Category Archives: Short Stories

Photographs and Diamonds

Posted on March 18, 2011 | 20 comments

Joseph picked up the silver-gilded frame and stared at the image. A nervous young man stood stiffly in an army dress uniform with his arm around the waist of his new wife, dressed elegantly in a simple, straight white satin dress and carrying a simple bouquet. The couple stood in front of the church doors as well-wishers broke into applause.

He remembered how giddy Helen was with excitement the day they decided to get married. Home on leave he asked her. The war prompted quick action on the field of battle and off it. A promise was a promise until the day you died. And that could be any day. It was a time when memory was long, a handshake communicated trust and steadfastness was an anchor in a marriage.

The young man aged into the weathered reflection staring into the photograph. Sixty years had passed since that day and with it a million memories.

Returning the photograph to the dresser Joseph straightened his tie and adjusted his cuffs. In the mirror a formal black suit replaced the dress uniform. Helen interrupted his reverie.

“It’s time for the party, dear and we are the guests of honour. Everyone is waiting for us. Happy anniversary, darling.”

20 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , , ,

Waiting – A Triptych

Posted on March 11, 2011 | 21 comments

Part 1

The kitchen tap dripped unceasingly and most of the cupboards hung at jaunty angles. Her friends were busy salivating over Jamie Oliver or pursuing the latest project from Better Homes and Garden, but she didn’t see the need in creating a mausoleum of monotony.

For her there was always something else to do, something else that was a priority on a timetable that ran perpendicular to everyone else’s.

She saw no sense in waiting. Waiting was a weakness.

Quickly she rinsed her bowl, spoon and mug before putting them on the dish rack to dry and headed out the door.

Part 2

She picked up the silver-framed photograph of a woman nursing a newborn baby.  In the photo her arms were wrapped like a wall, protective and sheltering. She remembered the woman she was then and the intense possessiveness she had felt. It was a selfishness that drank like the child at her breast; even wanting to withhold the child from its father.

“Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” she murmured.

She waited for that sensation again as she packed the photograph into her luggage, waiting for the taxi, hoping the grit would become a pearl.

Part 3

She sat in the car outside the school hall, listening to the ping of the engine cooling while she waited for her daughter to finish dance class.  In her mind she compiled a list of all the things she had to do, all the things that made her wait: collect her son from sport, guess her husband’s return time from work and sorting the three foot high pile of washing. She glanced at her watch, wanting to hurry the time, and then watched the hall doors for a glimpse of pink tulle to come running.

“What are you waiting for, Mummy?” said the little ballerina as she scampered into the car while the engine sat silent.

“I don’t know, darling, I don’t know.”

21 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , ,

The Trampoline

Posted on March 5, 2011 | 17 comments

The Trampoline

“Andrew, would you please jump on the trampoline with me?” asked Elise.

Looking up from his comic, Andrew saw his nine year old sister wearing a floral one piece swimsuit, a homemade tutu, a cat’s ears headband and swimming goggles. The fourteen year old rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

“Please, Andrew. You can make me bounce really, really high so that I can almost touch the leaves on the tree. Please.” The tugging at his elbow persisted until he caved.

“OK. Just five minutes.”

“Yay!” said the aeroplaning Elise flying out the door.

Andrew shoved himself away from the pulling power of the couch and followed the contrails of taffeta. Elise skipped across the yard and scrambled up the plastic steps and onto the trampoline. Happy squeals proceeded each bounce and squeak of the springs.

Climbing onto the mat Andrew found a rhythm with Elise.

“Bounce me higher. Higher, Andrew.”

Timing his landing to effect the “double bounce,” Andrew launched Elise into the air. She flapped her arms, with a smile as wide as the ocean as taffeta and tulle mimicked her arms. Laughter sprang from her little lungs. Andrew was caught up in the moment, laughing with Elise as he tried to bounce her higher and higher.

On a downward trajectory, Andrew glanced over the fence into the neighbour’s yard. He caught the briefest glimpse of half naked flesh and swimsuit material. With each jump Andrew focused on the attraction on the other side of the fence.

Stretched out in the sun was Katie,the eighteen year old neighbour, laying on her stomach on a towel, her face turned away. Beside her was a book turned face down and headphones trailing from under the book to her ears.

Bounce. Andrew turned to the figure over the fence. Each jump was a snapshot filed away in his adolescent mind, filed under “Best Moments Ever” and “Facebook Status Updates.”

