, she is!"

All thoughts of the concert vanished. She dropped the handbag, kicked off her shoes, hitched up the lovely gown and sprinted in her stockings across the first of two paddocks which lay between the homestead and the dam.

I stood there stunned as Papa hurried from the car shedding his coat as he advanced and flourishing his arms. "Into d' dam d' calf will slip and drown!" he yelled. I ran with him.

Mama was already a paddock ahead and I marvelled at the deer-like speed with which she covered the uneven ridges of the ploughed ground. Papa's bad leg slowed his progress. We both puffed with the exertion. I kept my sights on the newly born calf now beginning to slide down the incline towards the water, its mother bewildered and utterly helpless. Mama's legs carried her frantic form up and along the dam wall to the highest point where stood the cow, and then she disappeared.

By the time Papa and I reached the dam the cow was lowing fretfully and staring down at Mama, half submerged in the water, her gloved hands holding the slippery calf hard against the bank. It was struggling, exercising its natural instinct to become mobile as quickly as possible and its kicking and bucking sent Mama under.

I gripped the calf's forelegs while Papa dragged Mama out and helped her up over the dam wall, her right hand bleeding through the glove. And when I believed myself incapable of holding onto the calf a moment longer, Papa reached down to grab it and conveyed us both to safety. Mama stood shaking and dripping all over, not even noticing her bleeding hand.

"By golly, dat was close!" she exclaimed breathlessly and shook her wet head at the cow. "You silly old numbskull ... all dis land you have and d' most dangerous place you choose. I don't know!"

The subject of the concert did not surface until the cow and the calf were safe on level ground away from the dam. Papa looked at soggy Mama with sad eyes and put his arm around her. The sight had an almost tearful effect on him.

"Liebe ... d' concert ..." he began, regret thickening his voice, and gently he removed the bloodied glove. Nowhere was Mama's sacrificial deed so cherished that day – and always – as in Papa's heart.

Mama, having regained her equanimity, shrugged and spread her palms outward. "Ah, late is better dan neffer. And so glad I am Annie saw d' cow. You would be fery sad to lose a calf, Otto," she said in wifely solicitude.

"Aah my Eva," he said, hugging her. "Without you, what would I do, eh?"

Mama became strangely calm now, as if "nerfs" had been dispelled by the shock of this new drama. And although the hour was fast advancing; though Mama had to change clothes and allow me to dress her wound; yet we arrived only minutes late.

In the hum and drone and mumble of convivial chatter I could hear musicians tuning instruments and knew that Mama, the most senior performer and MC, would be first onto the stage to welcome the audience. I looked around. Families were settling into seats. Papa was talking animatedly to a group of his farming friends; proud smile, head-nodding and wide sweeping gestures clear indications that he was recounting Mama's brave feat.

Presently he joined me and when damp-haired Mama appeared, neat in her "church dress", he squeezed my hand, reliable testimony that his spirit was up there shielding her from the threat of perfidious nerves. I grew conscious of my quickened heartbeat as, with her usual small stately steps and absence of parade, she entered the stage. I was concerned that the hand injury would affect her, but my mind quickly shrank away from a recital disaster.

Standing by the piano, Mama's smile was gracious but brief and she addressed the audience in her serious, courtly manner: "Dear friends – welcome! My appearance, please you will forgive. A nicer gown I had, but wet it got when into d' dam I fell with a calf." And then, without the slightest pause: "I will now play Chopin's Nocturne, Opus 72, No 1."

But she had to wait for several long moments for the applause to die away and for everyone to sit down again ... and despite her patched-up hand she played magnificently.

********

_Mama's Hands_ received an honourable mention in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### I REMEMBER MR TOOBEY

#### by Jennie Linnane

Spring arrived when the buzzing racemes of wisteria and the tight pink buds of our nectarine tree told us to expect it and I went to stay with Nana and Grandpa at their farm, a two-hour train ride distant. We were already a large family and once again Mum despatched us in all directions to be with relatives so she could prepare for her confinement.

Although the fortnight visit had a holiday zest to it with different ambience and the novelty of farmyard creatures, attendance at the quaint country-style school was nevertheless required. The headmaster, Mr Toobey, stopped for me at the farm gate each morning in his green Austin – a small boy and my holiday friend Katie Stephens already seated – and drove us all home again in the afternoon.

On that very first day all the children in the small school room enjoyed a hearty laugh when Mr Toobey quite suddenly commanded in his resonant bass: "Stand up fifth class!" and no one did ... except my astonished self!

"How could there not be a fifth class?" I wondered. That grade at St Mary's numbered about eighteen.

Mr Toobey beamed. His smile, endearingly "buck-toothed", stretched widely under his moustache and in complete harmony with the bright merriment of his brown eyes and I had a sense of who could not like him? He extended a formally worded but warmly delivered welcome to me and remarked on the "fifth class" novelty, and also expressed regret that it would be of short duration. His large hands initiated applause and the grinning, clapping children all looked my way – a pleasant, but self-conscious moment for me.

It soon became apparent that Mr Toobey was a jovial character and a very special teacher – the kind you remember all your life – and the children appeared to respond spiritedly to his theatrical demeanour. After lunch he enquired how far I had progressed in the subject of Australian history. That established, he wrote several reference points relating to the current lesson on the blackboard, regularly consulting the book in his left hand. Almost squatting, he dotted a loud full stop at the end, unfolded his tall frame and inspected his handiwork, then swung round and slapped the book onto his desk. All this he seemed to manage in one flowing movement.

"Ludwig Leichardt led an expedition from the Darling Downs to Port Essington," he boomed. "In– what– year?"

He rocked on his heels while his eyes searched about for an enlightened countenance. Every child in the fourth and sixth classes glanced around unconcerned as though the question had been directed at someone else, and all of us no doubt hoped that the "someone else" would quickly assume responsibility. No one did, and with commendable patience the headmaster repeated the question and attempted to put away his teeth – it was not easy for Mr Toobey to wear a serious face.

Silence prevailed. The lofty fellow sighed wearily, passed a hand over his forest of peppery hair and paced the leather-smoothed floor boards that had creaked beneath the tread of his shoes for more than two decades.

"I don't know why I expect you all to remember something you read in the dim, remote past of fifteen minutes. Unreasonable of me, yes?" He shrugged a shoulder and raised his hedge-like eyebrows in a gesture of helplessness.

Katie Stephens caught my eye; a smile twitching at her mouth infected me and, grinning, I glanced around and saw that everyone was similarly amused. This school was fun! The convent seemed staid by comparison. I was then, of course, a wondering, impressionable child, but now I can see that Mr Toobey possessed the talent of a natural comedian and his pantomime method of teaching greatly assisted the children's learning. Pacing again, hands behind his back, the headmaster continued something like this:

"One realises intellectual energy is a precious resource to be used sparingly at all times. One notices, also, that every child in this room has the propensity to expect the rewards of maximum result for minimum effort." He stopped his pacing abruptly (for dramatic effect) to stare at us in feigned bewilderment. "So why not I? Tragic, is it not?" There was a smile tugging at his mouth corners and lending sparkle to his eyes. Delightedly my own eyes lingered on his appealing face and I began to realise what everyone else already knew – that he thoroughly enjoyed his own performances.

He clapped his hands authoritatively several times. "Come on now, wake up everyone! We are not pre-verbal beings – Homo sapiens has advanced somewhat! Rattle those heads now; liberate the moths; brush away the cobwebs and all that corrosive rust. What year? – Ernie." he said, pointing with startling suddenness to the most promising (or least inert) countenance.

Ernie stood up. "I think it was 1842, Sir," he said in a hesitant, hopeful voice.

Mr Toobey's arms shot up to heaven. "Hal-le-lujah! All is not lost," he told the ceiling. "No, don't sit down boy ... not while cerebral life is stirring. How long did it take – the journey, mmm?" He extended his long neck forward and smiled comically, encouragingly, to assist the chrysalis from its cocoon, and rubbed his hands together to keep impatience at bay.

Through flickering eyelids Ernie considered the vast geography of The World map. "Umm ..." and shifted his attention to the window's geometry, his busy eyes seeming to be counting its many panes, perhaps seeing clearly now why the angles of a square will always be equal. And then he stared with profundity at the portrait of Queen Elizabeth II wherein, behind the glass, might lurk the answer – "Umm" – and tilted sideways to observe Her Majesty from a better angle. What scholarly advantage this listing stance conferred, only Ernie knew.

But all was in vain; metamorphosis proved too slow. Mr Toobey, who had been gravely contemplating his shoes as he rocked to and fro and then rose and sank in them, looked up now, frowned his disappointment and signalled Ernie to be seated. He searched our vacant expressions again with dying hope lengthening his own features.

But Hope is a resilient quality. Before it quite passed away, the headmaster noticed a promising twinkle in this unyielding cluster of faces – one shining star. Katie raised her hand somewhat diffidently, not liking her stellar status. "Was – was it fifteen months, Sir?"

"Yes! Yes! Splennndid! Well done Katie!" Mr Toobey exclaimed, beaming at his clever pupil. He tapped at the blackboard with the pointer. "Now who can fill in these names, mmm?" he asked with an enquiring lift of brows and he looked about with wide-eyed, revived optimism and again rocked on his heels. Thus every lesson was conducted and enjoyed. I quickly grew to love Mr Toobey and as day piled upon day began to wish the fortnight would never end.

Kind, funny Mr Toobey. There are many treasured recollections of that fatherly bachelor teacher, some gleaming more brightly than others. ...

One morning he brought along a large block of chocolate cake Mrs Stephens had donated to the school tuckshop. "Today we are going to learn about fractions!" he announced, placing the cake squarely upon his desk, and he began slicing. "Now, recite as I cut the sections: Two halves, four quarters, eighths then sixteenths ..." and so he divided until every child's hand held a generous slice.

This wonderful teacher loved words; the melody and rhythm of words and had a fondness for alliteration. One lunch hour I encountered him kneeling on the playground mending someone's bicycle before an admiring little gathering. A small boy bent forward, hands on knees, and asked: "What's wrong wif the bike, Sir?"

Mr Toobey, moistening his lips, looked up from the overturned bicycle: "Well Tommy, there seems to be a slight irregularity with the springing of the sprocket and the straining and the spacing of the spokes!" Tommy straightened and applied a sleeve to his rapidly blinking face. The teacher smiled teasingly, made a soft fist to the little chin and explained simply that the chain had slipped off.

The world of insects fascinated Mr Toobey. He "detained" a spider in a jar one morning and encouraged every child to examine and then sketch the long-legged creature including as much detail as possible while it obligingly struck new poses. For the sheer fun of it, he drew his own impression on the blackboard: a large circle doing double duty as head and body, and legs as long as the depth of the board allowed. The spider's smiling face with overhanging teeth was adorned with a brush moustache, thick-rimmed glasses and comical high hair on top. Grinning, he moved aside and there it was for all to laugh at – a caricature of himself.

Later he took the spider outdoors and, using his most eloquent diction, thanked it for posing for the nature students and, wishing it good fortune and a prosperous future, he gently set it free. In this way he sought to teach respect for, and the value of, all life however small ... and no doubt hoped for an improvement in our general vocabulary.

A storm of unusual violence pounded the schoolhouse one hot afternoon. The thrashing on the iron roof nullified our startled exclamations and we stared in wonder at the windows, dark and foreboding. The smaller children became round-eyed and fearful and Mr Toobey motioned some of the older pupils to comfort them and then he went over to the blackboard and chalked in large, strong lettering: "Ten Green Bottles" – the invitation to sing the favourite.

The conductor elevated his ruler-baton, established a moderato tempo and with uplifting gestures, invited an unrestrained increase of volume and we exercised our vocal cords accordingly. It was all such riotous fun – our shouting and screeching in the school house actually sanctioned – and as we progressed through the stanzas the little ones lost their anxious look and sang as robustly and jubilantly as the rest ....

> "Ten green bottles hanging on the wall,

> Ten green bottles hanging on the wall,

> And if one green bottle should accidentally fall,

> There'd be nine green bottles hanging on the wall."

And so on through nine more stanzas until:

> "There'd be no green bottles hanging on the wall."

We were almost sorry that afternoon when the pounding on the roof fell to a pattering and then ceased. But the sun brought a return of joy to the day as it speared golden shafts through a rent in the last, wait-for-me cloud. The storm eventually grumbled off westward over the mountain to frighten the little children in the primary schools scattered across the New South Wales plains.

*

Whenever visiting Nana and Grandpa I called on Mr Toobey. Through letters to Katie Stephens I made enquiries over the decades about him. Katie wrote:

"The years have stolen his magnificent booming bass and left him with a high-toned voice of a velvety singing quality... his words seem to hang on to each other, as though he doesn't want to let go of each one. And now, that brown cardigan Mum knitted years ago, and he always wears, rides up a little at the back because of the stoop he's developed. But at least he can see better now with his new glasses."

This unforgettable educator was a solitary person. He regarded the many children who came under his tuition as family and this was clearly evident in the devotion afforded all. He displayed no favouritism and accepted every child as the small imperfect being each one was, endowed with all the usual frailties and attributes that come with being a learning little human.

In the declining years, Katie and her mother ensured Mr Toobey was never without caring company. Blest with a happy disposition, he was content to spend the last of life in his small cottage across the road from the church he frequented. He filled his days reading, receiving visitors, tottering around his beloved vegetable garden and watching the magpies and wag-tails as they drank from his bird bath. And every Sunday after Mass he shuffled along the road to Mrs Stephens' sumptuous roast dinner.

But then one night his heart fluttered its final count after nine decades of unwavering service. Evidently, there was no suffering, no drama, and no theatrics. He merely drifted into sleep still wearing his rimless spectacles, and with a copy of Darwin's "Insectivorous Plants" lying open on his valiant old chest ... and never looked upon another sunrise.

*

So much time has passed since I shared briefly the delight of Mr Toobey's little country schoolhouse and laughed with the willingly corralled audience at his entertaining antics. I had known him for only a brief time yet reaped a life-long treasure trove of fond memories.

At his funeral, gracious eulogies and humorous anecdotes gave testimony to his almost revered popularity. Everyone who over the decades had been taught by Mr Toobey loved him. In their midst he had dwelt and in their hearts he would always remain. He was indeed a unique gentleman and his legacy lives on: from amoebae to the cosmos our curiosity and learning must remain insatiable.

I will always remember Mr Toobey.

********

_I Remember Mr Toobey_ received an honourable mention in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### JENNIE LINNANE

Born in Sydney and Catholic-school educated Jennie Linnane nursed at St George before getting married. She moved to Shoalhaven where she enjoyed farm life and mother of six, a grandmother, and finally a widow.

Writing has long been a passion and she has had a number of short stories and articles published.

Her other interests include piano, reading, gardening, bushwalking, and talking to people.

### HEART AND SOUL

#### by Carol Ann Martin

Charlie Wintergreen rescued Louis from the Dog's Home.

Louis was a scrambled-up, no-name, pup that nobody seemed to want. But Charlie happened to be looking for a scrambled-up pup, so that was a stroke of luck. He paid for Louis, took him home and even gave him a name.

Home with Charlie was only small, but Louis was not a large dog. Walks were slow because Charlie was old, but meals were tasty, bones were meaty, and bed was a woolly jumper that had a comfortable Charlie smell.

Best of all were the evenings, with the curtains drawn and the gas fire lit. Then, with just the two of them together, Charlie would take out his trumpet and play.

Years and years ago, Charlie had been a trumpeter in a dance band. The band would play, lights would shimmer and spin and a lady in black satin would sing. And everyone danced the whole night long to the tunes that Charlie played.

But that was years and years ago, and things changed, as they always do. Music changed, singing changed and people found new ways to dance. So Charlie just played at home for himself, and for Louis, of course.

"Heart and Soul, Louis," That's what Charlie always said. "If you want to make music, do it with Heart and Soul."

When Charlie played his trumpet, something happened to Louis. His mouth would curl itself up into a soft, round O and from somewhere deep inside him would float out a song. It wasn't a song with words, just an ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo. But when Charlie played and Louis sang, they did it with Heart and Soul.

At ten o'clock Mrs Bandy next door would bang on the wall and yell. "Shut up that racket, why don't you?" Which meant it was time for bed.

Louis loved Charlie Wintergreen and Charlie loved Louis back. They should have lived happily forever and a day, but they didn't have that long.

One afternoon they went for a walk and got caught in a drizzle of rain. The drizzle seemed to creep into Charlie's chest and he coughed and coughed and coughed.

He didn't play his trumpet that night, he just lay in his bed and coughed. Louis sat beside him and sang. But it wasn't the same by himself.

The next morning Charlie didn't get out of bed. Mrs Bandy knocked on the door.

"Mr Wintergreen, are you all right?" she called. Then she knocked again and again.

Charlie just coughed and Louis barked and Mrs Bandy went away. But then she came back with a policeman, who broke open the door and came in.

Louis grabbed the policeman by the trouser leg and shook it ferociously. But the policeman just bent and picked him up and put him outside on the step.

"It's all right, little mate," the policeman said. But it wasn't all right at all. Louis crouched behind Charlie's dustbin and shivered and whimpered and watched.

After a while an ambulance came and two men went into the house. They brought Charlie out on a stretcher while the neighbours all stood and stared.

"Ooh, it doesn't look good," they whispered. "Poor old Charlie," they sighed. Then they all went, "Aaah!" as the ambulance took off with Louis chasing behind.

Louis was quite long in the body, but he was dumpy in the legs. He wasn't built for distance running and he soon got left behind. He sat in the road and panted, and watched the ambulance disappear from sight. Then he limped back and hid behind the garbage bin again and waited for Charlie to come home.

He waited all night and all the next day, but Charlie didn't come. Only Mrs Bandy opened her door and called, "Are you there doggie, what's-your-name?"

So Louis was a no-name dog again and he stayed in his hiding place. Mrs Bandy might take him back to the Dogs' Home, and he definitely didn't want that. What he did want was his dinner and the gas fire's cosy glow, and Charlie and Louis together making music with Heart and Soul.

On his second night alone Louis crept out from behind the bin. He sneaked like a shadow along the street looking for something to eat. But all he found were some soggy chips that someone had thrown away and a baked bean tin in the gutter with one or two licks left inside.

Oh, Charlie, Charlie, please come home soon. But Charlie never came.

So Louis became a street-dog, a no-name, no-home stray. He learned to scavenge from rubbish bins, to scrounge or steal scraps of food. He learned to prowl and slink and creep and to sleep in dark corners at night. He was a skinny, scrawny, nobody's dog, but deep inside his heart he knew he would always be Charlie's dog, wherever Charlie might be.

Christmas was coming with warm, wafting smells of plum pudding and cake and mince pies. Coloured lights sparkled and windows shone with candles and make-believe snow. Shoppers shopped for chocolates, for turkeys and pink, juicy hams and Santa strode down the High Street chortling "Ho, ho, ho!"

It was all so bright and bustling, so much to see and to do, and everyone seemed to be all wrapped up in a friendly Christmas glow. Everyone, that is, except Louis, who was hungry and all alone. He wasn't feeling Christmassy at all, or the least bit ho, ho, ho.

Then, quite late one afternoon as he was drifting he wasn't sure where, he heard a sound that made him stop and quiver and prick up his ears. No, he wasn't mistaken! He could hear what he thought he could hear. Someone was playing a trumpet, and playing it somewhere quite near!

Louis' paws pattered over the pavement, he trotted, he scampered, he ran. He swerved in between the shoppers, he dodged around trolleys and prams, he wasn't a wandering dog any more, he was a dog with somewhere to go!

Louder sounded the trumpet and faster Louis ran, until he came to a holly-trimmed archway that led into the shopping mall. And there beside the archway, stood a rather scruffy young man, with a ring in his ear and a stud in his nose and his hair dyed purple and red. His jumper was full of holes and darns, his jeans were all patched and frayed. But the way he played that trumpet! He played it with Heart and Soul.

Louis sat with his head on one side and his eyes bright with memories. But it seemed as though he was the only one with time to listen and gaze. People dashed in and out of the mall, they rushed up and down the street, hurry and scurry, can't stop now; but still the young man played.

Then something happened to Louis. His mouth formed a soft, round O, and from somewhere deep inside him floated out his song. Ooo-ooo-ooo, ooo-ooo-ooo, with his nose pointed up to the sky, he sang along to that trumpet, Heart and Soul and everything else.

A mother with her little boy paused and listened and smiled. Then she tossed a coin into the trumpet case that lay open at the young man's feet. A trumpeter and a singing dog! Before very long it seemed that lots of people had time to stop and listen and clap. Clink, clink, clink, coin after coin fell into the trumpet case and the music rang through the summer air until it was almost dark.

"Thanks a lot, pal!" the young man crouched down and stroked Louis on the head. "That was quite a show we gave 'em, and, boy, do you know how to sing!"

He looked at the tag on Louis' collar, then he shook Louis by the paw. "Hi there, Louis, my name's Pete, and I'm pleased to meet you," he said.

So Louis hadn't lost his name after all, it had been under his chin all along. And for the first time in a long time, he started to wag his tail. He waited while Pete put his money away and packed his trumpet into its case, then, with a hopeful light in his eye, he followed Pete down the street. Pete played music with Heart and Soul, Pete seemed friendly and kind, and he just might not mind giving a home to a dog with nowhere to live.

No, Pete didn't mind, in fact he seemed pleased. He and Louis were partners, he said. And if Louis had nowhere else to go, he was welcome to stay with him.

It wasn't at all like living with Charlie: for a start Pete didn't have a house. He lived in a big, old warehouse with some rather unusual friends. There was Hector who built huge sculptures out of bottles and bicycle wheels, and Suzi who danced jazz ballet all day in sparkly, silver tights. There was Sophie who sloshed coloured paint around, mostly all over herself, and Clem who wrote long-winded poems and read them to everyone else.

There was always something going on and always lots of noise, but they were dog-loving, dog-patting people and Louis liked them a lot. He learned to eat pizza and pasta, curry, rice and vegan pie. He had the choice of five beds to sleep on and five people to take him for walks.

But the best thing of all was that every day Louis went out busking with Pete. At their spot just outside the shopping mall they always drew a crowd, and Pete and Louis, the Singing Dog, became quite famous in town.

It was just a week before Christmas and quite late in the afternoon, when a woman in a bright flowered dress asked a special favour of Pete.

"I'm the matron at Rowan Tree Lodge," she said. "It's a home for elderly folk. I know they'd just love you and Louis, would you visit us on Christmas Day?"

Pete said that sounded a brilliant idea and Louis wagged his tail. Elderly people liked the good old tunes, and they liked them with Heart and Soul.

Christmas Day was sunny and clear, just the day for a good long walk. Louis and Pete arrived at Rowan Tree Lodge not long after lunch. Matron took them into the dining room where everything was bright with coloured lanterns and paper chains and balloons and silver stars. Some of the folk were in wheelchairs and some had walking frames, but they all had paper crowns on their heads and a sparkle in their eyes.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Matron cried. "Please welcome our surprise guests! Let's hear it for Pete on the trumpet and Louis, the Singing Dog!"

Louis and Pete gave them Jingle Bells, they gave them Joy to the World, and they'd never had an audience who enjoyed their music so much. What a toe-tapping and finger snapping, what a clapping and singing along, to the grand old tunes, the golden tunes that they danced to when they were young.

Somebody asked for White Christmas and Pete and Louis had just begun, when a shaky voice, but such a longed-for voice, called out from across the room. "That's the way, Louis! Sing, boy, sing! Sing it with Heart and Soul!"

An old man in a wheelchair was sitting just inside the door. And he lifted a trumpet to his lips and jubilantly started to play.

It was Charlie. It was Charlie! Louis' heart flipped over with joy. He sang with his heart, he sang with his soul, he sang while the trumpets soared. Charlie and Pete and Louis, the dog, oh, what music they made.

The moment the song was ended, Louis hurtled across the floor. Tail wagging like a windmill, quivering all over with ecstasy, he took a flying leap through the air and landed in Charlie's lap. He smothered the old man with kisses, he nuzzled the old man's ear, while everyone laughed and clapped and cheered, and some brushed away a tear.

"Oh, Louis," whispered Charlie "They told me you'd run away. I thought I'd never see you again, and my trumpet was all I had left."

Pete stood and looked at Charlie and Charlie looked at Pete. He looked at his earring and the stud in his nose, he looked at his purple and red hair. He looked at the jumper full of holes and the jeans all patched and frayed, and then he wheeled himself over to Pete and shook him by the hand.

"Thanks for the way you blow that horn, lad," he said. "And thanks for looking after my dog."

Pete gave Charlie a bashful smile. "I hope I'll play as well as you some day." Then, "I'm glad that Louis is your dog," he said. But he didn't seem too sure about that.

Louis was a scrambled-up looking dog, and now his heart was scrambled-up, too. He was so happy that he'd found Charlie again, but, oh, how he was going to miss Pete. And what about Hector and Suzi? What about Sophie and Clem? He loved them all, they were his friends. What was he supposed to do?

Then Matron spoke gently to Charlie, "I'm so sorry, Mr Wintergreen, but you can't keep a dog at Rowan Tree Lodge. I'm afraid it's against the rules."

Up spoke Pete. "That's easily fixed! Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" he said. "If Louis can't live with Charlie, then Charlie can live with us!"

Charlie gave a sad shake of his head. "That's good of you, Pete," he sighed. "But I'm not as young as I used to be and this is the best place for me."

Matron suggested a nice cup of tea and mince pies and Christmas cake. "I'm sure we can work something out," she said. And sure enough, they did.

Louis still lives at the warehouse and he still goes busking with Pete. But every Wednesday they spend the day with Charlie at Rowan Tree Lodge. Pete and Charlie practice their trumpets and Louis practices his song. And in the afternoon there's a Tea Dance, a cool jazz, razzmatazz time.

On Saturdays they go there again, but this time to take Charlie out. And Pete pushes him in his wheelchair all the way into town.

At their spot outside the shopping mall Charlie puts up a big sign: CHARLIE AND PETE AND LOUIS THE DOG. MUSIC WITH HEART AND SOUL!

Matron's not there to see him, so Charlie climbs out of his chair. Just for a while, he's as young as he used to be back in his dance band days.

And when those trumpets swing and Louis starts to sing, the people all gather round. They forget their worries, they forget they're in a hurry and they clap their hands to the beat. They jiggle their heads and they wiggle their hips and there's dancing in the street!

OH YEAH!!

********

_Heart and Soul_ won first prize in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### CAROL ANN MARTIN

I am a freelance children's author living in Cygnet, a small country town in Tasmania, with three dogs and my jazz musician husband. I am blessed to have my children and grandchildren nearby. Apart from my family and my writing, I love my lively, creative and caring community, my church, reading and yoga. I also have a deep concern for children who suffer in wars and I do what I can to help.

I have been published by Omnibus/Scholastic and Penguin Australia.

You are always most welcome to visit my blog: Carol Ann Martin Writing for Children,

<http://carolannmartin.blogspot.com.au/>

I also have a Facebook page, Henhugs and Ticklefeathers.

### THE LADY TREE

#### by Sallie Ramsay

A massive eucalypt, its white trunk shaped by time and nature to resemble a graceful female figure, dominated the clearing.

The young woman ran forward, flung her arms around its trunk and pressed her cheek against the smooth, white bark. Born in Cornwall, where ancient trees are believed to sometimes house powerful spirits, she knew, as had countless women before her, that this was such a tree.

*

Three Years Later.

Loose pebbles scattered as she scrambled up the last few yards to where the tree waited for her. She settled into her favourite place among its massive roots, closed her eyes and felt its strength embrace her.

It was six years since she and her husband had stepped off the immigrant ship in Hobson's Bay, armed with little more than enthusiasm and common sense. The driver of a bullock dray, preparing to head inland, agreed to add their few possessions, a tent, some tools and a wooden chest that held clothing and household utensils to his load. The start of their new life was marked by the shouts of the bullocky and the crack of his whip as the wagon, timbers creaking, began to move, leaving the hubbub of the port behind.

The first winter, haunted by the smell of wet canvas, they huddled in the tent to shelter from what seemed, never ending rain. She fought a constant battle against cold and damp, making the most of the few sunny days to spread their bedding and clothing out on low branches and bushes to air. She baked the dampers she made from mouldy flour on the coals of the open fire. It was cause for celebration when her husband brought home meat, mostly kangaroo but sometimes beef or an occasional duck for her to cook in the camp oven.

Whenever she felt overwhelmed by the grey strangeness of the bush and a longing for the green fields of Cornwall swept over her, she opened her sewing basket and took out the memories it held: her mother's thimble, the scissors her grandmother had given her for her sixth birthday and the handkerchief that both she and her mother had carried on their wedding days.

She welcomed their first spring with relief and optimism, watching with satisfaction as vegetables, grown from precious seeds collected from her mother's garden in Cornwall, flourished in the vegetable patch.

Summer brought hot, dry northerly winds and heat like none she had ever known or imagined. The days when the wind carried the smell of smoke filled her with fear especially when her husband was away. She felt triumphant when, after carrying bucket after bucket of water up from the creek, she managed to keep the vegetable garden alive.

By the second winter they were living in a one room slab hut built with timber cut from a fallen tree nearby. Warmed by a fireplace, the hut, although small, was a great improvement on the tent. With two more rooms and a veranda added, it made a simple but comfortable home. Nearby, a sturdy enclosure housed their first livestock; six fat black hens and an arrogant rooster.

In the early days, her husband found a job as offsider to the owner of a large bullock team. Strong, stoic and cheaper to keep than horses, bullocks carried much of the burden of early settlement on their broad backs. Teams pulling wagons loaded with supplies criss-crossed the country linking the isolated communities and homesteads. Her husband worked hard and spent winter nights carving heavy wooden yokes for the team he hoped to own one day. Now, six years later, he was the proud owner of six fine beasts and was making a name for himself as a skilled and reliable bullocky.

At first, she dreaded the lonely weeks when her husband's work took him away, but, as time passed, she looked beyond the strangeness and began see and understand the subtle beauty of the bush. She became familiar with the birds that lived in the bush round the hut. She never tired of watching flocks of parrots wheeling through the trees in multi-coloured, squawking clouds of red, blue, green and yellow. At first, the raucous laughter of the kookaburras made her uneasy but in time she found herself laughing with them. She looked forward to early wattles, glowing gold on the coldest, greyest winter's day, bringing promise of spring.

She found the dog lying in a patch of bracken, not far from the hut, so still, she thought it was dead; a skeleton, barely held together by a scarred, filthy, brown hide. She was surprised when, at the sound of her voice, its eyes flew open, bright and intelligent. Common sense told her that she should fetch the gun and put an end to its suffering but something in those bright eyes made her hesitate. Too weak to struggle, the animal lay quietly in her arms as she carried it home. Hours later, with its coat clean, wounds dressed and stomach full of broth, it slept peacefully in front of the fireplace.

Accompanied by the dog, and bearing in mind warnings about snakes, she began to explore, timidly at first but then more boldly. One summer afternoon, she set out to climb the steep ridge on the other side of the creek. It was hot and the air was heavy with the scent of eucalyptus blossoms. With the shrilling of a million cicadas echoing in her head making her feel dizzy she searched for somewhere to rest. Looking up she saw a great tree shimmering through the heat haze. She gave a short cry of recognition, ran forward and embraced the white trunk. After that she visited the tree regularly and found any feelings of sadness, tiredness and loneliness that had been troubling her disappeared whenever she was nestled among its giant, twisted roots. One afternoon, she decided to bring her husband to see the tree. As they approached the edge of the clearing, for no apparent reason, she began to feel ill at ease, a feeling that grew stronger as they drew closer. She was relieved when her husband stopped, saying he would go no closer; because he felt he was intruding and had no right to be there

Not long after she found the Lady Tree, she was preparing a new vegetable bed when she unearthed a stone with deep notches along one side. Later, she learned it was an axe made by the local aboriginal people who, cut down by disease and driven from their land by the expanding colony, had all but disappeared. She began recognise traces of their lives all around her. Down by the creek piles of shells and charred bones provided evidence of social gatherings; rough notches cut into the trunk of a nearby tree marked the perilous route to a bees' nest in the top branches. She was told that the long oval scar on a tree behind the hut was where the bark had been removed to make a canoe. She found similar but smaller, scars on other trees, where, she guessed the bark had been used to make vessels to carry food and probably babies. One sultry afternoon, looking for shelter from a sudden rain squall, she stumbled into a shallow cave. Hundreds of hands, stencilled in orange and yellow ochre covered the roof and walls. Many of the prints on the roof and high up on the walls were blurred and faded and, she was sure, very old. Others were so bright they could have been painted that morning, although, it must be many years since they were painted. She stood in silence, then reached out and placed her hand hesitantly over a print, then, for the first time, she felt a real connection with the ancient land around her. She wondered about the people who had made the prints and found herself filled with sadness that they came no more.

Months later, thick fog rolling down from the ridge transformed familiar surroundings into a mysterious, eerie landscape. She stood at the door of the hut, watching as a group of shadowy figures, men, women and children, with dogs running by their sides, moved silently through the gloom. The dog, standing at her side, hackles raised, growled quietly. With her roots in rural Cornwall, where unworldly happenings were accepted as a part of life, she wasn't particularly surprised or concerned when she was told no such group had been seen in the area for many years. Instead, she felt strangely comforted by what she had seen.

Whenever she had the chance she questioned the earlier settlers about the original inhabitants, who, it seemed, had been seen by many as little more than vermin to be cleared off the land to allow the pastoral industry to flourish. She discovered, even before the settlers spread inland, quite commonplace illnesses devastated the native population. One day while visiting the nearest small settlement to sell eggs and vegetables, she overheard a group of pastoralists laughing and boasting about how, some years before, they had ridden down a group of men, women and children they found camped on their land. It was only her husband's very firm grip on her arm that prevented her from confronting them.

As the twilight closed in, she added the last piece of firewood to the neat pile stacked close to the back door. She brushed some small chips and splinters from the front of her dress, then scrubbed her hands vigorously in a bowl of soap and water near the door. She grimaced as she looked at her hands, clean but rough and scarred, with short broken nails. She shrugged, wiped them on her skirt and after calling the dog, went inside.

The daughter of a farmer, she could turn her hand to most things, including chopping wood. Just, as when necessary, she could wring the neck of a chicken, pluck and clean it and serve it up for a celebratory meal. On the farm in Cornwall most of the heavy chores were done by her brothers but here, many thousands of miles from the farm and with her husband often away, she carried most of the responsibility for the day to day running of their small holding. Building a new life in such unfamiliar surroundings provided many challenges. But it wasn't the physical hardships that provided the greatest challenges, she found hard work helped keep much of the isolation and the loneliness at bay. Her days were filled with chores, carting water up from the creek, cooking, sewing and gardening. What she missed most of all was the companionship, the companionship of a warm kitchen on baking day, the conversations ranging far and wide, around a crowded table at meal times, the hustle and bustle of the Friday market in the village, the walk across the fields on Sunday to the parish church but most of all, she missed the everyday chatter and gossip with people she had known all her life. In a morbid moment she wondered how many people knew her well enough to come to her funeral if she were to die. The last year or so had been easier, a couple of miles away a cluster of shacks was almost large enough to be called a village. She visited the families living there to see if there was anything she could do to help them settle in. As a result news and many household hints were swapped. There was talk of forming a cricket team and, to the disgust of some children, it was decided that as soon as a suitable place and teacher could be found basic reading, writing and arithmetic lessons would commence.

It was early spring, with her husband due home any day, accompanied, she hoped by the milking cow he had promised her for her birthday. She enjoyed milking, resting her head on the cow's soft warm flank and looked forward to the prospect of making butter in the, as yet, unused churn brought from Cornwall.

She was planting out new seedlings followed closely by two magpies hunting for worms in the freshly turned soil. The dog lay sulking in the shade at the end of a chain, banished for digging up two rows of seedlings when her back was turned.

She felt uneasy from the moment she first saw the man coming up the track; tall and powerful with unkempt dark hair and beard, he had an aggressive air about him that frightened her. Bush custom dictated she offer him hospitality. Reluctantly she rose to her feet, made tea and cut slices of damper for him. He drank his tea in silence. She waited until he finished, then turned to go back to the garden but, moving quickly, he blocked her way to the door. He lunged at her, grabbing her and tearing her sleeve. She hit out, scratching at his eyes and face but her nails, worn short from work, made no impression. He laughed, caught her wrists and was forcing her towards the floor when, with surprising strength, she drove her knee into his groin. He gave a roar of pain and released his grip just enough for her to tear free, bolt out the door, across the yard and into the bush.

Her husband heard the dog's frantic barking while still some distance away. Urging the team on, he took in the scene at a glance; gardening tools abandoned, the door of the house open, the dog barking wildly, flinging itself around at the end of its chain. Without waiting to unharness the team, he drove the bullocks into the paddock, dropped the slip rail in place and freed the dog. It immediately headed into the bush. Keeping it in sight was impossible, but luckily it continued to bark. Following the sound he charged up the hill. Suddenly the barking stopped and silence closed in around him. Panting, he called her name, followed by a long coo-ee. The call echoed around him, but there was no response.

He stumbled out of the scrub into the clearing where the Lady Tree stood. To his joy, he saw his wife, half lying, half sitting, huddled between the roots of the great tree, laughing as the dog licked her face ecstatically.

A short distance away a man lay on his back. His eyes were open but, even in death, were filled with terror. His crossed arms partially covered his face and upper chest as if attempting to ward off the massive branch that had crushed him.

The young bullocky looked up into the tree towering above him. It had no dead branches and the scar left by the fallen branch showed no sign of rot or decay that he could see. Shaking his head, he bent down, gathered his wife into his arms and, with the dog bouncing joyfully around them, set off down the hill.

### SALLIE RAMSAY

S

allie Ramsay lives in Canberra and writes for her own enjoyment but is delighted when others enjoy something she has written. Reading has always been an important part of her life. She still remembers the day she read her first book 'right through', an Enid Blyton, 'The Secret of Killimooin.' She like gardens, cats, especially the Geelong Cats, dogs and horses, in particular the ACT Brumbies; painting, the smell of the bush after rain and the sea in all its moods. Sallie is married to a patient man who can spell and punctuate, which is a good thing as she is convinced spelling and punctuation conventions were created specifically to torment her. She writes mainly for adults but enjoys writing for children.

As a member of the ACT U3A Writing group she writes at least eight short stories a year. She has had three short stories published in the Stringy Bark Anthologies; Side by Side; Malicious Mysteries and The Bridge and has self-published a collection of short stories, A Mixed Dozen; two fantasy chapter books for her grandchildren, The Improper Princess and Cat and The Catawompus as well as light hearted whodunit set in Canberra; A Capital Affair.

The Lady Tree is based on a real tree. (See picture, above.)

### THE WALL

#### by Kat Pekin

There's a man outside the wall.

I've got a good view of him from up here on my platform. He stumbles into the crosshairs of my scope. His ponytail is ragged, his beard overgrown and his clothes are dirty and torn. The dust in the air isn't as thick today so I can see his thin face is badly scabbed and bleeding. He's infected. Suffering for years, by the looks of him. Some people persist in fighting, but it only delays the inevitable.

I shift forward into a better position. I want to make a clean shot since I'll have to go out and burn the body. Rules are rules. I spotted him; I've gotta deal with him.

I rest my eye against the scope. The man stops. I've got a clear shot. My finger brushes the trigger but then I see he's wearing a backpack over the front of his chest. Strange. There must be something in there he doesn't want out of his sight. Something worth saving. Water, or medicine maybe.

I tuck my finger underneath the trigger guard. If I shoot him in the chest I could burst any container holding water, but if I take a headshot he could fall forwards and crush glass medicine bottles. The man stops and looks back. I swivel the scope to see why.

I almost drop my gun.

It's a little girl. Small and bony, I can tell even though she's wearing a heavy jacket. Her little legs are sticking out the bottom like twigs. Her darkish hair is tucked loosely under a dirty cap and her pale face is clear. She reminds me of Ella. No matter their age, all little girls look like Ella to me. Ella would have been three months old this week.

The man reaches his hand back, waiting for the little girl to catch up. I suddenly remember my job and grab my walkie-talkie from my belt. "Archer?"

A couple of seconds pass before Archer's tired voice crackles back at me. "Go ahead, North Guard," she says.

My mouth is dry but not from the dust. "Two approaching on the North fence."

"I assume you've taken care of it this time?"

"No."

"Lincoln, you said you were ready to go back on the wall!"

"One's a child."

There's a breadth of static before Archer replies. "That's not funny."

I knew she wouldn't believe me, but I don't blame her. "Little girl, maybe five years old."

White noise scratches over the walkies before she speaks again. "I'll meet you at the gate in five. Over and out."

I clip my radio back onto my belt and watch the man approach. It's only forty degrees today, and the dust is thin enough that I can leave my goggles atop my head. Must be why the man and the girl are wandering outside. No one braves the wasteland under the heat of the day. Not even here in Kingaroy, which is touted one of the coolest places in Australia these days. But since fewer refugees manage to find us now, my job is becoming pointless. I spend most of my days staring at the barren, terracotta landscape.

My fingers aren't near the trigger anymore. I'm transfixed by the girl, by how healthy she looks. When the disease broke out, children were first to die. And the younger they were the faster they died. Immunity only occurs in people in their late teens and older, so soon enough all the kids were gone. Their systems can't fight the disease. Older people can for a time, but the symptoms get them eventually. Those of us who're immune are still carriers. We don't suffer the effects of the virus, but it's in our blood. All of our babies are born infected. The longest a baby survived here at the compound was 29 hours.

"North Guard?" Eli's voice echoes over my radio.

I almost ignore him. I don't want him to ask me why I haven't taken the shot. But it's against protocol not to answer a direct call from another guard. "Yes, South Guard?" I say.

"Got a heavy dust storm moving in."

My attention has been so focused on the man and the girl that I've not even noticed what's going on behind me. I can just see the incoming storm from my post. It's July, we're right in the middle of dust storm season. But we had one a couple of days ago. We usually get at least week's reprieve in between.

"Orders?" I ask Eli.

"Meeting with Archer now. Over and out."

Below me I can see movement in the compound. My eyes spot some of our people herding the horses and cows towards one of the players' on-field entrances. Our compound was a football stadium once upon a time. What used to be turf is now a field of sand. Aside from the animals, the guards are pretty much the only ones who hang around outside during the day. It's much cooler in the cement halls underneath the stadium.

I jump off the ladder a couple of rungs before the ground and head for the gate. I hear footsteps behind me. I turn. Eli is jogging towards me, his black curls bouncing from beneath his bandana. Ella's hair had been black, too. It was the only trait she'd inherited from Eli, and part of the reason I can't look at him anymore.

"Archer cleared me to help you," he says.

"I don't need help," I tell him. "It's one man."

"And a girl," Eli says. "You've got a thing about kids."

"Everyone does."

"Not like you."

I peer through the window latch on the front gate. The man and girl are still coming towards us. It's getting harder to see them; the storm is moving in quickly. Eli rests his hand on the plank barricading the gate and looks at me. I adjust my bandana to hide my eyes. He can read my expressions.

Eli lifts the barricade and we both push the gate open. The wind swirls and dust spits up into my face. I slide my goggles down over my eyes and tighten my scarf around my neck, but dust grains get into my mouth and I gag.

I can see the man is almost at the Line— wooden posts about five metres apart set up around our perimeter. Archer had us erect it years ago as a failsafe. Protocol is an intruder's body must be dead before it reaches the Line.

"That's close enough!" Eli yells over the scope of his gun to the approaching strangers.

The man stops. I can't tell if he's obeying Eli or if he's catching his breath. He's still clutching one arm around the backpack. He's definitely protecting something valuable.

"Guards?" Archer appears behind me. She squints ahead to our incoming guests. Her body stiffens. "Shit," she says. "It really is a kid."

I wonder if she thought I was hallucinating when I told her I'd seen the girl. I shouldn't have told her how I see Ella in every image of a child I see. Archer needs to think me competent or she'll have me back cleaning the guns.

"Shoot him, Lincoln," Archer instructs me. "He can't cross the Line."

The storm swells and wind gusts sand between the thinning fabric of my clothes. "The bag could have water in it," I say. "Or meds? Food jars? He'll crush them when he falls."

"He's infected. Shoot him."

"We can't catch it," I remind her.

"I'm not taking the chance," Archer says. "Maybe today's the day the virus mutates. Maybe this guy was immune last month. Who knows what'll happen next? Shoot him."

I grip my gun. It feels heavy. Archer shifts irritably beside me.

"Then go out there," Archer nudges me forwards. "Check his bag, get the girl, and do not let him cross the Line."

I start moving. In my periphery I see Eli try to follow me. Archer stops him.

I've almost reached the Line when the man falls to his knees. He tries to lift his arm across to where the girl is standing, but his weak body shudders at the effort. He tips forward, keeps one arm around his pack and drops the other into the sand to keep from biting dust.

He lifts his head. His eyes, yellowed from the infection, find mine. He inhales sharply, his breath rattling like death.

"Take 'em," he gasps. "Please."

He slumps onto his side and his backpack falls away from his chest. The pack opens revealing reaching arms and a chubby little face. I see Ella, and how she looked in that twenty-ninth hour. I can still see myself in the bed three months ago, holding Ella and watching her fade; red-eyed Eli with his clasped hands resting against his mouth. She's so much bigger than my Ella, this backpack baby. Bigger than Ella ever grew to be.

My Ella didn't cry, but this one does.

_The Wall_ received an honourable mention in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### KAT PEKIN

Kat Pekin is an emerging speculative fiction writer living in the Western Suburbs of Brisbane. She is currently studying a Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing at QUT. Her work has received highly commended placement in recent competitions and her short story 'Second-Hand Light' was published in a 2015 anthology.

### RED VIGNETTES

#### by Darcy-Lee Tindale

Red gumboots

My first pair of farm boots were red with white polka dots, like the ones the Strawberry Shortcake Ragdolls wore. My father saw them for sale in the agricultural store while picking up stock feed and thought I'd like the surprise. I did.

While he stacked sacks of pellets in the hay shed, I spent the rest of the day tramping around the farm making a flip-flopping noise as the plastic whacked my calves and shins with each step. Even though inside the boots my feet were wet with sweat and my heels were starting to blister, I refused to take them off. I chased the geese with more bravado. I stomped through the thistle paddock without looking down. I squealed and scared away the grass parrots and a rabbit along the creek bed, because for the first time ever, I could cross the creek without getting my feet wet.

My boots and I had had a big first day and that evening before standing my gumboots up alongside my father's thick heavy black ones, I hosed out the pebbles, grass and mud, the horse and chook poop caked in the tread and then I did the same to my father's boots.

*

Red faced

At the woodpile my father and I sat on a wooden block each. It was still early morning. Even the geese were asleep in their hutch. There was a light frost and I could see millions of spider webs strung between blades of grass. It was quiet. Not even the dogs had been let off their chains; they were still asleep in their hollowed logs amongst old horse blankets and left over steak bones.

For the first time I sipped black coffee. The mug was warm in my hands and the steam helped defrost my cheeks with each sip. The coffee tasted bitter and sweet. Dad had added three sugars and a drop of cold tap water. I couldn't help but feel that it was because of my new red boots that I now got to drink coffee in a white enamel mug with black polka-dots from chips in the enamel, and join in the morning ritual. Dad and I drained back the dregs. Dregs. That's what Dad had said, "Drain the last of those dregs."

Inside the tractor shed we exchanged the mugs for the tractor keys. We hung our empty mugs on a wire hook so Mum could collect them later and take them back to the house to wash.

I sat on the back tray of the tractor and hung my legs over the edge. I swung my feet, my red booted feet, and tried to sing over the top of the tractor's engine. Dad put on his ear muffs and reversed out, he grinded gears and we were off, bouncing down the dusty track. We were the first noise of the day.

I sang to my boots. When I was done with the song and was tired of the lyrics and chorus I looked up and saw we were about to cut across the bull's paddock. The tractor vibrated over the metal grid in the road and only just squeezed between the two white posts. The bulls in the paddock raised their big heads and I'm sure they were looking at my boots, my new red boots.

I panicked. I pushed myself off the tractor tray and ran back over the grid, down the lane, all the way home. I was bawling, howling, sobbing. I screamed because bulls charged at red. I didn't look back for fear the whole herd might be charging after me. My dad didn't even realise I'd vanished.

*

Red herring

My brother sits cross-legged opposite me and the board-game sits flat on the floor between us. I'm lying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows and swinging my feet in the air looking smug. I'm winning the game of draughts. It's his move and his red draught captures two of my black. I pout and make a high pitched whining noise that makes Mum snap at me from the kitchen, "Without all the sound effects please!"

I mime annoyance at my brother and he mimes bashing my head in. His fist moves in slow motion through the air and he gives me an exaggerated performance of how my pending bashing will be dished out. I get the whole event played out in slow motion all the way to my tragic death. I stifle a giggle at my brother convulsing on the floor to his last breath. I shrug at the performance of my death and he sits back up and we play on.

We are silent through the next few moves on the board. We hear the washing machine also become silent and then we hear the backdoor bang shut. Mum's gone to hang washing.

My brother asks, "Why were you crying this morning?"

"Because I thought the bulls would charge me."

"Why?"

"I was wearing my red gumboots. But Dad says bulls don't really charge at red, it's just a myth."

"He's only saying that to make you feel better."

"No he's not. Bulls don't charge at red."

"Yes they do."

"Shut up, Man-cow."

"I should know."

Yes, he should know. I'm frozen to the floor. My brother's name is Braford. He was named after the breed of bull. (My cousin's name is Angus. Mum says she was still under the influence of painkillers when she signed Braford's birth certificate, but Dad said she just wanted to get up the nose of her sister-in-law). I stare at the red draught my brother has his finger resting on. I don't know who to believe, Dad or Braford?

My brother taps his finger on the draught slowly and then says, "Dad lied." He lifts his finger and moves the red draught until it reaches the crown head, the farthest row forward and becomes a king. He places another red draught on top and now he has additional powers. Bugger, bugger, bugger. His king can now move backwards and capture my pieces. I'm about to get slaughtered. My brother looks at me, runs his finger along his neck and mimes slitting my throat.

I swallow, "Okay, tomorrow I'll wear my red t-shirt and walk through the bulls' paddock just to show you it's not true."

"In your red shirt and your new boots?"

"Yep, and my new boots."

*

Red rag to a bull

I'm surprised that I'm not even scared. I stand on the metal grid in the road while my brother climbs up the white post and sits on it. He's got a ring-side seat. I have on my red t-shirt and my red gumboots and I've even put red clips in my hair. I have so much faith in the word of my father that I'm about to walk through the valley of death without fear (so to speak, only maybe slightly less dramatic or religious inspired, after all, I was only eleven).

"The full length of the paddock."

"Yep, Brother-man-cow, I'll go the full length," I say, and I take the first leap of faith (which isn't really a leap and only a half step).

I begin walking across the paddock. The bulls, four enormous Poll Herefords, one at a time raise their head and look at me, but continue to chew their cud. One twitches its ear, waves its yellow plastic ear tag at me (Dad liked to call them recipe cards), but I see the bull has no interest in me and I walk on, keeping my steps light so I don't startle him. For a moment it seems like nothing's going to happen, but Braford is not one who likes to lose a bet and he climbs down his post and picks up three large rocks. One at a time he pegs them at the bulls to spook them. The first rock bounces at the bulls' feet and startles them. Skittish, they break their pack and the second rock hits one right in the skull — Braford doesn't even need to toss the third — the bulls bolt in different directions and one heads straight for me.