Bounce. The bow tying the bikini.

Bounce. The curvature of her buttocks.

Bounce. The dappled sunlight on her calves.

Bounce. Like a flick book cartoon Andrew watched her reach around and pull the string on her top. He tried to adjust the timing of his bounce, hoping to catch a glimpse of side boob. Testosterone hopes faded as she settled into her worship of the sun.

“What’cha looking at?” asked Elise, breaking Andrew’s mental youtube sensation.

“Nothing,” said Andrew, loosing momentum. “I’ve gotta go inside.”

“Were you looking at Katie?”

“No.”

“Yes you were. I can see her over the fence. And she’s a bit nudie.”

Andrew’s legs collapsed under him, bringing him to a shuddering halt on the trampoline mat. And out of sight of Katie Next Door. With great haste he slunk away towards the house, fearing detection.

“Hi Katie. Andrew was just looking at you over the fence while he was jumping on the trampoline with me. I think he liked seeing you without many clothes on.”

17 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , ,

Turning 100

Posted on March 2, 2011 | 5 comments

This blog post marks my 100th post *cue sounds of celebration*

After hacking my way through the overgrown jungle that is a writer’s first step, it is time to look back at where I have come from and where I intend to go from here.

The Journey

My journey began in October 2009 when I decided to focus on creative writing.  I began writing micro-fiction of six sentences as a way of “getting my feet wet.”

2010 was a year of practice, putting words out there, not planning out where I wanted to go with my writing or trying to get ahead of myself.

I came across Fiction Friday writing prompts at the site Write Anything.  Its premise is simple:

  • Spend at least 5 minutes composing something original based on the theme or challenge (and keep writing…)
  • But, remember, no editing. This is to inspire creativity not stifle it.
  • On Friday, simply post what you wrote to your own blog.

For me, this was the impetus to get writing and not to be afraid of doing it.  It forced me to write each week, to move beyond the initial fear of what people would think of my work.

I have received such amazing benefits from the experience.  I became involved in a strong, positive community that was encouraging and supportive providing feedback through comments. A few people deserve thanks: Icy, whose encouragement kept me writing, Annie and Jodi (co founder of eMergent Publishing) whose support cannot be underestimated.

It has led to involvement in Choose Your Online Adventures (a collaborative writing project) and and my debut publication in Literary Mix Tapes: Nothing But Flowers.

Later in 2010, I took another step forward by becoming involved in the #fridayflash community on twitter (courtesy of J.M. Strother @jmstro).  This is a broad and diverse community that if you spend some time, will encourage and support.

Through #fictionfriday and #fridayflash I have made some good friends and continue to do so.

Lastly in 2010, I began a web serial using characters and plots from a Fiction Friday prompt.  This has made me think about actually writing a novel.  When the serial is finished I am going to take it down and reshape it as a Young Adult novel.

Which reminds me, I had better go finish it. My characters are waiting to see what happens next.

So what do I write?

This has been a question I have been filtering for the last 12 months.  I know what I don’t write.

I don’t write horror, paranormal, zombies, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, speculative fiction, westerns, historical fiction or “other.”  I have dabbled in sci-fi and is a genre I might return to one day.

I write suburban realism (a term coined by Icy) – which is what exactly? Looking through my writing of 2010, it has predominantly been stories focused on the minutiae and ennui of people.  I take an aspect of relationships or circumstances of a person’s life and explore it.  It can be tragic, comic, tragi-comic or comic-tragedy. In writing flash fiction, I focus on the microscopic view that is a parable of the macro.

I have been strongly influenced by the writing of Tim Winton and Markus Zusak whose novel, “The Book Thief” is one of my all time favourite reads. Both have strongly poetic writing of vivid imagery and the intricacies of relationships.

Where To From Here?

Short stories or novels?

Do I ever have to write a novel? Perhaps not. Does a poet have to write an epic poem? I would like to write a novel, but I don’t feel like the compulsion to do so. I want to know I can write a novel, so that is on the cards.

I like the scope and framework of flash fiction and short stories and intend to write an anthology.

I want to push myself further this year by making 2011 the Year of Editing.  This is a necessary tool to improve the quality of my writing as I will begin submitting pieces of flash fiction or short stories to anthologies, competitions and literary journals.

I am a writer. I fabricate existences and construct realities that have a remarkable resemblance to real life. I tell lies and you believe it.