I turn and run. My plastic boots slap my shins and calves and my feet pound the ground as I bolt for safety. My boots create their own sound of a stampede. I head towards the fence and try to dive over it to the other side, but I don't make it — I don't even come close to making it. I slam into the barb fence. Like a fly in a web I'm trapped and a great eight-hundred kilo four-legged horned spider comes up to the barb web. I freeze, just like a fly, I don't want to bring attention to myself and draw the spider in. But the bull creeps towards me and sniffs the air. Its snout is wet and touches my forehead. When it pulls back there is blood on its nose, my blood. The bull snorts, sticks its tongue up its own nostril and licks away my blood. The bull drops its head, sniffs the dirt around me and puffs dust. It's inquisitive at the creature caught in the paddock's web. Then it lifts its tail and passes a puddle of green pasty wet dung and leaves me with the flies and smell.

I squint and squeeze tears from my eyes, and when I open them, I'm momentarily colour-blind. The world around me is grey. I only see the red in the rusted barb twists along the wire fence; in the rock face of the mountain above; in the coat of the bull in front of me where the sun shines along its girth, rear flank and off its muffle; and I see red in my brother, in his lips and gums that show from a smile that's stretched far too wide for a young boy's mouth. When our eyes meet, his smile drops, and his mouth forms the perfect shape of a small red draught.

I manage to untangle myself and I swear that I'll never wear the colour red again. The moment I make this pledge, the colour comes back into the world.

### DARCY-LEE TINDALE

Darcy-Lee Tindale is a dramatic arts teacher, actor, author, theatresports player, director and has appeared in television commercials, film and on stage. She has written comedy for radio, stage, media personalities, comedians, and theatre restaurants. She has directed plays at Newtown Theatre, St Martin's Theatre in Victoria, Parramatta Riverside Theatre, Belvoir Theatre and the Seymour Centre. Her plays, poems, articles and short stories have been published in The School Magazine, Celapene Press, Tincture Journal, ZineWest, Black & Blue Publications, Penguin Books, Brumples Magazine, Stringybark Publications, and children's books published with McGraw Hill Education, and middle grade reader Thumb Pickles and Other Cautionary Preserves published with Woodslane Publishers. Darcy is delighted to add Birdcatcher Books to her list of publications. In her spare time she visits schools to conduct creative writing workshops with students and is currently in her final year of studying a BA in Creative Writing.

Find Darcy-Lee at: www.darcy-leetindale.com

### TONGUE-TIED

#### by William B. Moon

When Martin saw her, he stood transfixed like a rabbit in headlights.

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. It was impossible to turn his eyes away. He was sure his heart had swollen in his chest it hammered so fast.

She was everything he imagined Venus to be, with hair swirling about her shoulders and setting off a beautiful contrast with her uniform. But it was the eyes that were so captivating with their liquid blue enhanced by their lashes that curled like beckoning fingers. When she laughed, even her teeth braces added a little to her mystery.

Martin's trance was interrupted by the insistent clanging of the school bell and he turned away sighing. The magic moment had passed and reality now intervened. It was his first day of his last year in primary school.

After the excitement he had just experienced, school began very bleakly. The new teacher for the year was that crabby old Miss Halibut. Everyone said she had a temper like a raging buffalo and she surely was built like one. The school wags had nicknamed her "The Hulk." It was said that when she went into a rage even the blowflies stopped buzzing. Stories abounded about how her body swelled when she was angry - some even suggesting that with any luck she would explode and they would all get a day off for her funeral.

Already the room was filled with the familiar scent of old books, ripe fruit and sweaty bodies. The roll had been called and the teacher had previously set work on the board for the class to do while she began to write details on the roll book. Their industrious scratching on paper was interrupted only by questions from Miss Halibut about addresses and birth dates.

Kevin Jonson, the class clown, leaned forward and whispered in Martin's ear. Martin snorted a short laugh then sat primly as Miss Halibut glared at him.

"A joke, Martin? You were warned about making noises. What is so funny?"

"Nothing Miss. I was just clearing my throat. I have a bit of asthma."

Her voice rumbled from her voluminous chest. "A bit? You either have it or you don't. Well, which is it, boy? Do you have asthma? Yes or no?"

Before he could reply, Miss Halibut, who was the world's best lie detector, noticed the slight grin on Kevin's face and pounced. "Kevin Jonson, it was you, wasn't it? Martin is not normally given to such displays of rudeness. What did you say that caused such a reaction?" She stood tall, arms crossed, a truly towering and imposing figure. She glared down at Kevin. "Well? I'm waiting."

Kevin stood, his lanky frame sliding snakelike from the narrow confines of the desk. He looked down at his feet and whispered his reply.

"Look at me when you speak and don't mumble, boy. Is the answer written on the floor?"

Kevin's tremble \- lipped reply, was understood only by those closest to him. They hooted with laughter. Kevin began blubbering in the full knowledge that he was now mincemeat.

"Why did you laugh, Agnes Jones?"

Agnes, "Miss Prim and Proper" to her class mates, stood smirking through her protruding teeth. "He called you 'Miss hairy- butt,' Miss."

The class gasped then stared awe-struck at the change that began to occur in Miss Halibut. It had become legend and now they were to witness the "change." This was better than any American comic hero.

Always pale, she had now taken on a crimson glow, and her face expanded like a carnival balloon. The eyes had narrowed to slits that appeared to flash sparks. Her huge frame crouched as she slowly approached the unfortunate victim. Her knuckles seemed to reach to the floor - her face a mask enough to bring terror to the bravest. She was the "Hulk" about to rage.

Before retribution could be administered, there was a knock on the door. It flew open and the principal entered. The "Hulk" miraculously shrank back to her real size and her face became pasty again. A low groan of disappointment escaped from the class.

"Sorry for the interruption Miss Halibut, but I have a new member of class for you. Class this is Daphne Kettlebrow. Her father is the new solicitor in town and Daphne comes to us from Laretto, a school in Sydney."

Martin heard no more. He sat entranced as the vision of beauty blinded and deafened him to all else. It was she, the perfect creature - here in his class. He became oblivious to time - his mouth open in total admiration.

The principal looked at Martin. "The girls' captain will be away for this week so I am going to ask the boys' captain to look after Daphne. Martin?"

But Martin was completely unaware of the principal's words.

"Martin? Martin?" The principal's voice finally intruded into Martin's consciousness. "Martin! Are you sick lad?"

"Oh. No sir. Sorry sir."

"Well, if you say you are OK I will get you to look after Daphne and show her around the school. You are the school captain so it's time you took on some of the responsibilities."

"Yes sir," Martin stammered through rubber lips, I'll l.l.look after her." He could feel his face redden.

As Daphne sat beside him he moved shyly away then glanced briefly at the blonde Venus beside him. She saw the glance and smiled to him. He couldn't believe it.

This must be what they meant when they said, "this is heaven on a stick."

The rest of the day was a blur of pleasure and pain. Anxious to help, he became as clumsy as a cane toad and seemed to trip over his own feet. He felt as if he was not able to breathe. He was sadly empty when the day finished and Daphne was whisked away in her father's BMW.

However as the rest of the week progressed, Martin's confidence began to return. He looked forward to and enjoyed the electricity of her touch as she handed him a pencil, or the tingle of pleasure as her silken hair touched his cheek when they looked at a book together. Life had taken on a new dimension for him.

By Friday he had managed to gain enough courage to ask Daphne to go to the matinee on Saturday. The picture was a western and she readily agreed to go.

She lifted a finger to her lips to indicate a secret and whispered, "Mum won't let me go out with boys, so I will meet you there. I will be in the back row and I'll keep you a seat."

That afternoon after Daphne had left school in her father's car, Martin walked home across the park with his friend Howard, who was a mine of information and said he knew everything there was to know about girls.

"You kissed her yet?" Howard asked.

"No. I don't know what to do. You see I've never..."

"You've never kissed a girl before? Jeez, I'll have to teach you then. You've got to you know, when you're in the flicks, they expect it like." He pushed Martin down onto a seat in the park and commenced his instruction. "First of all you just lean over and pucker up like this." The sight of Howard pursing his lips and moving towards him was too much for Martin. He pushed Howard away, laughing.

"It's not funny. If you don't watch out I won't teach you."

Martin straightened his face. "Sorry Howard but it did look a little funny. Reckon I'd be frightened if I saw someone coming at me like that. It looked like an octopus's sucker".

Howard grunted then continued. "Give her a little peck on the lips. Just light mind you, don't rush it. That way you'll soon know if it's OK. Then if she doesn't knock your block off, you go for a bit more." Howard continued his instructions to a wide - eyed Martin. "Anyway, once you get started you get a bit closer and do it again. It's not hard \- it's a bit like sucking an orange, only with teeth. Don't know why they bother really."

Armed with his new information, Martin steadied his resolve but was unsure of the advice. Still, Howard did have two older brothers and a sister and reckoned he learned it from watching from behind the curtains. The trouble was he always made a noise at the wrong time and they tossed him out before he saw what they did next.

Howard confessed, "I reckon they must do something else, but I ain't never seen them do it."

The next day as Martin arrived at the theatre, his heart was thumping. He handed his ticket to the usher and entered the plush interior - the slightly musty smell and the excited chattering of the crowd adding to his excitement.

He looked anxiously around but couldn't see Daphne at first. Then with a sigh of relief and a sudden lurching of his stomach, he saw her on the other side, hurried over and quickly sat down beside her. He looked around to see if anyone was there who would know him, but before he could see, the lights dimmed and the ads started.

"I thought you weren't coming," Daphne whispered to him, her voice a balm to his anxiety. He took her hand and they settled down to watch the cartoon. They sat unmoving until interval, their fingers intertwined, stiff and sweaty.

"Like an ice cream?" Martin had remembered Howard's advice- "Got to feed them, that's important," he'd said.

He hurried out to the kiosk and bought two chocolate Hearts and a packet of Fantales. Daphne smiled as he handed the ice cream to her and dropped the Fantales onto her lap. "Oh I love these," she cooed. Howard felt his confidence grow a fraction.

After the lights went down again, they both seemed a little more relaxed and moved slightly closer together. Daphne opened the Fantales, peeled one and popped it into Martin's mouth. Martin still couldn't pluck up the courage to try a 'little peck.'

He sat, barely able to think and not taking in any of the picture. It was only towards the end when the "goodies" were winning that he realised the picture was coming to a close. With a start, he knew that if he didn't make his move soon he never would. It was now or forget it.

Before he could move, Daphne leaned over and whispered, "Next week? Like to meet me again?" Then she kissed him lightly on the lips. He was stunned. Her lips were so soft and warm and tasted slightly of chocolate.

Suddenly the barrier broke and he leaned over and kissed Daphne, Howard style. His tongue started flicking around her lips and teeth - "like licking an ice cream," Howard had said.

The pain that hit him was intense. He couldn't move his tongue. It was stuck in her teeth braces. The harder he tried to pull back, the more it hurt. It didn't help when Daphne gasped for breath and tried to push him away. He yelped with pain. Just then the lights came on. With a titanic effort he pulled away and sat, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. The pain and the metallic taste of blood obliterated any other thoughts except shame and confusion.

Daphne looked at him with concern. "Are you OK? Let's see." She pulled his hand away and stared at the blood trickling down from the corners of his mouth. Then she giggled, "You'll be all right next week. The picture is about vampires. You can practice on me again."

### WILLIAM B. MOON

Except for the first 4 years I have been involved in education all my life either as a student or teacher and lecturer. I spent some time practising as a Clinical Hypnotherapist but now am back into the teaching sphere. Having retired, I am involved in teaching at the University of the Third Age. here I teach Creative Writing, The Untaught Histories (what they don't teach you about the events of history), and occasional other courses such as The Phenomenology of Religion.

In my spare time I write short stories for fun and occasionally enter competitions. Most of all I enjoy teaching and the learning of new topics to teach.

I am currently married and awaiting the birth of my first great grandchild. I enjoy good health, good food and a good story.

### FIRST DAY ON THE JOB

#### by Richard Harvie

Before arriving, before setting foot inside the workshop - his future - Mitch has spent his time feeling quite proud of himself. This is going to be his first day as a man, he's going to be getting on the tools - just like his old man. None of that school stuff for him anymore if he can help it. His mum was even tearing up this morning when she saw him in his brand new overalls and his lunchbox packed (by her) liked a proper tradie. He's taller than her now - has been for some time, but there is still enough of the boy about him to make her gush and him cringe.

Which is why he's here. And he's made up his mind that he's going to properly nail this. No more boy for Mitch - he's going to be a man now.

Well, that idea has gone and lasted all about five minutes.

Since rocking up and stepping through the automatic door into the air-conditioned reception area guarded by the smiling and seriously fit Bella and some sour faced old girl with short badly dyed red hair and heavy spectacles, he's been made to feel properly like nothing. He had eagerly followed the click-clack of Bella's heels past the civilised public area into the workshop - what he wants to be his home. And then watched her click-clack off, admiringly.

But for the past half hour, since she basically dumped him in a corner, all he's really done is stand there with his arms tightly folded, self-conscious about how soft and still-clean his hands are, dug as they are deep into his armpits. The skinny little uncoordinated new kid on work-experience.

He's not feeling too clever, now.

"Don't just stand there, ya muppet!" cackles Davie, emerging form behind the engine block of a car and looming over Mitch. He knows it's Davie cos that's what everybody is calling him. The giant is wiping his huge scarred hands on a greasy rag and looking down on the sixteen year old Mitch.

"What d'ye want me to do?" Mitch asks, trying to make eye contact with the huge foreman. He knows this is a challenge. He knows deep down he's got to impress and - truth be told - he is properly starting to brick it.

"What do you think?" Davie grunts, tossing the boy a broom that Mitch manages to fumble and drop.

Davie shakes his head, sighing with contempt.

"You can sweep a floor, can't ya mate? You know...like this?" and he mimes the motion, all the while looking at the boy like he's mental, rubbing it in by speaking extra slowly. Mitch feels his too-large ears going red.

"Yeah, I can do that," the kid says, drawing some confidence from the broom handle, biting his lip and feeling like crap. But part of him is relieved that he at least has something to do now that he can actually do. He looks around the workshop and nods.

"Well off you go, sport." Davie chuckles, and returns to the entrails of the gutted car he has been poking around in.

The car itself is up on the hoist, its innards piled neatly around it on the floor \- and Mitch realises with frustration that he doesn't even know what any of the parts or tools are called yet. It's only his first bloody day and he's learning nothing so far!

There're two young fellas in the pit underneath the hoist, both covered in grease and swearing bitterly at each other as they apply their tools to the heavy, dirty machinery. Hard work and competence gives them a strength that Mitch desperately needs. He's no good at school and pretty ordinary at footie. He knows deep down that he has to make it somewhere and desperately wants it to be here - with proper blokes. Real hard working men. Just like his old man.

Mitch, armed with a broom, knows his clean and brand new overalls make him stand out. He looks at his new boots, steel toe-capped as per, but also horribly new. His mum worked hard to kit him out like this. He knows that and he's torn again. She's wanted so desperately for him to make her proud - and he has tried. But sitting down at school and listening to one silly old biddy after going on at him about how ASD or dyslexic or oppositional defiant he is or whatever has really gone and got his back up about that whole pile of bull they call an education. So - long story short: he's no good at sport, music, art or any of that crap they love so much at school. It's hard to give a rat's when people just want to diagnose you rather than teach you.

Mitch starts to sweep. He's determined he can make a go of this. His hands will be grimed and strong eventually, his uniform creased and oil-stained and his boots ragged and dented soon enough. He's going to make a man of himself. He knows, has finally realised, that somebody has to.

Mitch looks up from his sweeping at the foreman.

Davie is a huge mountain of a man, his filthy blue overalls are half open, he has a belly and the folded sleeves reveal thick forearms covered in wild tattoos. His shaven head is a permanent sweaty red and a closely clipped moustache frames his mouth and drags down its corners. Despite how scary he looks, his eyes sparkle with laughter and Mitch is eager to get on his good side. He looks like fun.

Mitch carries on sweeping, working his way around the workshop, trying to get to know it. He counts three pits for cars, and four benches with dirty and heavily used tools neatly arranged on them. Loads of posters cover the walls - most of them safety reminders or technical stuff about power tools and screws and all that kind of stuff he's hoping to understand one day. Mixed in are enough pics of ladies wearing less than his mum would like and ads for MMA and V8 events. As he slowly gathers the dust and debris of the floor before him, happy to feel useful, he knows he wants to belong here.

Working away, he gradually senses somebody coming up behind him. He actually feels a shiver at his neck. Like when you know you're about to get clobbered.

"What the bloody hell d'ye think you're doing?" comes the voice.

It's hardly a roar, or a bark, but manages to convey menace. And it comes unexpected, making the boy jump.

"Sweeping!" Mitch says, turning to look at the newcomer. "Davie told me to!" he blurts out, aware it sounds like a whiny excuse. Hating himself as he says it.

"Davie told you...," the newcomer says slowly, shaking his head.

This guy is also shaven headed, but taller and skinnier than Davie the bulldog. He has a heavy brow and strong features. His overalls are fully zipped up, with a variety of pens in the pocket - none chewed - and the sleeves neatly rolled up. He manages to look dangerous and way scarier than Davie - mainly because his grey eyes are so cold and he moves with suppressed energy, like a boxer. The boy feels scared, at any rate. Properly scared of this bloke. He looks like he'd happily deck a man. Or a first year apprentice on his first day.

"What are you trying to do to my new apprentice, Davie you dog?" the man calls across to the bulldog.

"Ah - he looked like he was bored, mate," Davie says with a wide grin, wiping his filthy hands on his overall. "I thought I'd give him something to do."

"Now don't you listen to the nasty foreman," the boss says with a mock-gentleness, but there's still a coolness in his gravelly voice. "Especially when old Jim is here - who also happens to be the bloody boss!"

"No worries," the boy says, trying to not sound like a dumb dog in need of a good kicking. "What do you want me to do?" His voice sounds squeaky in his own hears.

Jim comes in close to Mitch, and Mitch forces himself not to back away.

"See that kitchen over there?" Jim gestures behind him at the small dirty room squeezed into the far corner that boasts a kettle and microwave.

The boy nods.

"Mine's a white and two. Yous can ask the others what they want." He then smiles and Mitch can see the humour in them.

"You serious?" the boy says, a flicker of disappointment prompting the question.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jim answers, deadpan. "Go on, then."

The boy moves to put the broom back.

"And you can finish that after you've brought me me cuppa," Jim laughs.

The other two older lads - both older apprentices Mitch later finds out - have observed the whole thing and nudge each other, snickering. The boy, his cheeks burning with humiliation, goes over to them.

"Black and three, mate," the older one, sporting a shock of bleached blond hair, says.

"Same here, mate. Be quick, now." This one is down to his singlet and boasts some seriously ripped muscles covered with tats. All Mitch wants is to be one of them now.

He also knows that if he was at school, Mitch would have flipped them all the finger and then given them some choice lip before getting sent to the office. It seems harder to do here. He knows there's no safe office with a bark but no bite principal, and that these lads would probably do more than tell on him.

"Go on, then," gym-freak says, mimicking Jim. "We're gasping here, mate."

Mitch, dejected, walks over to the kitchen and starts fumbling with the kettle. He manages to fill it. Then comes the next panic.

He can see a series of chipped and dirty mugs. But they're all different, random momentoes of visiting tools and parts companies, holidays and the usual crap. But he knows people can get possessive and doesn't want to wind anybody up. Unnecessarily. Yet.

"Whose mug is whose?" he calls out into the workshop. His voice sounds thin and reedy compared to the guttural and deeper rumbles of the full-timers.

And it's also not strong enough, either, apparently. That or they're deliberately not hearing him.

He curses to himself and walks back into the workshop. He comes back seconds later, his ears ringing.

"It doesn't bloody matter!" was all he got.

As he puts the teabags in the four mugs, he tries to take stock of his situation.

He smells the oil-laden air. He has to admit he likes it. He likes the sound of the machinery, the whirr of winches and the creak of chains and the feel of the wrenches and the drills. This is where he wants to be. He knows that in his bones.

But those blokes just make him feel like a noob. And it's only his first day. You'd think...

He shakes his head and decides to just get on with it.

As he brings a steaming cup over to Jim, the boss takes it and sips it.

"Good work, mate," he says appreciatively. "You'll make somebody a good wife one day."

All Mitch can do is shake his head, biting back a comment. Jim sees it and winks.

"You'll do, boy," he grunts.

"So it's all right then?" Mitch asks.

"Lovely, mate. Now don't forget one for yourself and we'll talk later about what we can do with you. Davie reckons you must be good for something else."

Later doesn't seem to come that day and Mitch spends the whole of it either doing gopher work or trying to be invisible. He finds out that so far he is only good for fetch and carry and taking crap from the others. Eight excruciating hours and by the end of it his hands are nowhere near as dirty as the other guys. But he is knackered, though. And that's a good feeling.

"Do you think I can get on the tools tomorrow?" he asks Davie as they're all getting ready to knock off.

The big man looks down at him and grins. "That's what you're here for, mate."

Mitch nods, beginning to feel hopeful.

Davie's face seems to soften a little. "You feelin' a little gutted, mate?"

Mitch shrugs, unsure if this apparent sympathy is going to lead to another wind-up.

"It's part of the job, son," Davie says.

"What - making tea and sweeping the floor?" Mitch grumbles before he can help himself.

"And cleaning the shop," Davie grins. "Don't forget that!"

And there is a kindness in his voice, soon reinforced by a gentle slap on the shoulder.

Mitch scowls. Or tries to, but he can feel a smile tugging at his lips.

"But seriously, Mitch," Davie says, using Mitch's name for the first time that day. "You've done well, today."

Mitch looks up but the moment has passed even before he knew it had come.

"Alright, lads," Jim calls out. "It's knocking off time. Sees you all tomorrow morning!"

Mitch grabs his new bag with its now empty lunch-box and makes his way out of the workshop and into the street, heading to his bus-stop.

He doesn't really know what to feel after his first day on the job.

It's not like he was expecting. But it's way better than school.

### RICHARD HARVIE

I am happily based in gorgeous Brisbane but grew up on a series of dusty mining towns in South Africa: a dry fact which explains the need I have to be near the water - the sea, preferably, but a decent river at the very least! Despite being Scottish by origin, I soon found myself as a teenager out of the veldt and in England of all places with its questionable attempt at an education system. Undaunted by the rough and tumble of the English council estate, I succeeded in obtaining a place at St Andrews University in Scotland where I took my undergraduate degree in full Classics. I soon thereafter met my beautiful wife and we both decided emigration to Australia was the most sensible thing to do, all things considered! Having children was combined with a brief stint in the office-bound world of the financial services that soon persuaded me to seek my vocation elsewhere, which I quickly found in teaching mathematics to reluctant and surly teenagers - a surprisingly rewarding and rejuvenating enterprise! This whirligig has ultimately left me with a pressing need to tell stories - a need I intend to fulfil going forward.

The link to my writer's Facebook page is: www.facebook.com/Richard-Harvie-1656185281312416/

### EMBERS OF LIFE

#### by Mary Ann Napper

A blue haze seeped across the valley exuding a faint aroma of eucalyptus. I sat on our balcony to revel in this panoramic view. Surrounded by a manicured garden on a quarter acre block our two storey brick veneer overlooked the Kuringai Chase National park. Every fortnight, Pete, my husband, was a familiar sight in the neighbourhood mowing the lawn with his Victa mower and washing our red Holden station wagon parked in the drive beneath the purple-blue blooms of the Jacaranda tree. Around five o'clock, Pete cooked up sausages and onions on the barbecue while enjoying a cold beer. Magpies with their distinctive black and white plumage and chestnut brown eyes perched on the Hills Hoist clothesline and warbled for morsels. Andrew aged ten and Rosie, eight, played backyard cricket with their friends. This was The Great Australian Dream.

It all changed on the seventeenth of December 1979. Sydney endured one of the hottest driest summers on record. Temperatures soared above one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. A total fire ban was declared and firefighters braced themselves for a horror bushfire season. For six days Pete and I scanned the valley where waving trees and distant plumes of smoke billowed above the forest canopy. Sydney Peppermints, Eucalyptus Piperita, grew on the sides of gullies and ridges. Their tall grey trunks stretched to the heavens like gothic steeples. Narrow bands of straggly Camfield's Stringybark, Eucalyptus Camfieldii, fringed the fire trail at the back of our property. Their creamy white flowers peeped from large glossy leaves. Pete placed his arm around my shoulders. Deep lines etched his suntanned brow.

"Eucalyptus fires travel fast, Jen. Their leaves have highly inflammable oils. The timber and scrub'll go up like an inferno if the wind changes. Those Stringybark are a threatened species and vulnerable in this wild beauty."

Pete's father had been a station officer in the New South Wales Rural Fire Service. He had taught Pete bushfire survival skills which we decided to put into action. I hosed down the house while Pete blocked the drainpipes with tennis balls and cleaned out the gutters before filling them with water. We checked the garage to ensure there were no inflammable liquids stored away. The station wagon was loaded with suitcases crammed with clothes, blankets, favourite toys and photo albums. Christmas Day was eight sleeps away and I managed to hide Santa's gifts discretely in green garbage bags. Rosie shoved her ballet shoes and favourite pink tutu on the back seat as she wiped the ashen grime from her face. Andrew retrieved his tennis racquet, cricket bat, soccer ball and sporting trophies. I helped him to stuff them into the back of the wagon and ruffled the grey ash that flickered through his blond curls.

What I saw filled me with dread as we huddled together on our balcony. A north-easterly fanned a fire across the valley. It was travelling at a rapid speed towards us.

"Those flames must be eighty feet high," said Pete.

Brilliant orange flames streaked above the forest canopy. They licked skywards sucking oxygen into the fire's furious belly. The smell of burning leaves invaded my nostrils and my throat choked with thick smoke. Flying embers blew ahead of the fire and caused spot fires to explode around us. Pete doused them with a hose to kill the smoulders before they flared. The air seeped with sparks and the smell of burning gums. The heat was fierce. My t-shirt clung to my back as sweat trickled down my neck. White sulphur-crested cockatoos fled the fire-filled sky screaming their raucous calls to their flock lagging behind. Wallabies bounded along the fire trail and jumped over our back fence. Sirens wailed. Dogs howled. The chickens clucked in fright. Nanny, Rosie's goat, bleated loudly sensing the impending danger. Bindi, our blue heeler, had disappeared.

"I can't find Bindi," cried Rosie.

"You'll find her in my room under my bed," said Andrew.

An eerie red glow slowly spread across the sky. A state of emergency had been declared and State Emergency Service (SES) personnel arrived to advise us to evacuate.

"C'mon, Jen. You've got to go now," Pete ordered. "There's nothing going to stop this fire. There's nothing in its path it can't destroy. Your mum's expecting you at Stanmore. Wait there until you hear from me."

We piled into the car except for Bindi who cowered and snarled. She refused to cooperate associating the car with visits to the vet. Pete shoved her onto the back seat with the children but not until after he had sustained cuts and abrasions to his arms and hands from her sharp teeth. Pete decided to stay despite the SES advice.

"This home is our lives, Jen. It's everything we are. I've got to stay and try to save it."

I did not want to leave him but I needed to keep Andrew and Rosie safe. I held him tight wishing to say something special but was lost for words.

"What about our hens, the aviary and Nanny," I wailed

"I'll keep an eye on them. At the very worst I'll unlock the aviary and the chook pen. At least they'll have a chance to escape. I'll keep Nanny chained to the front gate. If I have to leave I'll take her with me. You must leave now, Jen."

Black ash rained down as I weaved the wagon through palls of thick, drifting smoke. My eyes, irritated by the ash, clouded my vision. I stopped several times to allow the emergency vehicles, flashing their blinding blue and red lights, to pass.

"Your hands are trembling, Mum, and your knees are shaking," said Rosie staring at me with wide brown eyes. Her beautiful face was dappled with chestnut freckles. Andrew cuddled Bindi and stroked her head which was buried in his lap.

"Why isn't Dad coming with us?" he asked, "The SES told him to leave."

"Is he going to be okay, Mummy?"

I tried to reassure them but they were not convinced.

An hour later we arrived at my mother's house. She welcomed us with icy pops and cool drinks. A leg of lamb was roasting in the oven. I realised then that we had not eaten all day. Throughout the night I lay awake praying that Pete was okay. I tossed and turned and kept the radio on to hear news updates. Early the next morning the shrill ring of Mum's telephone broke the silence. I scrambled to grab the receiver from its cradle.

"Hullo, Jen. It's me."

"Thank God it's you, Pete. Are you okay? I've been sick with worry. I couldn't sleep. What's happened?"

"Our house is safe. We were so lucky, Jen. Just when the fire was expected to jump the fire trail the wind changed direction."

My hands gripped the receiver. I was so relieved to hear his voice. Unbidden silent tears tumbled down my cheeks.

"Dad's okay and our house is too," I shouted to the others.

"Yippee," yelled Andrew as he and Rosie laughed and danced around Mum's kitchen table.

"I've got to go, Jen. The SES have given the all clear for residents to return. You can come home. You'll be shocked when you see the place. There's a lot of cleaning up to do. I'll see you soon."

My muscles shivered and went rigid when I pulled into our driveway. Everything was smoke and ash damaged. Our garden and strawberry patch had been swept into shrivelled ruin. The Hills Hoist had twisted into a blackened pile. The Jacaranda had transformed into a black stump. Pete staggered towards us. His grim smile said it all.

"Yesterday as dusk fell the aviary began to burn," he said. "I released the latch and the birds flew off."

I knew how much Pete loved his white fantailed pigeons and prized cockatiels. They never returned. The fire also gutted the chook pen. Pete had freed the hens but the chicks that were due to make their chirping debut were baked. The hens returned the following day still in shock with ragged feathers.

Later I was told that when the fire roared towards them, many of our neighbours fought with courage and stoicism to save their lives and properties. It was a losing battle for five families in our street. Locals had banded together in our community hall to brew cups of tea and coffee and supply cool drinks to the firefighters. Busy knives smoothed countless loaves with butter, baked beans, cheese and sardine fillings to provide strength-giving snacks to the men and women who were ready to drop from fatigue. I was upset to hear that Forestry Commission officials and police were investigating reports that the fire may have been started deliberately.

On Christmas Eve we stood on the balcony and stared out across the devastated valley. The fire had left a death trail of animal carcasses – charred remains of marsupials, rodents and reptiles. The former idyllic landscape around our property was black and barren. During the day the sky had curdled with lumps of steel coloured clouds. I welcomed the first drops of rain and watched them fall onto the dry grey earth. Their tiny explosions revealed green shoots springing from the forest floor. It took several years for the valley to regenerate and return to its former wild beauty.

"Why do we have bushfires, Mummy?" asked Rosie.

"I really don't know," I mused. "A fire has no mind. It doesn't select to burn some things but not others and it doesn't choose to burn at specific times."

"But, Mum, a fire needs oxygen to burn and we also need oxygen to survive," declared Andrew.

"Yes, Andrew, that's true. If there was no oxygen there would be no fire and no life."

### MARY ANN NAPPER

Mary Ann Napper is the author of Born To Fly, a heartfelt tribute to a boy with autism and to the woman who saved him. Preliminary discussions are underway for adaptation to a television mini-series. The author is regularly invited to speak at local community groups and is working on her next novel, a biography.

Napper is a member of The Australian Society of Authors (ASA), The Fellowship of Australian Writers (FAW) and holds a position on the committee of The Society of Women Writers NSW (SWW).

Mary Ann's web site is

www.borntofly-livingwithautism.com.au

### SIMPLY SIMON

#### by Rosie New

Erica sat idly against the fence post, dreamily twisting a long grass stalk around her index finger, around and around, until it wrapped tightly and turned the first finger joint white. She unwound it and started again. Hearing a distant driving hum, she looked eastwards above the trees in the front paddock, to where a cloud of dust emerged over the top of the hill. Although it was too far away to positively identify the vehicle borne on the billowing dust, she recognized the familiar burbling rumble.

Pushing herself up from the ground, Erica briskly brushed off dirt and leaves from her faded shorts as she walked towards the front gate. Although it was a lively stroll from where she had been dreaming, the afternoon ritual of waiting for the school bus during the last six months had Erica timing it quite efficiently. By the time she reached the gate, the bus was winding up out of the creek crossing, and she knew Simon would be anxiously peering through the bus window. The driver gently slowed the bus, trying to minimize the clouding dust where Erica stood waiting. Simon came quietly down the aisle, descended the big steep steps, and without acknowledging the waiting driver dissolved into Erica's comforting hug. She looked up and waved 'thank you', her smile so genuine, but creased with pain. As the bus pulled back onto its route again, she lifted the school bag off his heavy shoulders and he slipped his hot little hand into her cool one. Erica smiled lovingly upon his worn face, sadly marveling at the mirror image of her pain reflected in his eyes.

Pretending she hadn't seen otherwise, Erica brightly asked, "Did you have a lovely day today?"

Simon looked up weakly, struggling to find some incident in the long school day that was worthy of remembering with pleasure, and said, "Jake brought his tractor set today!"

"Oh! Does he share it?"

Simon hesitated. He was accustomed to being the observer in playground games. "No, but he let me get the water."

"Was he building a dam?"

"No. The sand kept falling in on Jake's hill'n Jake got mad'n said if it fell in once more he'd stick it -"

Erica quickly put her finger to Simon's lips. "Jake sometimes says words that aren't nice. We don't want to say them too."

Simon hardly missed a beat at this interruption. "Well, I just thought the sand was too dry so I filled up my lunch box from the tap and gave it to Jake to make the sand stick!"

"That was a clever idea! Did Jake like it?"

"Dunno. It worked - but Jake never said nuthin'."

"Anything"

"What?"

"Jake didn't say anything."

"That's what I said!"

They walked quietly for a few minutes, Simon had let some of the day's hurt fall off his shoulders, but it only settled down onto Erica's, adding to the burden she already carried. It took every effort of determination to pretend she was happy with their life now out in the country away from disturbing memories... memories which clamoured loudly through the lull in their conversation. Erica cleared the silence by reminding Simon to check the fowl-yard later for any eggs Brownie had laid.

Simon stood outside the fowl-yard, his little fingers engaged in the chicken wire, his forehead pressed absently against the fence. He watched the brown hen, intent for any sign of movement, but she sat as still today as she had sat yesterday and the day before. Simon used to collect her single egg each day, left alone in shell-grit. But three days ago Simon had found Brownie quietly sitting in the laying box, and his attempts to gather the egg from under her warm feathers met with a sharp peck of rebuke. She meant business, and her egg was not Simon's business!

"Oh, she's gone broody!" Erica explained when Simon complained about the hen's strange behaviour.

"What's 'broody'?"

"Oh, she's planning to sit."

Seeing bewilderment wash across Simon's face, his mother gently continued, "She's going to keep sitting on her eggs to keep them warm while baby chickens grow!"

Simon whooped for joy. Chickens! What a clever little hen she was! "Tomorrow?" he asked.

Erica laughed. "Not for a few weeks, Simon. She'll need to sit on her eggs for at least three weeks." Simon groaned.

Two weeks passed, then Simon lost count. He'd gone to the fowl-yard every afternoon to watch Brownie, but it was boring waiting for chickens to hatch. He couldn't believe a hen would sit for so long while nothing happened. What if they never hatched? Would she sit in the box forever? Who would tell her when to get off? Simon was very tempted to forget the whole thing but decided to give Brownie one more chance.

The next afternoon when Simon went to the fowl-yard, Brownie wasn't in the laying box, so he counted four eggs, and one broken egg shell. Simon felt dismayed! But suddenly he noticed the little hen scratching in the dirt behind the laying box, and there beside her was a fluffy yellow chick! Simon immediately squatted down to watch it, his whole body bursting with pride and admiration for Brownie, who was now softly clucking to the chicken. Simon hardly moved, his eyes transfixed, so enthralled that he failed to notice the rooster had come right up close and without warning let fly with a shrieking "cock-a-doodle-DOO!"

It could have been an atomic blast for the effect it had on the small boy! Simon lost his balanced squat and tumbled backwards, startled. The rooster regarded him disdainfully, and Simon shouted at it, releasing his pounding fright, "You dumb old rooster! What'd you do that for?"

The following afternoon when the bus rolled to a dusty stop at Erica's gate, Simon had already run forwards down the aisle and was skipping recklessly down the steps. The surprise on the driver's face brought a softer smile in Erica's customary 'thank you', and she almost dropped Simon's school bag as he slid it off his shoulders, before running up the track yelling excitedly, "Brownie might have more chickens!" Erica's heart was skipping to keep up. They completed their exhilarating race at the fowl-yard fence.

"FOUR!" shouted Simon. "Brownie's got FOUR!" He was jumping up and down, his fingers tightly wrapped into the wire netting, the whole fence bending and shaking with his exuberance. Erica stooped beside him, and he let go of the fence to wrap his arms around her neck. Her smile was the brightest Simon ever remembered seeing, so he pushed back at arm's length to give himself a second look at her face, hardly recognizing the delight flashing brightly from her eyes. Simon buried his entire body into her loving embrace. Erica hugged him as long as his excitement would allow, and when he burst out of her arms she pointed out one last egg still to hatch.

Simon was up early the next morning. As Erica stirred from her sleep she heard the back door bang and her son's voice calling, "Brownie! I'm coming!" Erica smiled to herself. She hadn't seen any joy in Simon's young life for such a long time, and now dear little Brownie had captured his fascination. She rested contentedly a few more minutes before rising to get Simon off to school, but was jolted from her warm dreaminess by his excited yelling and the bang of the back door again. As she had anticipated, Brownie's last egg had hatched, and Simon breathlessly grabbed his mother's hand, urging her to come outside. Together they hurried to the fowl-yard.

The chicken was standing unsteadily in the remnants of his broken eggshell. His tiny body was still moist, feathery down matted wetly together. Brownie stood nearby as he crookedly stepped across the shell-grit, wobbling towards her encouraging clucks. Erica heard Simon breathe an admiring 'aah!' and she almost felt Brownie's clucky-ness herself as she watched this little brown hen adeptly caring for her young brood. The extraordinary aura of the moment shared between mother and son was like beauty and love and happiness and everything good about life inexplicably being life in all its untouchable essence, yet with such reality they felt unable to break away from it.

"I'm going to call him 'Samson'," Simon announced, "cause he's going to grow up big and strong!" Simon reached for his mother's hand, firmly, confidently. He seemed to have suddenly grown taller, Erica mused. As they turned to go back inside the house, they took one more look at the chickens. Samson had fallen over his own little feet, and weary from the effort of hatching, he stayed where he sat, shell-grit sticking to his damp downy feathers.

Erica could hardly understand where the light had come from as they walked together down the track to wait for the school bus. The golden sweep of morning sunshine filtered through the trees, washing across the glistening grassy paddock, but it was more than just early sunlight. There was a freshness, like a long-distant happy memory had suddenly returned, untainted by heartbreak, dissolving the darkness. Not darkness from the night before, but instead of the ominous dark cloud that had oppressed her spirit, there was a glorious hint of hope. All too soon the bus rumbled to a stop at their gate, the dust sparkling in the sunrays. Simon happily bounced up the steps and waved confidently to Erica as the bus pulled away.

With the morning sun warming her back, Erica strolled up the homeward track. She saw tiny purple wildflowers growing beside the fence posts, and bright yellow daisy faces dotted here and there, springing up from the clumpy dirt. The tall cactus which she used to think was obstinately ugly, had a delicate white flower poised daintily on its fearsome thorny flesh. She'd never seen these flowers before, and wondered why. Had they just bloomed, or had they always been there every morning but she never noticed? The question intrigued her. Why, there was beauty all around! She looked back at the warm sunlight glancing through the trees. Oh that she had an artist's touch, to capture this moment on canvas forever!

Simon's afternoons were busily caught up with watching chickens grow. Their fluffy downy bodies soon sprouted tiny spiky buds of feathers, and they did look funny! Brownie scuffled and scratched in the dirt looking for treats for them, clucking, then standing back while they eagerly pecked before the morsel scurried back into the dust. Four chickens, Simon observed, were usually there jostling together, but Samson was too slow, often missing out. Brownie didn't seem to notice, and Simon feared Samson would starve until he saw Samson eating a mash that Erica mixed in the big green dish. Erica had to take care when she entered the fowl-yard, because the rooster had become bolder and more aggressive, and was challenging her entrance to his territory. Simon didn't dare go in there, even though he would dearly have loved to pick up Samson and play with him. The rooster's rush of beating wings and screeching 'cock-a-doodle-doo' warned Simon away, and he started to dislike the big bird intensely.

It was late one afternoon when Simon suddenly realized he hadn't checked on Samson for the day. It was quite amazing how fast the chickens were growing, although they still managed to squiggle under Brownie's wings at night. Simon found that with a bit of careful technique, he could scatter chicken feed across the yard. The first four chickens would jostle together, then Simon would call out "Samson! Chick-chick-chick!" and drop a handful on the ground just inside the fence. Samson quickly learnt to come to his name for his own special treat.

As Simon was approaching the yard, he saw one chicken peck another, and with dismay realized that Samson was bleeding. The fresh blood attracted the other chickens, and they milled around Samson, each delivering a sharp rushing peck.

"No!" screamed Simon. "Samson....? MUM!" Simon began to panic. "Mummy! The chickens are hurting Samson!" But Erica couldn't hear. She was hosing the passion-fruit vine over the front porch, water spraying noisily through the leaves and onto the tin roof. Simon clung to the wire, yelling at the chickens, calling Samson to run to him, but Samson didn't move. He had fallen there, defenseless, as one by one they came at him.

Then the rooster, alerted by the milling throng of chickens, strutted over to Samson. Simon hoped for a moment that the cock bird would chase them all away, but instead to Simon's horror, the rooster beat his wings and rose in the air inflicting a punishing swipe with its spurs. Samson didn't move. The other chickens scattered as the rooster prepared to strike again. Simon realized with fear pounding on his heart that unless he did something, Samson would die.

Casting common sense aside, Simon suddenly reached up and unlatched the clasp on the gate, pulled it open and running in with big leaping strides, yelled at the top of his voice, "You dumb old rooster, get away! GET AWAY!" The bird was poised ready for fight, and leaping forward thrust its spurs towards Simon. Simon screamed at it again, flailing his arms against the rooster's attack, his heart beating so fast with the fearful thought of falling over and being ripped to pieces. Simon ran forwards and quickly picked up Samson, then turned and bolted out of there, feeling the rush of the rooster's wings and a searing pain suddenly etched down his shoulder. He skidded out of the gate and slammed it shut, and could see from the corner of his eye the rooster, feathers all ruffled and fire in its eyes. Simon looked down at the limp chicken in his grasp then fell to the ground, sobbing.

"Samson... Samson... Don't die! I've got you now - you're safe! That dumb old rooster! I hate him!" Simon sat there, holding his chicken, tears running down his face, aware of an intense burning feeling across his shoulder. His legs felt like jelly, and in the pit of his stomach he felt incredibly sick. But as he sat there, he began to feel a swelling tide of love washing over his rescue of Samson. Simon simply couldn't believe he had done such a brave thing, risking his own safety just to save the one cherished chicken that meant everything to him. "Samson?" he whispered.

The chicken's beady black eyes blinked open, as strength returned to its bruised and battered body. Simon's heart leaped with hope. "Samson! You're going to be all right! And even if no one else in the whole wide world loves you, I do!"

Simon stood to his feet, cradling the precious life he risked his own for, his heartache broken by sacrifice, his fear conquered by love.

### ROSIE NEW

Rosie New has held the gift of writing in her heart all her life, always dreaming of publishing but side-tracked by life's challenges.

She and her husband Graeme raised a family of two sons and twin daughters, however the tragic loss of their eldest son in 1999 by suicide brought on Graeme's illness and the subsequent loss of their family business in Central Queensland. It was during this time that Rosie began writing short stories for a Secondary College English Language and Creative Studies curriculum.

Rosie and her husband now live on a rural property in the Lockyer Valley, with Rosie working fulltime in administration for an agricultural machinery dealership. To relax, her hobby is bead-weaving miniatures with exquisite Japanese glass beads.

### TRUE BLUE

#### by Adam Ipsen

Oy! Who are you?

I'm talking to you. Yes, you!

I can see you, you know, standing there on the other side of the fence. You're not someone I recognise. What are you doing around these parts, out in the middle of the bush?

I'm barking these questions at you, you know, but you're not paying attention. What are you looking at -- my Master's farm? It goes on forever! You're not planning anything funny, are you? There's hundreds of cows and sheep here, but you can't have any of them!

Wait a second, are you a city-slicker? You smell kind of different. I'm going to wander up and sniff your leg now. I've got a keen nose, you know; it comes with the job. You know what they say: the nose, knows!

Is that your hand on my head? OH! You know the sweet spot behind my ear and you're scratching it... what was I doing again---? This always happens - a bit of attention to my noggin and I can't stop my tail from wagging. I'm supposed to be protecting the farm!

Oh well, if you're patting my head, you can't be all that bad, right? Plus, I've been barking for a while now and none of my two-legged mates have come running. I'm going to decide to trust you, maybe press my head into this scritching you're doing... wow, you're really good at this--!

Hey, hey! Wanna see something neat? Come over this side of the fence and I'll show you about--! You've made it across? Good, now follow me. I know this place like the back of my paw.

Oh that's right, I haven't introduced myself. Pretty rude, right? I'm Chip. See my ear? It's got a big old chip out of it - that makes me really easy to remember. If you've got any questions, I'm the one to ask. I'm a veteran farm hand around these parts and a whole eight years old. That's ages in dog years!

What's your breed? I'm a blue heeler and border collie cross! Heeler on my dad's side -- I've got his perky ears. I'm pretty sure you noticed when you were scritching them before, right?

I know some two-legged breeds from listening to my Master talk. There's "bloody idiots," but we don't like them too much around here. You don't seem like those. There's "little tackers," but you're too tall. Maybe you're "true blue?" I'm part blue, so we could be related!

... Not that either of us actually look blue, mind you. It's a myth that dogs are colour-blind, you know -- not sure how that rumour got started.

This is where I work, by the way, this whole big paddock that stretches for miles. Have you ever seen a better paddock? This one's full of gnarled trees, stubbly bushes, grassy and dusty patches. There's even a creek that runs alongside it. When I'm not working, I like to roll around in the dusty patches or go for a swim. It's fun, but I get in trouble if I try to come in the house after getting messy. I wonder why?

It's not a big deal anyway, since I'm almost always working. Yup, I'm a real workhorse -- except for the fact I'm a dog. All of us work from the early hours of the morning until late at night, every day. It's a ruff life here on the farm!

A lot of my work is moving cattle from one place to the other. Cows are okay, but they're not as smart as dogs. If they run out of grass, they just stand there and starve. It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen. I'm great at herding those cows and calves about. I'm much faster than they are!

Sometimes those renegade steers and grumpy heifers get ideas about breaking rank, and that's when I nip at their heels and make sure they know who's boss. The two-leggeds help us drove them as well, driving about on four wheel motorbikes and pick-up trucks. It must be pretty rough only having two legs - they've got to make all kinds of contraptions to keep up with us!

I bet you're wondering why we take care of these silly cows all day. It's a big secret, but we look after them so that one day we can eat them! They don't look like much, but they're actually made of steak, dog-food, and bones. Don't let the cows know, though, okay? I'm trusting you!

We've got sheep too, but sheep are even dumber than cows. I'm not sure they have brains at all, but I've never seen inside a sheep's head. Sheep aren't orderly at all, and I'm part border-collie, so I like things in order. When one decides to run, they all decide to run, but they don't give any thought to where. They bash and stumble into each other -- no order at all! None!

By the way, I noticed you're walking in a straight line straight to the farmhouse. I like that. Nice and orderly, no correction needed. I'll just walk alongside you. I've got to escort guests, you know. That, and you're a good head scritcher. You know, some two-leggeds, like those "little tackers," run all over the place just like sheep! I kind of want to nip at them and fix that, but nipping two-leggeds is bad, so I don't. I'm a good dog!

What were we talking about again? Oh, my job! Right. So, I also protect everyone from bad dogs and foxes. Sometimes they try and attack our livestock, because they know our livestock are secretly made of dog food and bones. When that happens, I round up a few of my mates and we chase them off, biting and barking. Sure, cows and sheep are dumb, but they're our dummies! Bloody bludgers, coming in for a free feed. Who do they think they are?

Oh look! We're at the farmhouse already. I'll just wuff really loud and let them know you're here. You just sit down on the verandah -- there's no need to stand! Here, I'll even keep you company. Um... could you scratch behind my ears again?

Thanks! Wow, you're really good at that. Did you take lessons? Do you have a dog? Did you hear that? Oh, wait, no. Don't worry about that noise: it's just my tail beating against the porch.

Oh, OH. My Master is here. Hi Master! This two-legged is a good ear scritcher, did you know--? I bet that's why you invited them here, right? Oh, you're both sitting down on the porch, that's good! I don't even have to move.

You're both having tea? None for me, thanks. I'll just stick to my bowl of water. I'm not a fan of leaves in my water, but you guys go out of your way to drop them in your tiny bowls. It's so weird!

Oh, here comes the Master's missus, and she's got food! Um... can I have some? No, just for the guests? Drat. Maybe if I sit close by, and look at you both for a while with big eyes. That sometimes works.

...Waiting...

...Staring...

...Waiting...

Oh, you dropped some food! I'll get that for you. All cleaned off the deck. Wow, tasty--- they're breaking out all the stops for you!

Is all the food gone? Well, time to lie on the porch. You know, stranger, there's nothing like sitting up here after a hard day's work. A good rest is better when you've earned it, you know?

There's really something special about the feel of the cool evening air. I like the sound of it rustling through the gum trees.

It's kind of... soothing.

... Strewth... having trouble keeping my eyes open... don't want to be rude, but...

... zzz....

... zzzZZZzzz....

... Wait, what was that noise? Did I fall asleep? This always happens after a day of hard yakka.

Oh, everyone's standing up. You're leaving? Let me escort you out!

So, you know, you don't have to leave. You could stay here and work on the farm. We always need good workers around here. And if you're worried about a place to sleep, I could share my basket with you. You're a little big, I know, but we could make do.

It totally has nothing to do with the fact you're a good ear-scritcher.

We're at the fence! You've got a nice ute. Look at the size of that tray. That's not a city-slicker ute. There's hay bale string hanging from the side, and dints and scratches in it. You work with cows, huh? Guess I didn't need to tell you all about them then!

Wait, you're lowering the back? The way you're staring at me, I get the feeling you want something. Should I hop up? You're tapping the back; that definitely means I should hop up. Guess we're going for a ride. I'm game!

Gee, I like hanging out in the tray. You don't have to stick your head out the car door window, since there's no doors. Ooh! There's lots of holes and bumps in the road. It's all I can do to stay still back here. Good thing I've got four legs!

... Wonder where we're going... This is a bit of a ride... Whoa! Did you see that car go past? That went by really fast!

Oh, we're turning off. Onto a bush block, nice. This yours? Guess you're not answering my barks because you're driving. Fair enough. I'll just keep barking so you can listen. Wow, you've got a lot of room to run around. Lots of cows and sheep too!

Wait, where are all the dogs? Mate, you've got all this land, but there's no dogs! The animals are running all over the place. This is a total mess, mate! Someone's gotta do something about this! Oh good, you're letting me off the back. Listen, we've really got to talk about this sheep situation.

Wait, you're telling me I work here now? I mean, you definitely need it. House is nice, too. Big porch. Are those your little tackers? Oh, and a missus too! Look at the size of that food bowl. It's, like, twice the size of my last one, and it's got my name on it. Oh, oh, and it's full of food.

Wow. I'm getting a lot of scritches today. Guess you really needed me. Look, we'll do a trial run, and see how it works out. I can't promise I won't head back. I've got a good nose, you know. But you seem like you could use the help.

Time to get some shut eye. And tomorrow, you and me, we've got to have a serious talk about those sheep.

### ADAM IPSEN

Adam Ipsen lives, sleeps, and breathes writing. A former print journalist, aspiring author, and incurable geek, he lives in the Latrobe Valley with his lovely wife and editor, Sharon, who finds the clickety-clack of his keyboard soothing.