5 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

The Umbrella Flowers

Posted on January 21, 2011 | 19 comments

The rain made mad dashes down the windowpane.  Droplets raced one another to reach the bottom.  Kneeling against the back of the couch Charlotte settled into the cushions, peeking at the street through the rain.  She pretended the rain was writing messages in a special language only able to be read by a four-almost-five year old.

Charlotte pressed her hands to the window and watched the condensation form around her fingers tips. She touched her nose to the glass.  The moisture and coldness tickled the tip of her nose making her giggle.  As she giggled her breath clouded the glass and obscured her view.  Wiping the glass clear with the sleeve of her t-shirt she breathed again to see how far she could fog the glass.
“Daddy, the umbrellas are flowering again.”
Her father came and put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.
“Umbrellas only flower when it rains,” she said with the authority of a four-almost-five year old.  “They are mostly black in colour, which are sad looking.  I like it when there are some coloured ones to look at.  They are my happy umbrella flowers.”
Father and daughter knelt side by side on the couch and counted the umbrella flowers blooming in the street on their fingers.  Daddy counted black umbrella flowers while Charlotte counted happy umbrella flowers.

“Can we go outside and be umbrella flowers too, Daddy?”

A loaded question with the weight of a young girl’s expectations balanced against a father’s responsibilities.

He looked at his daughter, stroking her hair with his hand.  “I’m sorry darling, but Daddy has a lot of work to do.  Maybe some other time.”

He kissed her on the forehead and pushed himself off the couch.  Charlotte sank into the lounge cushions and went back to watching the rain.  The four-almost-five year old body language matched the gloomy pattern of the weather.

Back at his desk the storm of papers, spreadsheets, bills and accounts swirled into random patterns.  He tried to focus but couldn’t.  Leaning back in his chair he could see into the lounge room where Charlotte still sat peering out the glass.

“Stuff it.  It can wait another half an hour.”  Throwing down his pen he called out.  “Come on sweetheart, let’s go and be umbrella flowers.”
There was a mad scurry to find Dorothy the Dinosaur gumboots, raincoat and hat.  A short delay was encountered as they scrounged for umbrellas.

Standing in the doorway to the backyard Charlotte and her father watched the rain hand in hand.

“Are you ready, darling?”  With a snap of plastic an umbrella bloomed, bright red with black lady bug spots.  “Here you are.”

Charlotte dashed into the rain and stopped in the middle of the backyard, a brightly coloured flower.  She looked with glee at the rain dripping off the tips of the umbrella as it played a nursery rhyme rhythm.

“I am a happy umbrella flower, Daddy.  Look at me.”  She sploshed and splashed through the puddles in the backyard, a bright red spot of fun.

Squatting down on the garden verge Charlotte peered into the wet foliage.

“What can you see, sweetie?”

“Come look, Daddy.”

Joining his daughter at the garden’s edge he looked to where she was pointing.  A common garden snail trawled the leaf.

“His eyes are up on long, long stalks and they are looking at me,” Charlotte said.  “We won’t squash this one, Daddy, will we?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“This snail is grey and his shell is all brown and swirly and he’s moving along the leaf.”

Under the pitter-patter of the rain on a black umbrella flower and red umbrella flower with black dots, father and daughter watched the progress of the snail until it reached the tip where it turned around and headed back again.

“Let’s go, Daddy,” said Charlotte.

The umbrella flowers went on an expedition around the backyard, looking under leaves, poking sticks into puddles and counting the rain drops as they fell from the corner of the clothesline.

“I want to go inside now, Daddy,” said Charlotte.

At the back door, umbrellas were shaken out, gumboots pulled off and raincoats discarded.  Charlotte rushed into her bedroom and brought out her dolls to the lounge room.  From his office desk, her father heard a replayed account of their time in the garden as umbrella flowers.  A broad smile emerged on his face.

While he sat at his desk poring over the storm of paperwork, a little person who was four-almost-five appeared at his side.  She threw her arms around his middle and said, “I love you, Daddy,” before running back to the lounge room and her dolls.

“I love you, too,” he called out loud enough for Charlotte to hear.

19 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , , ,

The Highchair Philosophers 3: A Christmas Tale

Posted on December 23, 2010 | 6 comments

Jeffrey sat amongst the ruins of a Lego wasteland.  Cross-legged his head rested in the palm of his left hand while the right pushed the coloured bricks around.  An air of despondency hung over his shoulders.