Visit Adam on Facebook:

<https://www.facebook.com/Adam-Ipsen-219166224807973/>

### FINAL RELEASE

#### by E.C. Lutz

Rolling over crumpled sheets, her foot tangled in the small tear, Katie carefully reaches her hand downwards in the blackness to find her foot. Very slowly her fingers search for the place where the material opening is, mindfully sliding the sheet away from her skin. She wiggles her foot and toes, fearful of the noise of cotton tearing. Her breathing softens as she cautiously pulls the torn fabric away from her torso and legs. Free of her covering Katie walks her fingers over the rim of her mat to find the cold hard timber slats. Both hands reach out to find purchase on the timber, lifting upwards to avoid the discomfort of her skin grabbing loose shards of timber. This routine is familiar to her, crawling across the wood, no light to guide her way. The darkness does not nurture fear, more so comfort. Her hand touches cold metal and slides over the smooth surface to find the switch.

Katie knows she is different. Different because she has a tail. Not a long tail similar to dragons, more a stubby continuation of her spine, quite alike to a Doberman. Katie has not always been locked away. She still faintly remembers the time when she was included. Part of family dinners with her step-father and brothers, her mother allowing her to help. Allowed to savour the taste of hot gravy poured generously over her meal. She remembers catching the bus with friends, school awaiting her arrival each day. Books, words and knowledge igniting her brain with pleasure and understanding. Katie's step-father introduced rules when she started school. Rules she struggled to understand but followed in trepidation. The regulations a secret shared only with mother and step-father. Her heart twinges slightly as she allows her brain to recall the horrendous day she forgot. Forgot to wear her thick shorts that disguised her tail beneath her school dress. The same day she fell over, the grazes on her hands less painful than the laughing piercing her ears.

"Look. She has a tail," rings out within the laughter.

At the tender age of seven she was being ostracised by her friends and peers, a lone teacher stepping in to rescue her. Led away solemnly, tears streaming down her face as she led taken to the office. She remembers the smell of cheap perfume, intermingling with alcohol and tobacco as her mother sits beside her in the school office. Sitting quietly in the back seat, still wiping away tears as smoke filters through the car from her mother's cigarette. She senses anger but without understanding why. She is a good student, attentive in class with a fierce ability to recollect. The sense of anger emulating from her mother inviting immense confusion as they travelled in silence.

Sentenced to her room she listens. Listens to the man who arrived to produce two male progeny without tails. The man she had quickly learned to fear and despise as she found herself constantly excluded and pushed away. The divide growing as the boys developed, the youngest starting to vocalise. Lennie, her stepfather, yelled at her mother, crashing and banging of metal and glass accompanying his outburst.

"I've had enough of this," he yells, a large bang resounding. "That kid is a freak and I'm sick of being embarrassed."

"We'll move somewhere else then," her mothers' voice wavering and disjointed.

"We can't just move every time someone finds out," he retorts. "We are moving, but she is not going back to school. Right?"

Following muffled whispering Katie listens as feet shuffle at her bedroom door. Not knowing what to expect she waits and listens as the doorknob moves and clicks. When her doorknob moves the next time, there is no click. More shuffling keeps her body glued to the bed as she anxiously waits. She continues to listen, with the only sounds beyond the intense beat of her heart being crying in the distance. She meekly walks over to the door, with intent to open it slightly enough to gauge where her parents are, but the handle stays firm. The instinct to panic entices her to frantically attempt to move the handle, but no movement follows to allay her fears. Her distressed bangs against the door immediately halted by a bellowing scream echoing through the house.

"Shut up! Shut the hell up, now!" Lennie's voice rings through her head.

Panic resolves to distress as she waits, and continues to wait.

The process of moving is harrowing as Katie cautiously packs her belongings away inside tattered cardboard boxes she will never see again. The need to turn the pages of her favourite books outweighed by the isolation overwhelming her each time she sees her bedroom door closing. The isolation that continues through Christmas and New Year as she waits and listens to the outside world celebrating. That was around the time that Katie dared to argue with her mother. Her mother slapped her pale petite cheek as Katie questioned her as to why she was being locked away. The hurt still intense as she remembers. Remembers the sting of the slap. Memories of the sounds outside that door as furniture scrapes across hard floors. Babies crying, wanting attention. Then the quiet. Crying herself to sleep on the floor of her empty room as she watches the shadows creep across the window sills as day gives way to night. Birds chirp outside to herald a new day, yet nothing to relieve her fear. The intense fear that she has been left behind. Left behind alone as she welcomes the noise of a car engine passing in the street outside. Despair as the wait continues, no sign of rescue from her confinement. Day ticks over to night, the house creaking and groaning her audible companion during the bleakness. Katie wakes to her mother's voice, filtering through the black shadows as she is whisked away through the night.

Light grabs the muscles around her eyes scrunching them close together, before releasing their hold. Back in her small room, bereft of windows, the small clock on the wall, rim cracked and yellowed, slowly ticks beckoning her to look. Light footsteps above her head a signal more vital than ticking, in the obscurity where her ears lead more than her eyes. Harsh clunking of metal nearby alerts Katie to sit up, her heart beating fast in her chest. Not daring to move, she focuses on the timber of the door handle, waiting but not willing it to move. As the timber knob starts it rotation she stays perfectly still never knowing what to expect. This time the woman, she once called Mum, enters the small room, glancing around before putting a bowl on the ragged floor. No words spoken, the woman turns to exit as quickly as she arrives. Katie remembers the time when she used to cry. Cry to herself within the mouldy walls in which she exists. She doesn't cry any more. Sadness replaced by fear and resentment. Katie holds still listening carefully for noises above. Voices sifting their way through cracks in the timber bracing over her head. Repugnance settling uncomfortably in her head as she reminds herself of the people the pitches and tones belong to.

Not knowing how long she has been locked away, Katie only has her memory and imagination to occupy herself between visits. Having lost track of the celebrations passing her by, her only indications being the sound of the voices filtering through. Occasionally food is delivered to her hideaway that evokes hunger instead of disgust. Mostly she is given leftovers, sometimes bread having seen better days, mould finding its way across the edges. Katie sings sometimes, proof she still has a voice. She had a pet mouse for a respectable period of time. Enough time to attach and relate to the living creature interacting with her. Her interactions with Dumbo the mouse evolved into companionship she had so desperately yearned. Dumbo shared her meals and didn't seem to mind if the food delivered was really bad. Dumbo still ate. Dumbo enjoyed laying up close to Katie's face as she slept, her hand gently cradling his body against her neck. Dumbo squeaked at her profusely if she accidentally trod on his tail in the dark, but he always forgave her. When her sole light crackled and popped into obscurity, she squeaked to Dumbo directing him back to her. One day Dumbo stopped visiting, despite her insistent calls and squeaks. Katie continued her wait, but to no avail. She was alone again.

Something is unsettling Katie within her desolation, her senses gathering together in an attempt to uncover this unforeseen change. The odour of smoke reaches her nostrils as they flare open wanting to isolate the smell. It is different from the aroma of burnt toast that invariably arrives cold at her door. Her mind reaches deep into a world almost left behind, her ears picking up a crackling sound, distant but seemingly approaching through the background. Footsteps running above her head. The voices of the two boys desperate and screaming, bangs and scrapes overhead trigger her mind to register danger. Her ears detecting creaking and crackling rapidly approaching, Katie feels a warmth she hasn't felt for a very long time. Not comforting warmth but a heat seemingly intensifying around her with no clear direction. The stench of smoke now filling her nostrils she resists the urge to gag, grabbing her sheet to hold against her mouth and nose. Scratching and groaning straining the timber surrounding her, thick acrid smoke continuing to steal her air space. A large crack nearby, beams and girders collapsing around her. Burning fragments eating at her skin, she starts crawling away from the intensifying noise. Another large fracture reveals light. Still a long crawl away the light offers her hope as she slithers on her elbows towards it.

Free from the restraints of the small room Katie views a light she has not indulged in for a long time. The abhorrence of her situation foremost in her mind, Katie pulls herself up and starts to run away from the acrid smoke billowing out from the remains of her prison. Detecting a new sound above with foreboding she tucks herself in beside a bush. The strange thumping noise overhead continues as she watches a lone possum, fur black and singed padding its paws tenderly across the grass nearby. Thumps continue as she tries to detect other noses around her, the pounding noise so immense she can detect it within her body. Attempting to muster up courage to move from her refuge, she sees the battered possum ahead and bolsters herself to move in the same direction. Flat to the grass she crawls beneath the pounding and thumping. Unease spreads through her being as she slowly pulls herself over grass and burnt twigs in her path. Her ears still struggling to detect beyond the continuous sound she hears voices. She stops still in the grass patch, her arms and legs aching. Her head hurts as quietly rests amongst the intense noise.

A man in yellow appears in her field of vision. Yellow, Katie's mind screams. Yellow like the sun she used to draw in school, but much brighter.

"It's ok sweetie," the man says reaching his large hand out towards her.

Fear consuming Katie's petite body, she lays still just peering at the giant man in yellow.

She feels her body shaking as the man scoops her up, cradling her in his arm as he walks.

"What's your name sweetie?" he questions.

"Katie," she meekly utters, still trembling in her cocoon.

"We have a little girl here," she hears behind her as she is laid across a bed of some type. She can feel the crispness of the fabric underneath her legs, soft and warm against her skin.

"Hi Katie. My name is Sarah."

The voice not familiar to Katie, she extends her range of vision to include the woman speaking in such gentle tones.

"Can you tell me how old you are darling?" Sarah questions.

Katie shakes her head in the negative. Begging her mind to help, but still no answer to give she remains silent.

"Let's get her to the hospital," Sarah orders. "We had no reports of a girl in the house. We'll let the police sort it out."

"You are safe now Katie. We are going to take you to the hospital first, and some nice police officers are going to come to talk with you. Ok sweetie?"

Katie just nods an affirmative, exhaustion setting in as she allows herself to snuggle into the soft material.

Katie doesn't see the headlines in the early morning paper, "Girl Caged in Family Home."

She wakes to find a plate of fresh hot food laid across the tray beside her bed. Her fingers reaching over to touch she feels warmth, and sits herself up. The scent is enticing as she picks up a warm egg in her hand, scooping it into her eager mouth, taking time to relish the taste. Bacon, crisp around the edges but still flexible across the middle, percussion on her tongue. Toast still warm dropping crumbs across her chest.

Having reached the point of sufficiency, Katie lays back and waits, her perception of her surroundings still misgiving. Uneasiness settles within as she slants her head, mentally recording every auditory detail. Providing herself with a checklist she recalls the events since the fire. She is free from her prison, promises given that she will never have to go back, although she still has misgivings. Her mother and step-father are going to be locked away for a very long time, and she doesn't ever have to see them again. She is now eleven which means returning to school – possibly the most exciting fragment of the jigsaw she is attempting to reconstruct. Her two step-brothers, now five and seven will attend the same school, and they will all be placed in a comfortable home together. Last, but not least, Sarah will come to visit – not only after she leaves the hospital, but for as long as Katie wants or needs.

### E. C. LUTZ

Living in Newcastle and playing the role of Mother and Grandmother to three kids and three grandchildren, Christy Lutz is a woman of many skills. At the age of 50, Christy enjoys writing, painting and gardening, decorating her house with a trove of artworks lovingly created over the years. Not only is her house filled with art, but it is also a loving nurturing home to her partner, five felines, a spiralled puppy and two chatty chickens.

Christy was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 1995, however she refused to let her disability hold her back. She worked as a payroll/accounts officer for 8 years until one afternoon she was involved in a traumatic accident sustaining injuries to several parts of her body. Christy used her down time and recovery to write. From this moment she developed a passion and love for words. Now a published author in two anthologies, Christy has also been shortlisted and finalist in a number of competitions, all with the help of her furry friends, much to her annoyance (so she says!)

###  KAY'S WAR

#### by Nola Passmore

Brisbane, Monday 23 January 1967

She writes to me this time every year. "Won't you come up, Kay? It would be ever so good to see you."

I've moved three times, but she still manages to track me down. It's the twenty-fifth anniversary next month and there'll be a lot of fuss. Part of me wants to go, but I'm afraid to see her. I might blurt out what really happened that day and then I'd have to admit it to myself. That her daughter would still be alive if not for me. Mrs P. couldn't live with that. I couldn't live with that. So I hold the letter in my hand and wonder what excuse I'll come up with this time.

*

Darwin, Thursday 19 February 1942

"Kay? Frank said you're poorly. Is there anything I can do?"

I should have known the supervisor would ask Jean to take my shift, but the phone call took me by surprise.

"Just a bit of the collywobbles. Had a rough night, but it's starting to settle."

"I'll come over on my lunch break and see how you're going."

"No," I said a bit too abruptly. "I'm going to try to sleep it off. I'll be right."

There was a pregnant pause. "You're not pulling a sickie to see your Yank friend are you?"

She'd nailed it in one, but I had to keep on the path I'd started.

"You know I wouldn't do that Jean. I just don't want you to catch it, that's all."

"I'm sorry," Jean said. "Just a bit cranky I had to come in on my day off. I'd promised to help Mum with the lunches."

I winced as I thought about Jean's Mum. Mrs P. had been like a second mother to me since I'd been here. She should have left Darwin with the rest of the women, but she'd wrangled a job making meals for servicemen at one of the hotels. I knew they were short-staffed and she could ill afford to do without Jean.

"Tell her I'm sorry," I said. "I'll come in and give her a hand next weekend."

"Better go," Jean said. "Frank's back. Get well." She hung up before I had a chance to say goodbye. I looked at the clock. Just gone 9:00 and the switchboard at the telephone exchange would be jammed with military and civilian calls. Calls I should have put through. But this was no time for guilt. The odd Jap plane had been spotted lately, and Dave could sail any time. Was it so wrong to want to spend the day with him?

I shook off my reservations and went down to the wharf as planned. It was much busier than the last time I'd been there. Someone had told me the American ships had left, but I could see their flags. Dave appeared with a couple of bicycles he'd managed to borrow. He followed my gaze to the harbour.

"The convoy ran into some Japs and had to come back. They're loading more ammo."

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, I couldn't help smiling. Just two weeks with our Navy chaps and Dave was already learning to shorten his words.

We set off along some of the back roads. Most of the shops had closed after the first wave of evacuations, so I'd brought some sandwiches and drinks from home. Not a flash lunch, but we'd make do. The heat radiated off the bitumen and we were dripping with sweat by the time we got to the Botanic Gardens. I didn't delude myself that I was one of the prettier girls in Darwin, but Dave didn't seem to mind. We found a spot in the shade and sculled our drinks.

It was a fluke that I'd met him. He'd been on a U.S. transport ship heading for the Philippines when they were diverted back to Darwin. He would have already shipped out again if he hadn't been seconded to work on a telecommunications project with our blokes. He came into the hotel one night when I was visiting Jean and Mrs P. One look at that lanky frame and broad grin and I was hooked.

Dave wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and propped the empty bottle against a tree. "I won't be able to spend the whole day like we planned, Kay."

"So you'll be sailing out with the convoy?"

"Looks that way. I have to report back at fourteen hundred hours."

I was still trying to translate that into regular time when Dave turned his head. "Do you hear that?"

It started as a soft drone that gradually got louder. Then we saw them. Dozens of planes. "I didn't know that many Yanks were coming," I said as I shielded my eyes against the glare.

"Not Yanks," he said. "Zeros."

He must have seen the blank look on my face. "Zeros. Jap planes. There must be a hundred of 'em. Come on."

He helped me up, then started pedalling back towards town. I was still fumbling with my bike when I heard the first blast, the sound so fierce it knocked the birds out of the trees. Then another explosion and another. They were bombing Darwin.

I don't know how I managed to get on the bike and start moving. My legs were turning to jelly and the planes kept coming. Dave had been out of sight for a few minutes, but when I turned the last corner to head into town, he was waiting for me at an intersection. The colour had drained out of him and he just stood there staring straight ahead. Huge pillars of black smoke were coming from the harbour.

"I've got to get down there, Kay. See which ships they've hit. Stay away from the main streets."

He shot off. I knew he was right, but I was mesmerised by what was going on. I tried to think where the post office was. Did any of those black clouds mark the spot? Then it was silent. An eerie silence.

I headed for town and found Mitchell Street in chaos. The air was acrid and a thick cloud of grey dust gave everything a surreal quality. I felt like an extra in one of those films Jean and I had seen down at the Star cinema. Perhaps one of the dancers in Waterloo Bridge who didn't know what to do when the air raid siren went off. Only this wasn't a movie set. I had to keep going.

I could see the damage before I got to the Esplanade. The corrugated tin roof of the post office was shredded like a matchstick model and the crossbeams on some of the telegraph poles hung in disarray. The telephone exchange was just as bad. I tried to get closer, but the path was blocked. Lumps of concrete, twisted metal, broken glass, timber broken up like firewood. I started to scramble over the debris, but a policeman stopped me. "You can't go in there, Miss. It's not safe."

I stood staring at him for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then I remembered. There was a bunker near the Postmaster General's house. They'd all be there. They'd all be safe. I ran to the spot, but nothing was familiar. There was a crater where I thought the yard should have been. Someone took my arm and I turned to see Roy, one of the postal workers. He was ashen-faced.

"They're gone, Kay."

He muttered something about a bomb landing in the bunker. Nine dead, including the telephonists. But all I could think about was that one of them shouldn't have been there. One of them should have been me.

The next few hours were a blur. At some point I remember seeing bodies being carried out and put on the tray of a truck. I thought of Dave once or twice, but knew they wouldn't let me anywhere near the wharf. I wondered which ships would have burned, which ones would have sunk. Just like Pearl Harbour, I thought. Just like Pearl Harbour.

They were evacuating the rest of the women and somehow I found myself at the train station clutching an old canvas bag of belongings. Then I saw her. Mrs P. was sitting on a bench at the end of the platform, her head in her hands. I wanted to run away, but something drew me to her. She looked up as I approached and came to me at once.

"Oh Kay, thank goodness you're all right." She took my hands and gripped them like she would never let me go.

"I'm sorry, Mrs P. She was doing my shift."

"You can't help it if you were sick, love. You'd have done the same for her."

I pulled my hands away, afraid she'd examine them, see the guilty spots like Lady Macbeth. I made some excuse, something about going to the loo and then I'd be back. But as soon as I was out of sight, I ran. I hitched a ride on the back of a truck with a dozen others an hour later. I didn't know where we were going. I didn't care. I just needed to numb the pain, but it never completely went away.

She's haunted me for twenty-five years and I want it to end.

*

Darwin, Sunday 19 February 1967

I climb out of the train, not sure if I'm doing the right thing. The Darwin humidity whacks me in the chest and I can't breathe. Mrs P. doesn't know I'm coming, but I look at the faces on the platform anyway, almost expecting her to be where I'd left her.

I check into a hotel on the Esplanade. I try to remember where the telephone exchange had been. I try to picture their faces, but the images are grainy, like old photos damaged by light and heat.

A couple of buses are taking people to Adelaide River for the ceremony, the largest war cemetery in the country they say. I want to see it and not see it, in equal proportions.

She's sitting in the reserved area when I arrive. Her hair is greyer and she's a bit rounder, but otherwise the same. I stand at the back, so she doesn't see me until the end. She looks my way and recognises me at once. We go to each other and hug the years away.

She steps back to look at me. "It's so good to see you, Kay. You haven't changed a bit."

I blurt out that it was all my fault, that Jean shouldn't have been anywhere near the telephone exchange that day.

"It was just one of those things," she says. "You can't blame yourself."

I look at those kind eyes, the eyes I haven't looked into for a quarter of a century, and know I have to tell her the truth. "There was nothing wrong with me. I took a sickie so I could spend the day with Dave."

"I know, love. I've always known. At least, I thought I knew. That's why I wanted to see you."

It takes a while for her words to register. Has she brought me here to accuse me, to rub my nose in it? But then she holds out her hands. I fall into her arms and weep like I haven't done since that day. I pour out twenty-five years of grief and regret and anger that has been brewing just below the surface. She strokes my hair until I am spent.

"I'm glad you came, love. I'm glad you came."

********

Footnote: It is true that nine postal workers, including four female telephonists, died during the bombing of Darwin. However, the characters of Kay and Jean are fictitious and not meant to represent any of the actual people.

### NOLA PASSMORE

Nola Passmore's poetry, devotions, inspirational articles, true stories and short fiction have appeared in magazines, journals and anthologies in Australia and overseas. Although she's a former academic with qualifications in creative writing, psychology, and Christian ministry; she's found that you can never underestimate the power of friends, critique partners and mentors in the writing journey. She's a founding member of Quirky Quills and co-leads the Toowoomba chapter of Omega Writers. She and her husband Tim have a freelance writing and editing business called The Write Flourish.

Email: nola@thewriteflourish.com.au

Website: www.thewriteflourish.com.au

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheWriteFlourish

###  GUARDIAN OF THE RIVER BANK

#### by Vicki Winter

We River Red Gums are the stuff of legends. Stoic and dependable. Some of us have been here for nearly 500 years and I count myself among the oldest in this particular stretch of the river. I reckon that gives me the responsibility of overseeing the comings and goings on this side of the river bank which stretches as far as the eye can see out to the east and right down to the bend in the river near the red cliffs to the west.

Not that there's a lot to be done. Mostly things take care of themselves. Those who call this place home have learned to live as nature intended. For some, its up with the sun and then nestling down as the stars come out, with nothing untoward happening from one day to the next. When the stars are out, the nocturnal creatures go about their night time business keeping watch as the kangaroo and wallaby sleep. I just need to maintain a dignified and calming presence.

Here by the river side there are times of complete peace and stillness, when not even the wind rustles my leaves. In the cool of a misty morning, the magpies crystal clear warble can pierce me right through to my heartwood, startling me even after all these years. As the seasons pass, you can be deafened at sunrise or sunset by the screeching of cockies and parrots in your branches and you find yourself wondering how they can stand their own company.

But mostly day after day, the sun beats down and in the searing midday heat there's a hum of insects all around. Eagles silently soar above me while yabbies wallow lazily in muddy shallows at my feet as the old brown river slowly drifts past.

Once in a while however, there are other sounds. Sounds that disturb us. Sounds like those of last summer.

From the chattering amongst my branches one morning, I had gathered that we could expect visitors. Sure enough, in the early afternoon a vessel became visible as it rounded the bend in our river, down near the red cliffs. Slowly and tentatively the houseboat made its way up towards our peaceful sanctuary, revealing its monumental proportions as it grew closer and a number of decks could be seen.

Within an hour of sighting our immaculate and grassy bank, this huge houseboat had negotiated the currents and shallows to moor itself right in front of us.

To be honest, in spite my misgivings, I didn't mind it at first. It was a rare and sweet sight to see little kids running across the grass chasing a ball and a joyful sound as they splashed and laughed in an inflatable boat in the lagoon behind me. Later that night there was a soft glow from the deck and the sound of quiet conversation as the BBQ sizzled. A light smoke drifting up through my branches was almost soothing and we somehow felt proud to share our peace with this houseboat of visitors.

It all seemed like a minor disturbance, but alarmingly, next morning they were joined by another equally large houseboat and then another later in the day. I began to sense trouble as the number of visitors trebled with no obvious signs that they had plans for moving on.

I couldn't complain about the kids showing their discoveries in our surroundings with those newly arrived. They were all in wonder at the lagoon, the insects and the birdlife. And I couldn't complain as I heard one adult after the other exclaim that our stretch of river was like paradise. But I was not at ease.

It was on the second night that events took a disturbing turn. By late in the evening, the kids still ran around on the grassy bank squealing and laughing as they played hide and seek. Floodlights lit our grassy bank, undergrowth was trampled and litter dropped without a care. It was however, nothing compared to the sounds from the deck of the largest of the house boats. The racket of raised voices and loud music became riotous and frightening.

I tried to maintain my dignity in the face of this unwelcome presence, watching in shock as some of the old branches at my feet were carried off and set fire to by a group of teenagers. Their parents were no better behaved as bottles and food scraps were being thrown into the river at this stage and an oily smear of boat fuel and waste water had begun to lap at our feet.

The next day brought additional horror of two noisy jet skis which raced up and down the river in front of us and there was the prospect of another wild night to consider.

By now I had received countless messages of alarm, from the Murray cod who was usually content to tickle amongst my submerged roots, from the possums living in my knotholes and the wallabies who usually loved to nestle and feed in my shade. They were all frightened beyond reason. The birds kept their distance as did any other wildlife that could abandon their home.

By nightfall of the third day, I was recovering from the absolute shock and humiliation of a sharp knife piercing my bark as I endured the carving of a love heart and initials by the only two gentle souls I had seen in the group. To think that I had offered them shade from the sun at high noon and seclusion in the early evening, having listened with a warm heart at their gentle words to each other. If I had only known.

It was obvious something had to be done. I conferred with my Red gum brothers and then delivered my decision of the only course of action left to us. Approval was unanimous. It was down to me.

At first light after that third evening, as the revellers still slept, I released the huge branch which stretched out and over the two jet skis left carelessly at the riverbank. There followed a loud and protracted cracking as it slowly fell towards earth to be followed by a satisfying and thunderous thump.

As the dust settled it could be seen that my branch had fallen across both jet skis pinning them to the ground. Thin metal was ripped and crushed, Perspex smashed and upholstery was torn, while other parts bent and twisted under the magnificent weight.

The chaos and panic which ensued was not pleasant to see, as people appeared on deck in various stages of their night time undress. Shouts and orders were issued by the one individual who looked capable of taking charge of this unruly crowd of vandals. Women screamed for their children sleeping around the still smouldering campfire on the grassy bank. Children rushed screaming into the water and struggled out to the nearest houseboat, where some clambered gasping and crying onto the rear deck. Fathers leapt into the river to save the less capable.

When it appeared that everyone was safe and a semblance of peace was being restored, I released another branch for good measure, helping to maintain balance for myself and confirming without doubt the danger of camping near River Red Gums.

All three houseboats were quickly manoeuvred to a safe distance, away from the danger of further falling branches and as the chaos settled for a second time, plans were made for the retrieval of the crushed jet skis.

I have no idea of the forethought or planning behind the appearance of chainsaws and shovels which were soon put to use removing the jet ski ruins. Maybe someone had thoughts of making a more permanent mooring for future houseboats. I shudder to think at this possibility but feel that it confirms the need for taking such drastic action.

As the chainsaws cut through wood that had taken years to grow, issuing forth smoke and foul smelling fumes in their ear shattering efforts, I can only thank the brown snake and river snake, who had been emboldened by my actions and against all instincts saw to it that the workmen were well and truly frightened of spending one moment more in our paradise.

The only sensible actions, for which I am truly grateful, were performed by the lovelorn teenage boy and girl who unceremoniously dumped buckets of oily river water onto the remains of the smouldering campfire and daringly collected plastic and paper rubbish from the undergrowth.

The group had left by midday, no doubt to wreak havoc on some other section of riverbank. We wished them good riddance as we took stock of the damage their mayhem had caused. Thankfully the peace and quiet was restored to our paradise that same day, but it was not until a week later, with word having spread that it was safe to return, that normal life began to resume.

The grassy bank would recover in time and I was missing two magnificent branches for those noisy cockatoos to screech from. But honestly who would mind, as quieter tenants in the form of possums are planning to take up residence in the newly formed knot holes.

And surprisingly we have found great joy in the companionship and reassuring solidarity shown amongst our community here at the riverbank. Peace and tranquillity is restored.

********

_Guardian of the River Bank_ received an honourable mention in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### VICKI WINTER

Apart from a 1950's childhood wish to be able to write stories, Vicki waited until the year 2000 before she did a creative writing course with the WEA in Adelaide. The resulting short story "Rescue" won a pleasing 2nd Prize in the Mini Story section of the Hastings Regional Literary Competition that same year. A keen observer of life and its circumstances it seems there was a wealth of untapped stories tucked away, until early retirement in 2013 brought the opportunity to give them voice when Vicki joined the Reynella Writers Group. Born in Glenelg South Australia, Vicki now lives further south of the city with her husband and beloved Italian Greyhound.

### MISS ELLIOT'S NEW DRESS

#### by Richard Stone

Beverley asked her two North Goulburn primary school year three class friends, Wendy and Yvonne, what they were going to give their teacher, Miss Elliot, for her birthday. The girls were playing in Wendy's house located next door to Beverley's. Wendy produced a boxed mirrored hairbrush and comb set. The set was inlaid with mother of pearl making it a present of great beauty, particularly as the collection lay in a bed of shiny white satin. Yvonne scuttled across the road to her house and returned with a leather bound anthology of Jane Austen's stories. Impressive colour illustrations accompanied the stories.

"Can I have a look?" queried Beverley.

"No. Mum said nobody was to touch this book because somebody might soil it," she said.

"Whadya you goin' to give Ms Elliot?"

"Dunno. Got to talk to Mum about it."

"Well you'd better hurry her birthday is next Tuesday you know."

"I know!"

A familiar voice called,

"Beverley. Tea time."

During their meal Beverley asked her mother, Clare, what they could buy for Miss Elliot. Her mother replied,

"I've got something special. I'm sure Miss Elliot will love it. Let's do the washing up first and then I'll show you."

Her mother produced a white handkerchief encased in a plasticised covering,

"Look I've sown a lovely lace border around it and crocheted Miss Elliot's initials into the corner."

Beverley was mortified.

Clare Hurrell was adept with needlework and any manner of housekeeping. She needed to be. There was little income for her. Her husband was terminally ill and he needed to spend time in the local hospital on a regular basis. He had contracted a work-based disease for which he now received a modest pension. She had an eleven-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter to care for. Frugality was the catchword in her life.

Beverley was a gifted musician. She was considered a musical prodigy playing the piano. Beverley had often travelled from Goulburn to Canberra and Sydney to eisteddfods accompanied by nuns who considered her their star pupil. She always won her section with glowing reports of her capability and future potential.

Beverley was baptised an Anglican and attended the local public primary school. Finding the teaching fee for Beverley's music lesson was a real burden for Clare. The nuns were aware of the straitened family circumstances and would have allowed Clare a little leeway. But Clare was a proud woman. She knew that in a fifties small country town, others would soon know of the charity. This, she could not countenance. Clare took in washing and ironing to supplement the household's meagre funds.

"But Mum," Beverley chided, "you should see what Wendy and Yvonne are giving Miss Elliot!"

"Well, I can't help that. They haven't got a sick husband in hospital. Money doesn't grow on trees young lady." And more conciliatory, "Beverley, Miss Elliot will appreciate any gift no matter how expensive."

Beverley accepted the scolding but not the advice. That night before sleep overtook the little girl, she plotted. There was a mutual liking between Miss Elliot and Beverley, her star pupil. Miss Elliot was thrilled with the attention and diligence Beverley displayed under her classroom tutelage. The teacher was also amazed that one so young was so musically gifted. Beverley adored Miss Elliot and would eagerly perform any task Miss Elliot so commanded.

Beverley's plotting involved the fact that Miss Elliot was about the same build as her mother. Beverley had admired the dress Clare had saved for over many months and which was to be worn to the Christmas Day service at St Nicks (St Nicholas, North Goulburn) in a few months time. The dress was light blue with pink and grey swirls. There was a matching thin belt to accentuate the waistline. The buttons up the front matched the material of the dress. This stylish garment, Beverley envisaged, would be the present for the divine Miss Elliot. It only remained that the dress be removed, folded and secreted close to the following Tuesday, that grand day of Miss Elliot's birthday.

There was a house rule that wrapping paper be carefully removed from various Christmas and birthday presents. Such savings were neatly placed in the linen cupboard. Camphor was strategically positioned to protect the paper from the gnawings of silverfish.

On the Monday evening prior to Miss Elliot's birthday, whilst her mother was chatting over the back fence to their next door neighbour, Mrs Taylor, Beverley stealthily extracted suitable paper to wrap the present. She likewise extracted the gift-to-be, wrapped it lovingly and carefully placed it into her school case. That night, she could barely await the coming birthday morning.

"Bye Mum. I'm off now. See ya." Beverley cried hurriedly.

"What about a kiss for your Mum?"

Beverley twirled about and flung a kiss to her mother's cheek.

"Oh, sorry Mum."

"Hold up silly Billy! You've forgotten Miss Elliot's present." Clare admonished as she handed the wrapped lace hanky to Beverley.

"Now put it in your case."

Beverley hesitated; she was about to reveal the contents of her school case.

The doorbell rang.

"Oh that'll be Mrs Rogers dropping of her ironing. Off you go my girl."

"Talk about saved by the bell." Beverley breathed inwardly as she stuffed the wrapped boxed handkerchief in with the Miss Elliot's other gift.

"Bye Mum. Bye Mrs Rogers." She giggled as she swept past her mother and visitor.

"Well someone is a happy little vegemite today."

After the bell sounded indicating the beginning of their school day, most of Beverley classmates were gathered around their teacher near her desk. One by one, they handed a card or a gift or both to their teacher also offering a "Happy Birthday Miss Elliot." Each one waited patiently while the teacher read a card and opened a gift,

"How lovely, Walter." And, "What a beautiful book, Yvonne." were typical of her expressions of gratitude.

Beverley held back to be the last presenter. She handed her gifts to Miss Elliot. She waited expectantly and a little apprehensively. The teacher read the accompanying card and smiled towards Beverley. She then removed the wrapping from the smaller of the two gifts,

"Oh, Beverley.' She exclaimed, "Such elegant crochet work, it's so beautiful."

By now most of the class were seated and could view the final opening. Miss Elliot carefully removed the wrapping to reveal the dress. Miss Elliot held it in front of her. Gasps from her classmates revealed that this offering was easily the most significant of all.

"Beverley, this dress is gorgeous! And, it looks to be my size. How did you know? Are you sure your mother wanted me to have it?"

A coy reply with a beaming smile, "Yes Miss Elliot. Mum picked it out herself."

Johnnie Robertson yelled from the back of the class, "Gees you're 'sposed to be poor Hurrell! How do youse afford that?"

"Now John, that's enough thank you." And turning to Beverley, "Are you really sure I'm to have this dress?"

"Yes!" replied Beverley emphatically, "Mum saved up especially."

After a few moments of hesitation, "Well I'm most grateful, Beverley. Please thank your mother for me."

During the mid-morning break her two neighbours shunned her after Wendy pithily stated, "You're just a show off. Now you think you're so good".

Followed up with further invective by Yvonne spitting, "Teacher's pet! We're not playing with you!"

Beverley was attuned to the three way spats the friends endured but usually only for a short time.

"See if I care."

Thrill of thrills. After the mid-morning break Miss Elliot arrived in the classroom wearing her new dress. Beverley was ecstatic. Miss Elliot looked so lovely. The day's lessons continued.

There was a knock on the door and a familiar face appeared around the doorjamb tentatively asking,

"Excuse me Miss Elliot, I'm here to take Beverley to the dentist."

Beverley froze as her mother was beckoned into the classroom.

"I admire your taste Miss Elliot. I have a dress just like yours. We'll have to be careful that we are not seen together when we wear them." Clare laughed.

Now Beverley grasped her head tightly with both hands as if to squeeze the scene out of existence. In the excitement of the day, she had forgotten about the dental visit.

Stunned silence from Miss Elliot, then a look of realisation passed between the two women,

"Oh dear. Oh dear. Children turn to page 25 of "Little Women" and continue quiet time reading. Could I see you in the hallway please Mrs Hurrell?"

Miss Elliot closed the classroom door halfway so as to keep an eye on her charges but to mask a plaintive, "I feel such a fool. I should have realised. I'm so sorry Mrs Hurrell."

"Never mind. Leave the matter to me. I'll speak to Beverley about it later."

"We must hurry along, Beverley otherwise we'll be late for your appointment." And so, mother and daughter quickened their pace to travel the two kilometres to the dental surgery. No mention was made of the dress incident.

Days passed. Home life was normal. It seemed mother had placed the memory away. In gratitude, Beverley was ever attentive to her mother and helped her by performing tasks beyond her usual chores. Anyway, other than the protagonists, no one was any the wiser. Within just a few days, the girls were play friends again. Miss Elliot's birthday was forgotten.

After the next Sunday lunch, and the departure of her brother to a friend's house, as mother and daughter washed up Clare softly asked, "Beverley why did you think it was necessary to give Miss Elliot an expensive present?"

Tea towel in hand and with downcast eyes and a reddening face Beverley replied, "Well Mum I like Miss Elliot so much and I knew some of the others were going to give much better presents than a hanky."

"I can understand all of that. But what really matters is what is your intention. You've heard the saying, 'It's the thought that counts'?"

"Yes Mum."

"What does it mean do you think pet?"

A pause.

"It means that when you give somebody something, like a present, it's what's in your heart that matters."

Clare added, "It also means you give what you can afford and what is yours to give. If the other person is genuine they will appreciate your gift no matter its value."

"I'm so sorry Mum."

"I know you are darling. Give me a hug."

The dishes and cutlery now cleaned and safe in their places of abode, Mother cheerily declared,

"Come on let's go for a walk to the hospital to see Dad. After that, we've been invited to watch a movie on Aunty Audrey's new television."

On Christmas Day, Clare wore a new dress. The dress was light blue with pink and grey swirls. There was a matching thin belt to accentuate the waistline. The buttons up the front also matched the material of the dress – a very stylish garment.

### RICHARD STONE

I spent part of my youth in Australian Dickensian Boys' Homes and later with a brutish stepfather. I joined the RAAF at age 15 for 23 years and eventually received a Queen's commission. I am a veteran of the Vietnam War era. I later worked in a logistics role at the Australian National University, Canberra and as a part time TAFE teacher.

In 2001, I cofounded a voluntary support and welfare centre for all Australian veterans. The centre is located within NSW City of Queanbeyan RSL Sub Branch.

I live in Canberra with my wife, Beverley. We have a married daughter, Danielle, who also lives in Canberra.

### THE GARDEN

#### by Vivian Sackett

Looking at the passing cars nothing seemed out of the ordinary - the same traffic that passed here every day. Car. Car. Car. Same. Same. Same. It was almost mesmerising. Maybe that's what went wrong, why I didn't notice the little, red hatch-back. I was waiting to cross the road, like I did every day. The office building where I worked looked at me with its dull, blank eyes. I thought about the monotonous, boring day ahead. I was late. It looked as though there was a break in the traffic. The opportunity to cross the road was there. I took it. The red hatch-back shrieked at me, became one with me. Then silence, an absence of sensation. Nothingness. Soon enough, unbearable pain replaced the nothingness. Ambulance officers scraped me off the road, took me to hospital.

Then followed a year of rehab and a moment when I realised that my legs would no longer be of any use to me. Misery was my only emotion, my constant companion. Nothing brought any joy. My mind was bogged in a puddle of wet, sticky mud. You would think that getting out of hospital would be a cause for celebration. For me, it wasn't. The joy on the faces of my friends and family was erased by the gloom that I seemed to carry with me. Soon people stopped coming to visit me, to try to cheer me up. I became pretty much alone, a hermit surrounded by people. My mother felt unable to help me. Every one of her suggestions was met by a wall of silence from me. I knew I was hurting her but I seemed to be unable to shake the stubborn silence that enveloped me. Most of the time, she just stood, helplessly wringing her hands. Eventually, my mother sought solace in her garden.

Salvation for both of us arrived in the form of the whirlpool of life that was my mother's garden. She loved her garden and worked in it tirelessly, planting, pruning, propagating. It loved her back, growing lush and green under her caring touch. The garden was like an oasis for the multitudes of birds and other creatures that used it. The birds came in droves - the large and the small, those who were colourful, parrots, dressed in their finery and those like the sparrows, who were more casual, little, grey and unassuming. It was surrounded by neatly manicured lawns, kept neat by my poor brother who was reluctantly persuaded to perform mowing duties, and watered by sprinklers that squirted lazy circles of water into the air. Paths meandered through the garden and ended at strategic viewing points. In one corner of the yard was a "wishing well," not a real well, but the outline of one, fashioned from a circle of craggy bush-rocks stacked one on top of the other. You didn't know it wasn't a real well until you walked up to it and peered over the edge, fully expecting to see deep, ancient waters, covered by a layer of duck-weed, and seeing instead, more of the neatly manicured grass that covered the rest of the lawn. The well was completed by a wooden frame, from which dangled an old, timber bucket. In another corner of the yard was a clump of tea-trees. Each year they blossomed and the branches were filled with bees humming their sonorous hymn to summer. Our house opened onto the garden, large glass doors, looking at the lawn like giant eyes. Each day my mother positioned me at these doors, sitting motionless, emotionless, in my wheelchair and there I stayed until the encroaching twilight made it hard to see anything clearly and the birds had retired for the night.

In pride of place, right in the middle of the yard, sat an ostentatious birdbath. It was ornately decorated with models of smiling cherubs and ceramic vines that wrapped around its stem. Cherubs look quite naughty to me, so I don't understand why you would decorate something with models of them but who am I to question my mother's taste. The birdbath was always populated by thirsty birds. The birds squawked at each other, fought for the best positions, the spot that would give them the best access to the bath's cooling contents. They dived in, washing the dust from their feathers, the thirst from their parched mouths. They splashed. They preened themselves. They covered themselves in tiny droplets of water that acted like prisms in the sunshine. Refreshed, the birds flew on.

Some of the birds have not come far. Bushland is close to the house and noisy lorikeets came calling often. They arrived in large, green groups and anyone else who was having a drink, was forced to move on. They drank the water greedily. Their thirst quenched, they moved on to the grevilleas in the yard. Grevillea nectar is sweet, intoxicating. The grevillea branches bend low, laden with lorikeets, blossoms and bees. Still other birds have come from surrounding concrete-covered suburbs, where fresh water is not easy to come by. Each year, the summer heat comes throbbing over the fence and the birdbath provides the only relief. The birdbath is something cool in the hot, thirsty lives of the sparrows who visit daily.

Frequent visitors to the birdbath were a family of magpies. At first, only two adult magpies arrived. They coolly watched me with indifferent, yellow eyes. I wasn't a threat to them, so they casually went about their business. They were soon accompanied by two squawking chicks. The chicks were scruffy, wearing the remnants of fluffy, grey down. They couldn't fly, nor could they find food for themselves. Instead, they sat in the grass and screeched raucously while their parents looked for a tasty tidbit that their offspring would like to eat. The screeches increased in volume until a worm or insect larvae was deposited into a waiting mouth. Foraging for food was a full time job for these devoted parents. Gradually the baby down on the chicks was replaced by shiny, black, adult feathers. The chicks learned to fly, short distances at first, later, up onto the fence. Before long, the chicks were finding their own food and they were no longer dependent on their parents. Finally, the day came when the chicks flew to the top of the fence and launched themselves into the unknown beyond. I felt a real wrench as I watched them go. It seemed unfair that they could launch themselves into the freedom that lay beyond the garden fence while I, clumsy and ungainly, sat tethered to the Earth on this side of the fence.

One morning, I felt motivated to push myself out the door, onto the path and up to the fence that separated the garden from the outside world, a world that I had not visited since I left the hospital. With some difficulty, I pulled on the fence until I was in a position where I could see the world outside the yard. Everything seemed to be brighter than how I remembered it. I squinted and held my hand up to protect my eyes from the light. For the first time in a long time, I felt excited. My heart hammered in my chest. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I took a deep breath and really looked at the world outside, a world I was willing to rejoin. It was time I "left the nest."

Early the next morning, I took up my usual position by the back door. My mother must have sensed that today was different from all the other days that had gone by. "What are you going to do today?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much," I answered. "I'd just like to sit near the fence today. I want to see the people going by." She opened the glass door and I wheeled myself to the fence. Once again, I positioned myself so that I could see the world outside. There were people going about their daily business: some were going to work, still others were walking their dogs, while others were picking up their newspapers from front lawns. These were unremarkable occurrences in themselves but to me, they were wonderful. It was as though I had woken from a deep sleep and I was seeing these things for the first time.

Every morning, after breakfast, I made my way over to the door to the garden and waited for my mother to let me out. As soon as my mother opened the door, I dashed outside, like an eager puppy, and I took up my usual position by the fence. There I sat, trying to reacquaint myself with the life of my neighbourhood. The garden seemed to breathe its lifeforce, its vitality into me . I watched my street and I didn't want to miss a moment. Of particular interest to me were the people walking their dogs along the length of the garden fence. They became like a favourite TV progam, safe, predictable. First each morning was an elderly gentleman walking his bull terrier. The little, roman-nosed, muscular dog seemed to be walking the man and not the other way around. They always shuffled by each morning, closely followed by a perfectly coiffed poodle with its equally hairsprayed owner. Next came a fluffy dog of doubtful heritage and its track-suited master. Then came a young man walking his well-behaved and beautifully groomed German Shepherd. Finally, rounding out the procession of hounds came the puffing but determined bulldog with its equally puffing but determined middle-aged lady owner.

At first, the people walking their dogs did not notice me sitting by the fence. Their dogs gave me a perfunctory sniff and moved on. Eventually the owners noticed me and started to give me a friendly smile and wave as they passed. They all saw that I was in a wheelchair but did not feel it was relevant to the moment of friendship, familiarity we shared. Gradually I moved away from the fence. I had not noticed that I was doing it, but I was hugging the fence like a security blanket. I took a deep breath and moved myself so that I was in clear view of everyone who passed by. I put myself into a position of vulnerability but I wouldn't gain anything unless I was willing to risk everything. "After all, what have I got to lose?" I asked myself.

Surprisingly, the German Shepherd began to come over to me to demand a pat. It wriggled with pleasure as I scratched it behind the ears. It wagged its tail enthusiastically. The young man on the end of its lead looked intently at me. "I think my dog likes you," he said "That's strange. He doesn't usually like strangers."

"We aren't really strangers," I replied with a smile. "He knows I've been sitting here for quite some time." The young man waved and continued on his walk.

I felt lonely as I was left behind and I watched them disappear into the distance. It was like the situation with the baby magpies, all over again. Every now and then I saw the German Shepherd turn to see if I was following. The dog's disappointment was echoed by my own, as I stayed firmly rooted to the spot by the fence. The garden always made me feel better at times like this, times when my feelings got the better of me. I turned the chair around and lost myself in the garden's healing green.

"Well," my mother asked when I returned at the end of the day, "did you see anything interesting?"

"No, nothing exciting," I answered. "What's for dinner? I'm starving!" My mother's eyes widened in surprise. I hadn't shown enthusiasm for food for quite some time. I hadn't shown enthusiasm for life for some time either. The garden had almost healed my soul, if not my body.

Early one morning, my mother came into the end room, where I was sitting. She was smiling. "There's someone here who would like to meet you," she said. Behind her, stood the young man with the German Shepherd. "The girl on the other side of the fence," he stated. "I was hoping we would meet properly some day. I'm David."

"Perhaps you'd like to see the garden from this side of the fence," I suggested, gesturing toward the neatly tended lawns.

The garden beckoned. We went to the open back door and moved out onto the familiar paths. The garden had been my home for some time now. It surrounded me in its protective arms and like a new parent seemed to give me an encouraging push, willing me to take a few tentative steps. I felt secure and the saying "nothing ventured, nothing gained" came to mind. As we moved through the garden I began to talk. I felt that I needed to explain myself and for some reason, I felt like I could trust David completely. After all, I had watched him through the fence for a long time. I told David about the accident. I told him about my misery. I told him about the garden. And I told him that I felt ready to leave the garden's comforting security. He didn't say much, just nodded in understanding.

"I've only just met you," I told him, "but I feel like I've known you forever." He nodded in agreement. His dog put its head on my lap as though telling me that it understood too. I stroked its furry cheek.

"Shall we go for a walk outside?" asked David. I nodded. We left the magical, safe surroundings of the garden and went back to the house. There was one more obstacle I had to overcome before I would be able to rejoin the human race. It loomed large and frightening at the end of the hallway: the front door. It was a simple timber door that opened out onto the front yard. To me it may as well have been built of brick. It was impenetrable, immovable.

"I can't do it," I said, my resolve wavering.

"I'll help you," David said. "I'm right here."

He opened the front door and stood back so that I could get past. I moved into the open doorway and took a deep breath. Like the baby magpies, I launched myself into the unknown beyond.

### VIVIAN SACKETT

I was an English teacher for 20 years, in a western Sydney high school. I am retired now and I decided I should "practice what you preach." And here I am ...

### THE RIVER MOUTH

#### by Sas Lawrence

I love it when the weather explodes. I love it 'cause it's a reminder that we're all just humans and those adults (and big brothers) who think they're in charge, and all bossy about it, really aren't. Raindrops fall so heavily they bruise Mum's lettuces in the veggie patch; hail so loud it even drowns out Edwina the chatterbox's drone; thunder that suddenly booms through the classroom making the windows rattle in their frames; lightening so electric that Oscar's crazy afro stands on end. It slows the town down but winds us kids up. I feel bad for the people whose homes get wet and for the dogs who get lost when they turn crazy in the storms but I don't mind the drama it creates and all the usual things being put on hold until the weather event wears itself out.

After the third day straight of heavy rain and the third day straight of watching movies, and the third day straight of cleaning out Mrs. Guilder's dusty cupboards and storerooms, the weather had started to settle down. Lucy and I, along with the majority of Year 6, knew what this meant – the river mouth was calling. Calling louder than the thunder claps.

"I'm itching for the bell to ring. How much longer do we have?" I asked Lucy, my bestie, as I looped one paperclip into the next one from the pile I had 'borrowed' from the storeroom.

"Four minutes aaaaand thirty eight seconds. I'm excited but kinda scared too you know?" Lucy quietly admitted, not looking at me while absentmindedly graffiting on her ruler.

We could hear other kids on the table next to ours discussing their own strategy on how to get to the river mouth the fastest.

"We'll be fine and the others will be down there with us." I reassured her. Was that a good or bad thing? I wasn't completely prepared to embarrass myself in front of Todd and the others but it made me feel better knowing they'd be there too. Actually, what was I worried about? Todd had seen me do some of the dumbest things ever and had in fact been right there beside me during most of them. Our mums had shared a room in the hospital where we'd been born a day apart. I was older, ha! Like our mums, Todd and I had lived out of each other's pockets ever since.

The bell finally rang. Lucy and I raced each other to the bus line. The bumpy trip home seemed to take extra long and knowing that the kids who got off the bus before us had a time advantage was killing me. My impatient legs jigged up and down like a sewing machine arm. My palms were sweaty.

"Ok, dump and run got it?" Was my command as the bus neared my stop and I gathered up my bag.

"I gotta ring Mum at work first and let her know, so wait out the front of yours and I'll ride by as soon as I can." Lucy said with a smile as wide as Mrs. Guilder's broad bottom.

"Check. See you soon" I matched her smile and jumped down the bus steps.

*

I leaned forward to rest elbows on bent knees. Digging down deep into the sand my bare toes searched for the warmer, dry sand grains. Raindrops trickled down my chocolate brown fringe, falling and then landing with a dull 'plop' into the saturated sand below; each drop making its own tiny crater. The icy drops that slid down my neck were instantly absorbed into the black neoprene of my wetsuit. Next to me, in an identical outfit, Lucy shivered. I wasn't cold though. My excitement kept me warm on my seat of foam - my brother Hugh's hand-me-down boogie board that probably belonged at the tip. I didn't intend to give it up anytime soon though, it was my transport out there in the water and I cherished it.

"What do you think? Can we do it Willow?" worried Lucy.

"Course we can" I said with more bravery than I felt. I continued staring straight ahead, undecided. After all that rushing to get down the beach we sat still, searching for courage.

The north end of our beach is a headland with fallen boulders of all sizes making up its base. Just before the headland, on the land side, is a lagoon. Usually we'd walk across the sand to climb on the boulders after school. But when there was a weather event like this one and it didn't stop raining the lagoon would fill up and up and up until its edges lapped at the back doors of the houses along its bank. At about this time all the grown-ups would go a bit crazy (like the dogs) and soon after, an ancient, rusting yellow digger would be sent to carve a channel between the fresh water of the lagoon and the salt water of the sea.