Samuel toddled in, noticing the morose figure in the desolate playground.  “It’s Christmas, Jeffrey, and you’re sitting there like you lost your favourite toy.”

“I’ve got some bad news.”

Samuel sat cross legged in front of his friend.  “What happened?”

“My Big Sister said that if I wasn’t good then I wouldn’t get any presents from Santa.  Instead, I would find potatoes in my stocking on Christmas morning.”

Quiet tut-tut noises came from Samuel.  Jeffrey continued his tale of misery.

“It got me to thinking.  Have I done enough good things to balance out all the bad things I’ve done this year?”

“Well, let’s make a list of the good things and the bad things you have done,” suggested Samuel.  “I’ll count while you tell.”

“Right,” said Jeffrey.  “This year there was the time I cut Big Sister’s Barbie doll’s hair.  I swear she said it would grow back.  Then there was the time I flushed Mum’s lipstick down the toilet.”  He rubbed his backside in sympathetic memory.

“Another time I broke Grandma’s favourite sugar bowl.  I was being ever so careful but the carpet tripped me up.  Last week I was drawing all over Dad’s papers on his desk.  I didn’t know they were exam papers he was marking.  And I got into trouble for pulling apart one of my books.  I wanted to use the pictures to go on my wall.  It was an honest misunderstanding.  How many is that?”

“Count my fingers.”

“One, two, three, four, five.”

“So, you need five or more things to put things in your favour,” said Samuel.

The pondering took some time as Jeffrey trawled through his memory banks.

“I help Dad wash the car, so that’s a good thing.  When Mummy comes home from the shops I help put away the groceries.  I remember to say ‘please’ and ‘thankyou’ most of the time.  And when Big Sister is watching television I let her choose the program,” conclude Jeffrey.

“That’s four.  What if you packed up all your toys without being asked?  Surely that counts for something,” suggested Samuel.

“It’s worth a try.”

Dragging over the plastic tub, Jeffrey plonked the plastic bricks one by one, a furrowed brow still lingering.

“But what if I haven’t done enough?  I’m not sure I have.”  Jeffrey sank to the floor, resting his head in his hands.

Samuel wandered away to give his friend some space to think.  He stopped at the coffee table in the corner.

“What’s this over here with the baby and the people with tea towels on their heads?”

“Mum says that’s the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph and the shepherds and some wise guys,” said Jeffrey.  “They have something to do with Christmas, but I forget what Mum said.  I think she said that it was about the true meaning of Christmas.”

Samuel had a brainwave.  “What if we ask the baby Jesus?  Mum is always saying you can ask Jesus.  Couldn’t hurt.”

“Good idea.”

The boys knelt down beside the nativity scene, screwed their eyes tightly shut, hands folded in supplication and prayer.

“Dear Baby Jesus,” said Jeffrey.  “I was wondering if you would be able to put a good word in for me with Santa.  Amen.”

6 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , , ,

The Great Chocolate Conspiracy Episode 13

Posted on November 27, 2010 | 20 comments

Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy! Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police’s Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.

This is the first installment of this multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here (links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted).

The next installment will appear on Friday, December 3 at Lily Mulholland’s and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

*****************************

Sam followed Agent D. Ling’s tweed covered derriere up the ladder, trying not to gag on the bitter smelling ointment under his nose, but enjoying the view.

Agent Ling pushed the trap door open and Sam followed her up into a small storage room full of cleaning products, mops and buckets.  The door lead into a convenience store, stocked with all manner of condiments and tins of food.  The fridges hummed a merry tune, the cartons of milk glistening with condensation.  Sam did a quick reconnaissance of the shelves revealing a large gap where the chocolate biscuits had been.  And the boxes of tea bags sat forlornly without their caffeinated cousins.  A faint whiff of chocolate hung in the air.

“Blimey,” said Sam, his stomach growling.  “I could murder a cuppa and a biccie.”

“How about a museli bar?” asked Agent Ling.

“No thanks.  Birdseed never was my thing.  Now there’s something worth eating.”  Sam reached for a bag of crisps and ripped it open.

“Come along, Detective.”

With his spare hand, Sam grabbed a packet of custard cream biscuits.  “For later,” he said sheepishly and followed Agent Ling to the front window of the store.

The street had the appearance of normalcy except there was no one wandering the streets.