"Hugh was lucky, he got to watch them open the river mouth this time," I jealously whinged to Lucy. "I reckon he knew they were gonna open it on Tuesday and pulled a sicky on purpose. Can't believe Mum fell for it. So not fair." The occasion was a highlight and it was a pretty cool thing to witness the first gush of water flow out through the new path made by the digger. That was more than 24 hours ago and still the brown stain of lagoon water that had travelled out of the river mouth and into the sea, hadn't yet mixed in. It smelled kinda gross, like dirt, but fresh at the same time.

"I don't get how there can be waves in the river mouth" said Lucy trying to understand the appearance of waves on what used to be our path across the sand; or maybe she was making chit-chat to avoid the purpose of us being here, in the rain.

I looked up and out to the angry sea. The waves out there were messy and churned up. Then I looked closer, to the smaller waves in the new opening.

"Well Dad says that its cause there's a whole lotta water in the lagoon that wants to escape into the sea and its all trying to get out through the same skinny gap. Look." I said pointing. "The river mouth's not really very wide yet and there's so much water fighting to get out that it's made those little waves." I thought I sounded very clever as we watched the kids who had made it to the beach before us, bravely surf the channel's waves on their boogie boards. They were mostly boys.

"Is that Todd?" spied Lucy.

I squinted through the haze of rain and found him in the river mouth - out the front of the pack surfing the wave. He looked confident, like he'd done it a thousand times before. But I knew for sure that he hadn't. It had been a discussion point between us for some time now.

"Oh no!" Not registering that I'd said the words out loud, we watched as Todd was violently kicked out the back of the wave and jostled like a cork in the white wash as he travelled down the channel. The unknown outcome of the next part was what had kept Lucy and I on the shore.

I held my breath. Todd paddled hard on his boogie board, angling it towards the bank. But at the same time he was being dragged further out through the opening, out to the sea. The swirling, murky sea.

Kick kick kick, paddle paddle paddle. 10 seconds, 15 seconds.

I couldn't not watch. I jumped up. He was working hard but the current was moving faster. My stomach was clenched as tight as my hands. I felt a bit sick. Gradually I exhaled in time with him slowly getting closer and closer to the bank. And then... he reached it. I slumped. Exhausted, he rolled off his board onto the soft wet sand. I could see his chest rapidly moving up and down as he caught his breath. I too tried to catch mine. All of a sudden he jumped up to a standing position, looked up, locked eyes with me, gave me the biggest grin, let out a "yeeewww" and ran back up-stream to repeat the buzz.

Lucy and I turned to each other, faces white.

"Willow, t-tell me again what will happen if we don't get to the edge of the bank in time," stuttered Lucy.

"Truth?"

"Always."

"See that piece of wood?" I said pointing to a piece of flotsam bobbing, at speed, down through the rushing brown water towards the ocean. "Pretend that's us."

"Back up plan?"

"Todd comes to rescue us."

"So really, there's no back up plan right?"

"Right"

It was time to join the chaos.

*

Clinging more tightly than needed to our boards we slowly walked past younger kids playing humpty dumpty on the unstable high sand walls of the channel. Dogs chased seagulls and each other. Everyone was caught up in the excitement that this weather event always inspired. I wasn't excited anymore; I was scared. What if I couldn't get to the bank before the current took me out to sea? What if I was then stuck out there with the sharks, unable to make my way back to shore? What if a huge piece of driftwood stabbed me through the heart? What if the weight of the waves out the back held me under and I drowned and the rescue helicopter had to drag my lifeless body out of the sea so that my screaming mother could identify me?

What if I went my whole life without finding out if I could do this?

Chewing nervously on the inside of my lip I stepped into the shallows of the channel. Immediately I sunk down into the soft sand up to my calves. I looked down at the water rushing past making miniature waves either side of my legs. Another step and I'd sunk to my knees. I turned to find Lucy.

"What are you doing back there?" I almost yelled, surprised to see her still on the bank.

"I don't think I can. I'm sorry Willow," said Lucy, almost in tears.

I can do this. I don't need Lucy. I've got this. Mum always tells me I'm half fish. Be brave Willow. Be bold Willow.

"Ok, but if I survive this you are SO not getting out of it next time!" I laughed hoping that it would make her feel better, maybe make myself feel better.

"Deal" Smiled Lucy. "Hey, Willow..."

"Yeah" I was already distracted, looking ahead, planning how to get out to the wave. I saw Todd waving and beckoning me over. That relaxed me a bit.

"Be careful," said my friend.

"Always," I shouted as I plopped onto my belly and paddled hard towards the middle of the river mouth.

### SAS LAWRENCE

Sas Lawrence is a full time dreamer, worker, domestic power house and a part time writer, reader, gardener. Recently she decided that she'd like to swap her full-time pursuits for the part-time ones and thereby started sharing her short stories and random thoughts-on-life online. She has also started work on her first fictional novel which she hopes to complete sometime before the next ice age.

Sas lives on the South Coast of NSW with her long suffering partner and 2 once adorable kids. She wrote The River Mouth for her youngest non-reader (who has to date never read it but might be persuaded once published...)

Find Sas at: www.SasLawrence.com.au

### HANGMAN'S SHOES

#### by Simon Crase

Droplets sat on the girl's lips like beads on a precious rose petal. Deep purple, the lips were unmoving. Saturated clothes on the boy next to her had long lost their protective nature. His cap had dislodged.

The winter rain beat down on them; the pounding, though heavy, could not match the ferocity of the murderer who had extinguished their lives. Necks covered in large bruises, the brother and sister had been missing since the afternoon before. All night, the bodies had lain at the edge of Yarrowee Creek. Their eyelids remained opened, refusing to give up hope of one day seeing the world again.

Two policemen walking over the bridge at seven-thirty am spotted the peaceful pair. Eight-year-old Sarah Wittingley and eleven-year-old Douglas Wittingley had disappeared around fifteen hours before, as the rain began to fall. Their mother, Mary, had called them in to stop them getting saturated. They failed to heed her beckoning. It was out of character for the children to wander. Playing in the front yard throwing a ball or chasing each other, they knew not to leave without telling their mother.

A witness came forward and informed police he had seen Sarah and Douglas walking down Dana Street towards the creek close to five o'clock in the company of a tall, solid man with dark curly hair and thick full beard. Large sideburns were a distinctive feature. And his big ears would have been perfect for hearing the stifled choking sounds and gurgles as the children's lives were extinguished. The creek ran behind the Ballarat Gaol and Courthouse, which was the workplace of the children's father: Judge Paul Wittingley.

Sarah had been holding the man's hand and Douglas walked alongside, looking at the ground. The morning after the disappearance, a goldsmith on Lydiard Street recognised some of his own handwork in a bracelet presented to him by a tall man. The jeweller's heart hammered in fear as he remembered who had purchased the piece and why. He had made the bracelet under specific instruction from the Wittingley's. They had brought their daughter in on the day of her eighth birthday to have the gift fitted. Hugging her parents with gratitude, Sarah wiped away tears as she left the shop to enjoy the rest of her special day.

Timothy Knox's heart broke as he stood with the bracelet limp in his fingers. Despite the sadness that bloomed in his chest, he went out back of the store and sent his wife to the police and returned to haggle on a fair price with the man until officers opened the front door.

Callan O'Farrell put up a fierce fight as police swarmed the jewellery shop. Fortunately, three officers decided to enter through the back. It was this trio who delighted in pummelling O'Farrell's head into a glass cabinet. The police needed little encouragement to beat him into submission. When he appeared in court two days later, his face bore the marking of a ferocious beating. His lips were fattened like sausages about to burst and his eyes the colour of the dead children's lips when they were discovered.

The mystery of why the children went with Callan O'Farrell was solved when he was first questioned. He simply told the children he had lost his dog. In a thick-accented voice, he'd repeated the words:

"Can you help me find her? She ran down by the creek. She's lost and scared and I need to get her back." The children's fate sealed with an innocent request to search for an imaginary dog...

Judge Michael Schwarz, a close friend of the Wittingley's, asked for a plea: guilty was proffered. O'Farrell was sentenced to hang on 19th August, two months away, the decision one of the easiest in the judge's career.

Schwarz had planned to make a speech in sentencing: "It is my duty to sentence you, Callan O'Farrell, to death. As God is my witness, and as sure as night follows day, you shall hang until every last breath has been squeezed from your body. It saddens me that your fate is a much fairer one than the one you imposed so brutally and godlessly upon Sarah and Douglas Wittingley." Instead the hammer fell in silence, Judge Schwarz unwilling to keep the murderer any longer than necessary in the court room.

"I am the blade awakened," the murderer replied when asked for any last words. And he was taken away smiling as though he had discovered the secret of immortality.

The burial and subsequent trial left in its wake the usual emotional carnage. Mary felt she was in the eye of a storm. Her husband was being torn apart from strong winds of sorrow. So the need to be the resolute one fell on her.

Yet her only solace was making the walk every morning to Yarrowee Creek. Passing the new businesses fostered through the goldrush, her thoughts roamed, dredging the past, looking for golden memories among the dross...

When old enough, Mary had started work at her father's dental practice. The front desk clerk, she organised patients and bookwork. Her parents had worried she was never going to marry, but unlike many young ladies, she was waiting for the right man to enter her life. Mary was not a pretty woman. In fact, neither first nor second glance would show anything of note. Few people knew, with a burst of a well-hidden smile, her mild brown eyes deepened and her flat cheeks rose like flowers in a desert. Eyebrows and lashes became more distinct, as though her features had been splashed with colour; her face had a split personality.

It was this side of the personality that captured Paul Wittingley's heart on a visit to the doctor's a few months after he arrived in Ballarat from Melbourne. A lightning strike from her smile and Paul passed judgment it was the most captivating he had seen. Paul was thirty-two; his wife-to-be, twenty-two.

A wonderful father, Paul spent more time with his children than most men, enjoying their company as they chatted. Paul believed his children grow up with their own sense of self and courage to speak their minds. Mary was the perfect wife and mother. She was the envy of her friends, the pride of her parents and had felt blessed since the day she was betrothed. Life was a fulfilled as it could be...

At the creek she took small steps down the slippery decline to the edge. Raindrops kissed her face and stroked her hair, reminders of sorrow. She had neither the compulsion nor energy to carry an umbrella, content to have the rain drench her. Mary spoke to her children every day, asking questions, expressing her love and how they were missed. She preferred the bubbling conversation of the creek to the stillness of the cemetery. Here she could be weak, helpless in the serenity. Her sadness complete and whole. Composing herself after each visit, Mary's strength and resolve would gather itself up from the depths.

Her husband had not returned to the bench. His last judgment had been dealt upon himself; the burden of guilt was a severe punishment. The sorrow-wracked man would whimper in his sleep and curl into his wife akin to an ill infant needing comfort. As Mary lay awake, she pondered how their lives would evolve from these ruins.

All that remained of this hellish chapter was the hanging...

Jack Hobble was in charge of the noose. A slender man of five-feet, two-inches, Hobble was a lead prison guard, and had performed every hanging at the gaol for the past 13 years.

Judge Wittingley had condemned six of the eleven people taken to the gallows at Ballarat. He sought out Hobble after each hanging, to inquire about the hangman's well-being. It weighed on Paul's conscience, religiously and morally, the condemning of men to their death, but more for the person tasked with dispatching the condemned to a life of eternal damnation. After a long chat following the first hanging Paul had decreed, the judge insisted Jack come to his house for dinner. From this invitation a ritual formed: the night before each hanging, the executioner would dine at the Wittingley's. This hanging would be no different.

Before his children had been taken from him, Paul had thrown himself into establishing the first School of Mines in Ballarat. Meetings were held in Melbourne once a fortnight to get the institute underway. There was one scheduled for the 18th of August. This had been good for Paul, helping to take his mind of the loss. He had spoken to his wife about him being away.

"I'll be back by eight o'clock in the morning, but if you want me to stay, I will," he insisted.

"Go. I'll be fine. It's important you be there," answered Mary. One of the topics to be raised at the meeting was the potential naming of a building after the Wittingley children. So she wanted her husband to be there, thinking this act may go some way towards alleviating the pain.

"Jack is due over tonight. I'll have to see him and make sure he doesn't come over for dinner. I'll tell him it's too...difficult. He'll understand," Paul said.

"We've been doing this for the past few years, so let's not stop," his wife replied with a sigh and reached out to touch her husband's arm. "It will keep me occupied and poor Jack will be home with nothing but his thoughts. But be sure to be back by the morning, Paul," Mary demanded.

Paul placed his arms around her. It was one of the few times he had touched her since the death of the children. "Once this is over, I'm going back to work, I've decided. And I know I haven't been as supportive as I should have been, but I promise to try harder." Tears sprang to his eyes as he embraced her.

She broke his hold after a handful of seconds, and composed herself. "We'll get through this. Now, go and ready yourself to leave."

Mary went with Paul to the station to see him away. She waved goodbye and returned home to prepare the evening meal.

"Thankyou very much for having me over, Mrs Wittingley. I know this must be hard on you, tomorrow and all. It has rattled my faith like nothing before." Hobble took another mouthful of ale. Mary noticed his usual steady hand waver with a slight tremor, and his drink longer than typical.

"It's the least we can do. I'll be honest with you, Jack. I don't know how you do what you do. What does it feel like to take a life? I can't begin to imagine what it must be like to be in your shoes," pondered Mary, crossing her hands in front of her on the table.

"Well, it's not easy. But it has to be done. And I'll admit, several of the hangings have clutched at the heart strings, for wont of a better word," he said before taking another swig. "But I'm following the law of the land."

The hangman picked up a piece of bread in his left hand.

"I'll be straight with you, though: there's no hangman worth his salt that wouldn't get a smile after pulling the lever tomorrow morning. I'll take great pleasure in doing it. It breaks my heart to think what those poor children must have g—," he stopped short of finishing the sentence. The bread streamed through gravy on the plate and then into the man's mouth.

Gas lanterns flickered on the kitchen bench and Mary looked from one to the other. The house could be littered with lanterns, but would never be as bright as when the children lived there. Their departure had left a permanent darkness.

"Thankyou for the kind words and thoughts, Jack. I'll get you a port before you go. It'll help you sleep." Mary rose to pour her guest another drink.

The hangman drank the sweet liquor, and stared into the crackling wood fire, the clattering in his ears of dishes being washed a hollow reminder of how everyday life refuses to yield to tragedy.

*

Mary entered the executioner's yard, noticed all the people who had come to see the hanging, and took up her place. Paul was not back from Melbourne like he had promised.

Callan O'Farrell was led into the yard; shackles clanked and struck each other in a rhythmic death march. Two guards walked the condemned man up the steps. They placed him before the noose. A hessian bag covered the doomed man's head to hide the grin that had not left his face since sentencing. The crowd hushed as the guards stood aside. On the lookout towers, guards had their guns at the ready in case the prisoner tried to escape, or failed to die on the gallows. No lucky rope break was going to rescue this man's life.

Winter sun streamed into the yard, the first naked sunlight for more than a week. Goosebumps flared on arms, warmed by the rays.

The hangman stepped forward and placed the noose over the neck of the condemned. Mary looked around. The hanging was moments away. Paul was still not there. She hoped nothing had happened to the coach.

"Any last words?" asked the warden from one side of the gallows. The reply came in the form of silence from under the hessian bag.

The town hall clock struck nine.

Where are you, Paul? Mary wondered.

The coach should have been in an hour ago. You're going to miss it, Mary sighed. The hangman's hand clenched the lever and pulled straight back in one motion. Wood creaked, hinges groaned and the latch broke free. The trapdoor opened. The murderer dropped into the hole, the rope holding fast as tension was applied under the weight.

The viperous crack of the neck breaking accentuated the goosebumps in the congregation. Callan O'Farrell's life was rendered from him in three large spasms. Standing at the side, the executioner looked on with an impassive gaze. The gathering was hushed; even the swinging body refused to make a noise.

At the back of the yard, the main door flew open. Paul Wittingley burst through.

Mary looked around and saw him standing, his eyes wide, and he struggled to speak. His hands waved in a crossing motion.

The executioner took off the mask. A unified gasp from the crowd amplified off bluestone walls. Then Jack Hobble appeared behind Paul Wittingley.

Mary was pleased the hangman had awoken from the heavy sedative she had put in his drinks the night before. She moved her toes in the hangman's shoes enjoying the feel; a contented smile grew on her face as she looked down at the body swaying like the devil's pendulum. Hobble had been right. Any hangman worth their salt would smile.

********

_Hangman's Shoes_ received an honourable mention in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### SETTING SUN

#### by Simon Crase

I had a visitor tonight. The footsteps approached; light, bare-footed smacks kissing the floor. There's little noise this end of the ward, so every sound is clear, distinct.

The sun set only moments before and I had just closed my eyes. Pain - my constant visitor - was having another screaming fit and clamping my eyes shut eased the agony a modicum, as though it is coursing in through my eyes.

The footsteps stopped. The chair's vinyl cover squeezed. For a fleeting second I thought it was death, but then decided it would arrive with far greater fanfare or utter silence; there would be no half-measures or whimpers.

"I missed it." It was the voice of a boy, low and soft. "Damn."

I swallowed, opened my eyes and let the pain surge in. Twisting in a slow semi-circle, I got a glimpse of him. He sat staring out the window to our left.

"Hello?" I asked.

He turned, slow and exact, as though his head was heavy. "Oh, I didn't wake you, did I? I'm sorry," the apology coming before I could answer.

"What did you miss?" I enquired, my interest in his disappointment immediate.

The boy returned his gaze to the window. "The sunset. They've been awesome lately ... I can't see them...from the room they've put me in. It's just down the hall," he said. I noticed he was short of breath after only a few sentences. "I only sat down ... to get some rest. I'll let...you get back to sleep," and he went to stand. There was a diligent sincerity in his voice; an olden-day honesty now rare among youth. Rare among adults, in fact... The boy's reaction to missing the sunset resembled that of a child who missed the ice-cream van outside their home, or had not received what was explicitly itemised on their Christmas list. As he struggled to stand, I guessed he was on the cusp of teenage years. He gripped something in his left hand to help his balance.

"See you later," he said, and departed.

As he reached the doorway, I saw what he was holding. A mobile drip glided beside him in silence like a lean shadow. His forlornness lingered with me and I felt blessed his visit had taken the spotlight of my pain for a few short moments.

When the nurse came with nightly pills, I asked her about the boy.

"He's been brought upstairs," she replied as she worked the pillows behind me.

"Why have they done that?" I persisted, easing back down on the pillows after she finished. The nurse wouldn't look me in the eye.

"They do it...to make things easier on the other kids," she fiddled with sheets at the end of the bed. Fiddled too hurriedly.

"Oh." A lump formed in my throat. "Is it that bad?"

"Yes," she said. "It's that bad." The conversation ended and she picked up the plastic jug to refill it.

*

"The sun's about to set."

The whisper startled me. Forcing my eyes open, I saw him standing. Close to the window with his faithful companion in fading daylight. I'd endured a terrible night and slept most of the day. It had taken until now for the pain to settle and become a sleeping fog at the base of my eyes, shoulders and neck.

"There's a crescent moon rising." The excitement was strong in his voice. He turned to me. "I didn't wake you again, did I?"

"No. I was hoping you'd come back. Tell me. What's it like, the sunset?"

"It's awesome...the colour...the size...it looks really powerful. I can't ... explain it. I can't...it looks like a planet...warm and friendly and sweet...not hot like it does during the day."

I sensed his pauses were caused by straining for the right answer, rather than pain. I smiled at the boy's unvarnished explanation. The weather had been unseasonably good: autumn days masquerading as spring; trees refusing to drop their leaves, leaves clinging to their branches; the air lacking that ability to send a cheeky shiver down your back.

The boy took two small steps forward. "There it is. There's the moon. Can you see from over there? It's not white, but orange, capturing the sun's colour for its own," I couldn't and didn't really strain to witness what was happening. He explained it to me and I created the image in my mind.

The moon ascending. Venus in the sky nearby. Through the darkening sky, the sliver of orange giving the illusion it was slicing up through the power lines. Touching the top of the treeline, it perched for a few moments before lifting into the firmament.

"That's incredible. Things like this ... make me forget everything. It's ... reassuring," the boy finished his description.

I was intrigued with how at peace he seemed, and perplexed by how entranced he was with this unexceptional occurrence. A child enraptured with the slow procession of nature in all its glory...I noticed how skinny he was; his gown appeared to be standing of its own accord. He was fragile. Like the brittle strength of silence about to be broken.

"Come back tomorrow night," I said, coughing as I spoke, the fog rumbling in response.

"Thank you. The nurse told me...I wasn't allowed to come in here. But I didn't think you'd mind. You seem like a nice person. Besides..." he grimaced, "...what are they going to do?" He shrugged his shoulders, turned and left.

I closed my eyes, prayed for another cloudless day and pondered what they would do, indeed...

*

Tonight the boy did not appear. I was awake and expecting him to walk in any moment. I turned to my side and leaned up on my left elbow and was able to watch the moon rise, the stunning performance repeated, albeit slightly altered. If the boy came in the room, I wanted to tell him what he had missed, because I knew he would ask. It was only as the last of the orange curve rose above the window frame did I sense the savage beast in my skull had soothed while I had focussed on the scene outside. With the sky bruising, I pushed the button, a permanent fixture in my palm. The nurse responded and I asked for a sip of water. I wondered whether the nurse had caught him sneaking out of his room and stopped him.

"Where is he? Is he alright? Or did you tell him he couldn't come?" I was agitated, anxious in an instant. She placed her hands on her hips, realising why she'd been summoned.

"He's sedated. The poor kid didn't have a good night last night, or a good day today."

I apologised, returned the cup to her, and soon the TV's flickering lulled me to sleep.

*

The chair cushion breathed under a slow pressure.

"How was it? I ... was asleep." He talked between coughing, a harsh rattle clattering about in his lungs. It sounded like drawing pins swirling in a storm in his chest.

"You should go back to bed," I said, the adult in me taking over. But I felt a surge of relief he was fit enough to make the trip to my room, despite the obvious impact of the painkillers.

"I'm O—," he coughed, and the drawing pin pain buckled him over. His eyes lacquered with tears and I lurched into an attempt to paint a picture of what he had missed. He listened intently and sucked air into his lungs in deep breaths, trying to calm the coughing. "Thanks for...telling me...I appreciate it," he replied, grateful and fulfilled.

"You better go back to your room," I said. "Come back tomorrow before the sunset, if you c—..." and the sentence cut itself short. I looked to see if he heard, but if so there was no reaction.

The boy left, leaning on the drip frame, like a drunk being led home. The boy staggered a little from the dense vibrations in his chest. For the second time in three days I prayed.

*

Two sets of feet smacked the floor, one quicker than the other. I opened my eyes and saw the room was dark. I had missed the end of the day.

"I didn't wake you before. The nurse hissed at me not to disturb you ... I was at the window, but I didn't leave until the sun and moon had dropped out of sight."

"Did I hear two lots of footsteps?" I turned to my left. A small set of eyes gazed at me. A girl no older than five. Her face was radiant, and long honey-coloured hair made it all the way down to the top of her stomach. She flopped into the chair and her short legs swung back and forth in no particular rhythm.

"Mum wanted to talk to the doctors and the nurses, so I brought my sister along with me," the boy said in the clearest voice I'd heard him use. "They don't know I'm in here. I told them we'd go and play the video games in the cafe."

Her beaming face swung from me to her brother like a precious, sweeping beacon.

"Aren't you cold without your shoes on?" I asked.

"No. I always take them off when I'm here. Just like my brother. He doesn't have to wear shoes," she grinned. "When he comes home, we'll both have to wear shoes. It's nearly winter," she said, her eyes widening.

The beacon grew brighter and she started talking the way children do when they first meet someone; eager to impart information about their life without being prompted.

"We have a cat and a dog. Asher, a boy, and Millie, a girl. They belong to my brother," she said. "I've been helping to feed them. Sometimes Mum starts crying and can't feed them, so I do," her voice full of pride. She looked at her brother waiting for him to speak. After a few moments silence, she continued, "We have to feed them while he's in hospital. When he comes home, he'll feed them again."

"Do you think they miss him?" I asked.

"Yep," she nodded. "They sleep on his bed at night. Mum and Dad never used to let them inside at night, but now they do. Sometimes I sleep in there on the bed next to them too, just to keep them company. So they don't get lonely," she affirmed. Her brilliant smile was betrayed by a small fracture as she spoke these last words, softer than drifting autumn leaves, yet sharper than a scalpel.

I felt a lump in my throat surge. I closed my eyes, feigning pain and felt a sudden lament for the boy and his fate. "It ... sounds like you're doing a great job for your Mum and Dad, and your brother." My voice cracked as my throat closed on the words.

"Come on, we...better go," he said, his cough rattling for the first time. I opened my eyes. The little girl was holding his right arm in a gentle grip. She looked at the floor, her face serious, as though there was no more important task in the world and I know he tolerated this act not to hurt her feelings.

He walked at the slowest pace I had seen; his crook on one side, innocent lamb in need of protection on the other. The harsh fluorescent lights from the hallway shone, turning my visitors to solid sterile silhouettes. They moved around the doorway and I was left alone. During sleep and beyond, the girl's words played hide and seek in my thoughts and sympathy drip-fed into my stomach like cold water joining a dank pool in a cave.

*

The day drew to a close and he entered the room. I was struck by how gaunt his face had become in the space of a day, how taut the skin was on his arms, how sunken the eyes were in the socket, and how he was unwilling to let the drugs take everything away.

"I made it. I've been asleep all day ... but I wasn't going to miss ... this," he said, emphatic and resolute.

In these days, this had become the only point of clarity, the only salient matter we had to attend to in our waking, hazing hours. We were in thrall to the sight of the sun and the moon and their majestic passage through the sky. Through the serenity, the irony returned as I pondered our situations. Nature had betrayed us, and here we were embracing it, adoring it, without the slightest hint of sadness, of bitterness, of fear, and allowing the moment to eclipse the past and present. Nature had delivered us a fatal whisper with a traitorous leaning in to our ear to accentuate the deadly effect of the betrayal. A wise man once said: "In nature, all judgements are fair." But I knew that man had never seen a child dying before his eyes - the crude, cruel way life could be leeched out.

I watched as the last rich light of day encircled the boy, thick streaks of setting sunlight filtered through a man-made window. He stood alone, while I watched from the safety and relative comfort of my deathbed. He turned when the sun had sunk and saw my tears trailing over the bedrock of my face.

He walked over and placed a hand on my forearm. I felt the bones in his clasping fingers .

"Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

Tears welled in my eyes. Simple words, uttered countless times before, and they carried such honesty and sincerity and faith. He left me to bleary eyes, tormenting silence and the hollow feeling of sorrow that in the end nature was creator, conqueror and destroyer and cared nought for time, age or compassion.

*

I dreamt of strangers kissing with wet lips, dead eyes, cold hands, and warm defeat.

*

Something was wrong. In minutes time the sun would sink to close out another day. I pushed the red button.

"Tell him he can watch it," I insisted as soon as the nurse arrived.

"I'm afraid ..." and her words trailed off into oblivion. My mind refused to receive any more information and I began to tremble. Ignoring stern protests, I swung my legs around. Intense pain flared. Bedridden for weeks, I was not used to moving. But I had to watch and I remembered the boy's touch and his words and the touch of his words. The sun set, the moon glowed, the stars glittered, and with everything in its place, the pain let me be.

********

_Setting Sun_ was awarded second prize in the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award.

### SIMON CRASE

Simon Crase has been writing short stories for the past 10 years and has been published in several anthologies and predominantly the e-publication, Eclecticism. Simon is privileged to be selected in the inaugural Birdcatcher Books anthology, and congratulates all writers included in the publication. He currently lives in the North East of Victoria.

### 1.17AM

#### by Kim Horwood

I made the conscious decision that I was first and foremost Jessica's mother; I was NOT her friend.

"Don't be one of those overbearing drama mammas," my friend Kristy had warned. I'd seen those mothers at the school gate; the neurotics in the active-wear and tight pony-tails whose handbags were a bottomless trove of Band-Aids, makeup-wipes, pre-workout, hair clips, a USB with their child's last assignment, and a mobile phone the size of an iPad that contained a calendar of ALL school events including schedules for tutoring, jiu-jitsu, dance and archery lessons, and kids yoga. I didn't want to be THAT controlling. There was too the threat that today's parenting decisions would end up psychoanalyst fodder in future therapy sessions. I intended to be the subtle behaviour modifier and respected mentor, but in reality I had become a screaming stress cadet.

A year ago Jessica's love and respect was idly bestowed upon us, until one of her recalcitrant alter-egos surfaced and left our relationship fractured. We nick-named her Freddy, after Freddy Kruger because she became our nightmare.

Tonight I was sure Freddy didn't like me.

"I hate you!" She screamed from her bedroom, piercing my invisible "mother" force-field. I reminded myself that teenage girls were fickle and this would be short-lived, until the next time she wanted me to drive her somewhere. Still, the curfew was not negotiable: 11pm.

By 11.20pm, agitation was descending like a slow moving fog. I tapped the contact on my phone that she had labelled "Princess Jessica". It didn't even ring – went straight to her voicemail.

"Jessica, this is your mother," in case she hadn't worked that out. "It's 11.20 – you're late." Then I hung up.

By midnight, I was pacing amid the shadows of our house in my night-gown and slippers. I wandered into Freddy Kruger/Princess Jessica's bedroom. Arms folded I wondered if she'd left her phone at home. I could find no phone, but plenty on the floor: wet towels, clothes, water bottles, and the defiant scent of rebellion. I cleaned her room in busied anger.

Should I snoop while I am here? To invade her privacy while I was angry felt so wrong but it was my anger that made the temptation overwhelming. I figured if I was already disappointed with her, did it really matter what I found?

I opened the drawer in her desk to find multiple pieces of paper, some with what I assumed to be Biology notes, and the workings of mathematical equations. Grade twelve was so complicated. There were other papers half scrunched with hearts drawn and smiley faces, and odd swear words in capital letters that contained a certain teacher's name. I was happy not to see "Mum sucks" scrawled in her recognisable loopy handwriting.

There were random diaries, some from her primary school days. I remember when we gave her that key-lock diary with the unicorn on the front. She was so cheerful and smiley and obedient. The thought made me pine for ten-year-old Jessica, who had not been a princess at all.

I closed the desk drawer.

Poking out from under Freddy's bed was her duffle-bag, packed last weekend for an over-nighter at Caitlyn's. I liked Caitlyn. She always called me Mrs. Bowman, even though I'd known her since she was five and her mother Kristy was my closest friend.

My "Mother's Intuition" (installed without my consent at child birth) suspected dirty clothes were concealed within the bag. As soon as I unzipped it the air between my nose and my hands permeated with a mix of fusty dank and vinegary sweat.

"Straight in the washing machine," I said to myself as I pinched garments between my thumb and pointer.

The moment I heard the cylinder of foil and plastic hit the floor, I stood frozen. Did I really want to know what this was, while simultaneously acknowledging I knew what this was.

I threw the smelly clothes into the hall, sat on the bed and picked up the snap-lock bag. I didn't have to open it.

I remembered.

I remembered a night at a party, trying to look grown up and cool. Sucking on a bong held by the same boy that held my heart. It didn't seem like that long ago. I remembered that feeling of carefree ignorance; being in the present but trapped in a weird state of delay that made me giggle. I wondered for a millisecond if I smoked it now, maybe I could go back to seventeen.

Seventeen!

Jessica was seventeen.

Suddenly I remembered that pamphlet that came home from the school. I read how the marijuana today was not like the marijuana of old. I read about meth-amphetamines and ice and cocaine. I read how easily accessible they were to kids like Freddy/Princess Jessica.

Suddenly I wanted her home right NOW. I promised I would not call her Freddy Kruger again, if she just came home right now!

I emptied the contents of the foil into the toilet and flushed. Compulsively I flushed again to make doubly sure it was gone. The foil and snap-lock bag could go into the neighbours wheelie bin – nobody would even see me at this time of night.

Look at me! I was destroying the evidence like it was mine!

12.08am, I began to boil the kettle for a cup of tea, something to sooth the neuroses.

I sent Jessica a text, where are u, accompanied by a string of appropriate frowny faces.

"Jess will be fine," I casually whispered, but the frazzled voice inside my head was screeching, she's off her face on ice, probably excessively guzzling water, picking at her skin until it's raw or frothing at the mouth! I'd read that pamphlet, that bloody pamphlet. Shaking dread from my body with a shiver, an ache lingered in my chest.

Instinctively my fingers once again hovered over "Princess Jessica" on the screen of my mobile phone and I wondered, who else could I ring?

I sat for some time staring at the cool face of the phone. Each time "Princess Jessica" slowly faded I summoned it to rise again with my touch. I had forgotten about making a cup of tea.

I boiled the kettle again.

What if there's been an accident? The thought popped like a thought-bubble in a cartoon.

The image of Jessica's face pressed against the window of a car that was crumpled into metal abstract clutter forced its way into my thoughts. I deliberately stopped my bottom lip from a micro tremble.

Distracting myself from raw panic, I tried hard to marvel at how, in recent months Jessica resembled a butterfly slowly slipping free of its cocoon; beautiful, boundless, with a whole world to explore. During her metamorphosis I learned to duck and weave the gauntlet of her mood swings. Her natural-born stubbornness reminded me of myself. Damn you genetics!

The sound of a car coming down our street was like an electric jolt to my heart. When the car didn't stop, any sane, rationality that once existed now left my body. I tried to breathe through the rattled sob gurgling in my throat. I checked the time again.

"12.42" was the horrified whisper that involuntarily spilled from my lips. I wanted to vomit.

I boiled the kettle, this time making that cup of tea. Unbridled fear had begun to riot in my gut. I sipped the tea, the heat stinging my lips.

Scrolling through the contacts list on my phone I found Jessica's friend Caitlyn. Caitlyn answered with a raspy slow, hello.

"Sorry darl... did I wake you? Its Jessica's mum. Is she with you by any chance?"

"Hey Mrs. Bowman... um... no, but I saw her at the party tonight... when I left she was with Brodie."

Brodie. Jessica's boyfriend. Long-haired, second-year-apprentice-tiler Brodie, who I was sure was part sloth. I knew he smoked dope after stalking him on Facebook. He was probably on ice too. Come to think of it, I'd seen a scab on his face just last week.

Caitlyn yawned. I thanked her and hung up.

Although Jessica left with Brodie, she left in a car full of teenage boys, probably bursting with testosterone and ALL on ice!

"What were you thinking?"

Wait a minute – who said that?

Was that me? I was losing my mind.

I sent her a text again. Where r u... where r u... where r u... where r u... where r u...

No, nothing neurotic in that at all.

"If Jessica is fine", I told myself, "I'm going to kill her." My heart ached. How long do I wait until I wake her Dad?

1.17am; a knock at the door prompted me to run to it with urgent relief.

Two police officers stood solemnly in the porch light, left on for Jessica.

She was dead! I just knew she was dead, overdosed on dope and ice, her body smashed up in an accident so bad the car was unrecognisable.

Before they could deliver their news, the maddening panic in my chest spilled out from my mouth in pained wail, seconds before Jessica's father appeared alongside me in his boxer shorts.

"It's OK ma'am," The police officer called loudly, raising his hand in a sign of desist. "We're delivering your daughter home!"

I cried again, but this time in the same way I cried when she was born.

My cup of tea went cold on the kitchen table.

### KIM HORWOOD

By day, I am the good-humoured-coffee-drinking Executive Assistant in the engine room of a large boys' College, with a Certificate III in Education and a Diploma in Management. By night I am an aspiring freelance writer and member of the Qld Writer's Centre. I am mother to the Fabulous Four, and wife to Mr Ed. (A human, not actually a horse.)

http://horwoodk.wix.com/literature-blog

https://www.facebook.com/KimHorwood574Days

### JAMES - ADHD (A DIPPY HAPPY DOG)

#### by Val Henderson

James – a very formal name for a happy go lucky and active Golden Retriever. James lives with his litter brother Mattie in a house perched on a hill overlooking the ocean, and whilst the island views from the deck mean little to him, he does enjoy his daily walks down to the long sandy beach. The trek downhill for both dogs is a mere promise of the delights to be had as they gambol in the waves, investigate the sand dunes, and follow the scents of dozens of other doggy walkers, reading the "peemails."

James is a fit and active young dog, obsessed with the movement of the waves, and spends most of his time in the water. Who knows what he sees in the water as he chases the waves – is it merely the movement of the water, the enjoyment of the wet stuff itself, or does he imagine he sees a whole underwater world? He runs from the time of his arrival when he is released from the leash, and whilst brother Mattie attends to his ablutions and toileting, James makes a dash for the shoreline, and sets off along it at a cracking pace. Often, he outstrips his owner, and Mattie, and reaches the rock pools where he spends a joyous time investigating every nook and cranny while awaiting Mattie and his owner's arrival. Often Mattie sets off on adventures of his own, but that is another story!

One weekend, the call for "Walkies" didn't come at the appointed time. The man was not feeling well, and had lingered in his bed. James was probably quite accurately described as ADHD – in it's human medical terminology – his behaviour could quite easily be aligned with that of many young boys diagnosed with this condition in these times. One of the things which helped these boys, (and dogs), was an active routine, and to break it was to invite trouble! James padded up and down the deck, looking up at the door, and walking towards the gate in a ceaseless trot. Mattie merely lay on his bed watching. Nothing much fazed him. Unlike James, if Mattie was any more laid back, he would have fallen over.

The usual time for Walkies came and went, and the leads hung immobile from their hook outside the door. James stood looking up at the door, as if willing his pack leader to appear as usual. Nothing happened. With one last look at the dozing Mattie, James ran towards the gate. He had escaped once before, with Mattie, when workmen accidentally left the gate ajar. What a wonderful time they had had, exploring a new rocky shore, and finding themselves at the Harbour. They had been taken in, thirsty and footsore, by the kindly ladies in the Reception office at the Resort, where they were kept in air-conditioned comfort until their owners came to collect them some hours later.

James stood at the gate, and seemingly knowing that he wasn't going to get any help this time, pawed at the bottom rail. The gate rattled, but remained closed, and James looked expectantly at the latch. He cocked his head on one side, and pawed at the gate again, looking up at the latch when he heard it rattle again. The connection was made – he needed to release the latch. Probably more by good luck than good management, James jumped up and landed with one paw on the fence and the other on the gate with his claws just hooked on the railing. As he nosed the latch upwards, the pressure of his paw on the gate as his weight shifted was just enough to release the catch, and as he dropped to the ground he was delighted to discover that the gate was ajar! Without a backward glance at Mattie, James nosed the gate just wide enough before it swung back to click closed, and slipped through the gap to the outside world.

Setting off at a jog, he was soon turning right at the bottom of the road and heading for the beach. The timing was a little later than usual, and as he approached the main road which he had to cross to get to the beach, he could see there were several cars slowing as they negotiated the roundabout at the end of his road. James was of course usually safely leashed and accompanied at this point on his daily walks, but he could see the water through the trees and undergrowth, and so merely paused at the roundabout before loping across to the beach track. He didn't see the fist shaking as the driver of the car about to negotiate the roundabout applied his brakes to avoid him.

James had managed to arrive at the beach without meeting any of the usual early morning walkers, and of course, once he hit the sand, he tore off into the water and along the shoreline in his normal fashion.

On the beach that morning, the walkers who normally did see James were not unduly concerned to see him happily chasing waves by himself. It often happened that they saw James before they saw Mattie and the man. Mattie was much more relaxed about his morning walk, and often just flopped in the water for a rest, or just to soak up the cool wet feeling. This meant that often James was far ahead of his companions. And so James found himself at the rock pools, and spent his time investigating the nooks and crannies, chasing crabs, seagulls and whatever other sea life he imagined he saw in the water.

Just beyond the rock pools, there was a creek exit, and whilst the mouth was normally silted up, the recent King tides had washed away the sand build up, flushed the creek, and raised the height of the water which was once again trapped. James moved on from the rock pools, and as he investigated the peemails left by the morning crowd, he found himself around the headland and, with a bit of tracking, at the silted up creek mouth. Here a whole new wonderland of smells assailed his nostrils, and head down, tail wagging, he trotted upstream along the creek bank. Since the rain and king tides of the past week, the creek and its banks had become a new doggy wonderland. New vegetable matter, and insect and wildlife had visited the creek in either live or dead form, and the smells were absolute ambrosia to James' nostrils! He hadn't had any breakfast, and when he came upon a discarded Kentucky Fried Chicken box, he made short work of the scraps and bones he extracted from the box. James was on the beachside of the creek, and thanks to the added height of the water, he was not tempted to swim across to the other bank, which bordered the coastal road.

The water trapped in this backwater was black, due to all the vegetable matter rotting in its depths, and whilst James was intrigued with the insect life dancing upon the surface, he preferred the waves of the beach for his swimming and paddling.

Pressing on along the beachside bank, James soon came to the end of the creek. Beyond this point, the creek was contained in pipes flowing from under the roadway, and the creek merely petered out leaving him in native bushland. The noise of the traffic wasn't particularly inviting, and he could still hear the waves as the incoming tide got higher up the beach, and he moved on, heading back towards the beach. As he approached the edge of the bushy area, James could hear children's voices. There was a playground, and as he emerged from the bush, James was greeted by a group of children playing on the swings and roundabouts. They had all dropped their bicycles, and were taking turns on the play equipment. James recognised the play opportunity, and trotted forward, tail wagging, and tongue lolling from the side of his mouth with his best smile evident in his partially closed eyes. After his initial greeting, James sat obediently when offered a biscuit by the girls who had been sitting on the seesaw, and they were impressed with his well-mannered and social behaviour. James was quite happy to help them finish their packet of biscuits, offering his paw in mute appeal.

By this time the boys had gathered around, and their ball had appeared from a backpack. The kick to kick soon developed into a riotous good time, with James chasing after every stray ball, and chesting it back into play as the boys raced around the playground. James didn't have any children to play with at home, and he loved his new-found friends and their boundless energy, which matched his own.

James stayed with the children until a mobile phone call to one of the girls announced that it was past lunchtime. Bikes were retrieved from the tangled heap on the ground, and the ball stowed in the backpack. James had had a great time, but he was not tempted to follow the bikes, and as the kids waved him goodbye, he stood at the edge of the playground watching them and wagging his tail. He could still hear the waves, the tide would be nearing high now, and with a last lap of water from the pool underneath the playground tap, he was off, trotting down the short road which lead to the beach. Dogs from the houses barked, alerting their owners to the presence of a doggy intruder. He was not known in this area, and therefore must be warned against. A lady watering her pot plants spoke to him as he trotted past, but apart from a brief wag of his tail and a smile from his panting mouth, he didn't pause in his stride. The little dog barking in protest, and jumping up and down along the fence didn't seem to welcome his intrusion, even if her owner did!

James found the grassy track which lead down the hill to the beach. He had investigated this track before, from the beach side, and so was familiar with the area of beach he came out on. He was still on part of his regular walk, although nearing the turnaround point, and had not a care in the world.

It mattered not to James that he had been gone from home for hours by now. His owners had discovered him missing, and after a quick drive around the area the man had had to go to work, feeling even less unwell now that he knew James was at large!

The woman had taken Mattie to the beach and commenced the usual walk, hoping to find James along the way. Mattie had been kept on the leash the whole way, so that he had not been tempted to wander off on one of HIS adventures as well, and also as an enticement to lure James from any hiding place along the way. As it was by now quite late, they saw none of the usual dogs and owners, and the people they did meet were unable to give them any clues as to where James might be. The woman was by the end of the walk quite upset, and made her way home to spend some time on the phone leaving messages on the answering machine of the local Ranger, Pound and Veterinary Clinics. Through all of this Mattie slept. He had missed his mate on the walk, but once they returned home, he had merely gone to his bed and gone into recovery mode, ready for the next bout of activity.

The woman drove around the streets, and checked out the beaches and harbour, where the dogs had wandered before, but had to report "No James" when the man came home from work. Since they hadn't received any phone calls from either the Ranger, or the Veterinary Surgeries, they were at least encouraged that no harm had come to James, but the woman was still quite upset that James had not reappeared, despite several more checks of the beach and the surrounding streets. Perhaps some Good Samaritan had taken the dog in – it was the best they could hope for. If only they'd had the dogs micro chipped last time they were at the Vets – it was definitely going to happen on the next visit – they just hoped there was going to be a next visit!

Meanwhile, James had returned to the beach. The tide was high, and there were several teenagers with body boards making the most of the waves of the high tide. Being a weekend, and during the afternoon rather than his early morning walk time, the body boarding teenagers were yet another new experience for James, and it looked like more fun! James trotted up and down the waterline watching the boys as they caught the waves and surfed in to shore, and before long one of them came ashore right at the point where James was standing. The laughing boy brushed the water from his face and hair and sat on his board, recovering his breath. He held out his hand for James to sniff and spoke to him in an invitingly playful tone. James wagged his tail and licked the boy's hand, cementing the friendship. Encouraged by the boy, James followed him into the water, and ventured beyond the wavebreak until he was swimming with powerful strokes through the turbulent foam. Although James was a water dog, it wasn't often that he ventured into water deep enough to actually swim in, and he found the sensation exhilarating. The boy saw that the dog was following him into deeper water and not wanting him to get too far out of his depth, he slipped onto his body board and caught the swell of the next incoming wave, calling to James as he did so. James turned and paddled after him, the swell of the rising wave lifting him slightly less than it had the body board. The boy had paddled furiously and caught the wave, and reached the shore in a tumbling foamy wave in time to see James paddling in furiously behind him, but out of the wave's tumble on to the shore.

James' paws hit the sand running and he was carried to where the boy had been washed on the body board. Cool, thought the boy, the dog can surf!

Over the next couple of hours, all the boys in the group played surfer-dog games with James, even getting him onto their body boards. James found this new sensation very exciting, and the bedraggled and sodden dog was unrecognisable, apart from his golden colour. The afternoon sun was by now low over the landward horizon, and the boys, quite exhausted from their afternoon's activity, were ready for food and rest. Leaving the beach via the hill track, and followed by James, the boys turned along the roadway at the top of the track and made their way to a van parked in an area adjoining a lookout over the ocean. There was an electric BBQ and Picnic Shelter, and the panoramic view took in not only the ocean to the east, but a view over the town, and inland to the setting sun.

The boys stowed their body boards, and produced two eskies from the back of the van. Before long, the smell of sizzling sausages and onions had James' undivided attention. The boys were ravenous, and packets of potato chips and drinks were spread across the picnic table, along with a loaf of bread and a bottle of sauce. A sausage rolled from the BBQ plate onto the ground. As the boy picked up the sausage gingerly in his fingers, James licked his chops - the hungries had also hit James, it was his teatime too. The sausage was hot, and the boy placed it to one side to cool. James sat with his ears cocked, looking expectantly at the sausage, and the boy laughed as he tried to explain to James that it was too hot to eat. After a couple of minutes, James decided he needed a drink, and lapped from the pool beneath the tap where the boys had washed their feet and body boards, and then returned to sit patiently a few feet from the sizzling BBQ. The boy turned upon James' return, and breaking the sausage in his fingers was amused to find James staring at him intently with one paw raised. James took the offered sausage, and wolfed the piece down in one gulp, closely followed by the second piece. By this time, all the boys were helping themselves to sausages from the BBQ plate, and after their initial hunger was satisfied, started to offer bread crusts and left over sausage to James. James minded his manners and remained seated, having quickly worked out that offering one's paw brought immediate food rewards. By the time the boys had eaten their fill, James had also had a good meal, and he settled down for a sleep as the boys sat around discussing their plans for their evening's entertainment.

Darkness fell quickly once the sun slipped below the horizon, and the mozzies emerged from nowhere. The wind had dropped, and the annoying insects had everyone slapping. Someone produced a can of insect repellent, and the spray in the air made James sneeze, so he moved a bit further away from the group. A couple had driven in to the park in a Campervan, and they were now cooking a meal on the BBQ. James wandered over to their van, and sat, sensing that yet more food might come his way. The man and woman had been on the road for several weeks, and were pleased to make the acquaintance of the golden dog, assuming that he was with the group of teenagers, who were now loading their chairs and eskies into the van. "See ya mate" they called as they hopped into the van. They had decided on an evening's fishing, and needed to organise their bait before the tide came in again. James stood and watched as the boys drove off, and then merely returned to the pool of light cast by the campervan, and flopped down at the feet of the couple as they ate. Realizing that the dog was apparently a stray, the woman starting feeding him titbits from her plate, and the man offered him a left over bone. It was now too late for the couple to find a caravan park, and so they decided to sleep in the van at the Lookout and move on early next morning. By now James was fast asleep against the wheel of the van, and didn't even stir as the man and woman retired for the night. James had had a big day.

Meanwhile, Mattie was becoming a little puzzled by his brother's absence, and the anxiety felt by his owners had become quite obvious to him, although he didn't understand quite why. Yet again, they had walked and driven the streets surrounding the house, and walked along the beach calling James' name in case he was out of sight in the dunes. In the end, they assumed James had been picked up and taken in by someone, and hoped they would eventually hear of his whereabouts via the Ranger. Their night was spent in fitful sleep, unlike James – his sleep was exhausted and dreamless, curled up against the wheel of the campervan.

Around 5 o'clock next morning, the couple awoke in the pre-dawn light and boiled their kettle on the BBQ. James stretched and yawned and wandered over to a nearby bush. He sniffed, seemingly reading the messages left by other dog visitors, and then left his own – a rather long one. After a long lap at the small pool beneath the tap, James returned to the couple, and sat expectantly, awaiting an invitation for a pat, or better still, food! The couple had bowls of cereal, and were frying slices of bread on the BBQ – refreshing the smell of the meat cooked there the night before. James' good manners paid off again – he was a fast learner, and he was offered the cereal bowls with their left-over milk and then some bread crusts. As the couple made preparations to move on, James sensed that he must move on. He approached the couple, and was rewarded with a few kind words and a pat. He didn't understand the words, but he did understand the body language – they were leaving, and so must he. With a wag of his tail and one backward glance, James trotted off back to the grassy hill track and made his way down to the beach. By now the sun was up, and this was around the time of day he was on the beach each morning – with the man and Mattie!

James bounded into the water, and headed off to his right. He didn't appreciate the beautiful sight as the sun rose over the ocean, but he did appreciate the exhilaration he felt every day as he ran along in the waves as they lapped the shoreline. After a few minutes he had reached the rock pools and the headland, and he spent several minutes, as he did most days, investigating the pools left by the outgoing tide. James was greeted by one of the regular morning doggy walkers. He knew the dog, and they briefly exchanged greetings, and the lady merely assumed that the man and Mattie were bringing up the rear as usual. James was off at a trot again, once again intent on investigating any sea creatures which might be lurking in the foamy water, or was it just the movement which fascinated him. Before he looked up again, he had covered another 400 metres.

James had had such an exciting and exhausting day since his escape through the gate the day before, he had not given a thought to home, Mattie or his owners. He had had company, been fed, and played some great games. Now, here he was, on the same beach where he was every morning, doing what he did every morning, chasing waves. Reasoning wasn't part of his thought process. All he was aware of was that he was on the beach, in the morning, and he was on his way home. The fact that he was alone didn't enter the thought process either, until he looked up from the waves at the sound of a familiar voice. His owners were running towards him with Mattie on the leash leading the charge. They were smiling and laughing, and the woman's face was wet with tears as she dropped to her knees and hugged the smiling, tail-wagging wet golden dog. They would never know of his adventures, they were just glad to find him safe.

### VAL HENDERSON

Val Henderson was one of the judges for the 2015 Birdcatcher Books Short Fiction Award. In the past she has worked as a Teacher's Aide and served as sub-editor for a local community newspaper. She writes short stories for her own amusement. Val lives in a tiny country town in Victoria with her husband Jeff, their dog Honey and two cats, Sparky and Gypsy.