Agent Ling opened the door, the little bell jangling above it.  The aroma of chocolate assaulted Sam’s nose; his mouth became a tidal wave of Pavlovian response.  However, the sight of mutilated bodies piled against one another turned his stomach.

“That’s sickening,” said Sam, his face turning green.  Agent Ling turned to her right and strode away.  Sam trotted after her, his limp slowing him down slightly.

“Steady on.  It’s been a bit of a rough day.  What happened here?” asked Sam.

“The side effects of the additive FRAPPE added to the coffee and chocolate are devastating. Think caffeine withdrawals taken to the extreme.  Once people were moody and irritable; now they are homicidal and will do anything to feed their addiction.”

Sam whistled under his breath.  He shuddered to think how much of a moody bugger he was without caffeine.  Agent Ling continued as she stepped over a severed limb.

“It turns people into caffeine zombies, craving only one thing, to the exclusion of everything else.  When it doesn’t get it, the victim turns psychopathic.”

“Imagine if you were Elvis?” said Sam.

“FRAPPE started with additives in chocolate biscuits and coffee, but they went one further here in Grimsville: airborne chemical warfare.  They used simple household air fresheners containing the additive like the ones in doctor’s waiting rooms.”

A pager beeped on Agent Ling’s waist.  “Your team is here.”

Sam shaded his eyes against the sun and watched as a dark silver Bentley turned into the dusty avenue, followed by a black van, until they pulled up beside him.  The side door of the van opened dispensing Marier, Juniper and La Paglia.

“My Crumblies.”  A still slightly groggy Agent Bronyaur stumbled into the sunlight.

A gentleman exited the Bentley, his moustache elegantly grey to match his receding hairline.  In one hand was a thermos, the other, a chocolate bar.

“DCI Adamson, my name is Earl Grey, leader and co-founder of TEA.”

Adamson accepted the Earl’s extended hand and the thermos and chocolate bar.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“And you too.  Your unit has done admirable work. We are the invisible support behind the CCU.  Tea and coffee have coexisted for centuries, but FRAPPE’s plan is heinous.  Dr. Nishida and Professor Motley are to be stopped at any cost.”  Earl Grey glanced at his watch.   “It would not be prudent for me to be found here.  Agent Ling will assist you.  Farewell.”

The Bentley and van disappeared back down the avenue.

“Come,” said Agent Ling.  “We have work to do.”

Gunshots startled the party, scattering them behind the nearest parked car.

“Who in blazes…?” Adamson cursed.

Marier poked her head over the bonnet.  “It’s Professor Motley.”

Motley charged at the Crumblies, firing randomly in their direction.  Sam looked around for options.

“She’s out of bullets,” said Agent Ling.

Sam spied a wrapper in Marier’s breast pocket.  “Quick, give me the chocolate bar.”

Beside him pink elastic poked out of Agent Bronyaur’s trouser pocket.  Sam whipped it out.

“How the hell did you get my pink thong?” interrupted Juniper.

“Never mind how,” said Sam.  “Time to get my Macgyver going on.”

Sam grabbed the lingerie and improvised a slingshot.  He broke off a segment of chocolate, pulled back on the waistband, took aim at Motley’s mouth and let it loose.

The piece of chocolate hurtled through the air and lodged in the back of Motley’s throat setting off a chain reaction.  Motley’s face turned a shade of red usually seen on the rump of a baboon.  Her hands scrambled at her throat trying to dislodge the chocolate.  Guttural gasps of air gurgled in her throat as she collapsed to her knees.  Motley’s head snapped back suddenly, her body going rigid, before collapsing face first into the dirt.

“Death by chocolate,” Sam quipped, standing to his feet.

A shadowy figure stepped into view.  Dr Nishida eye’s bored into Sam from a distance.

“DCI Adamson, you tea-swilling-chocolate-biscuit-stealing lump of congealed monkey vomit who wouldn’t know art if it bit his rather ample backside!”

Sam tried to get a look at his backside but only succeeded in looking like a dog chasing its tail.

“Look at me, Adamson,” Nishida yelled.  “You will pay for what you did to my culinary masterpiece!”

“Bugger me,” said Sam.  “This is going to get ugly.”

20 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

The Corner Store

Posted on November 19, 2010 | 10 comments

Red and blue lights flashed a macabre disco strobe across the front of Mr Lee’s convenience store and the open doors and windows of the neighbouring houses.  Police and ambulance radio chatter provided the soundtrack to the evening’s events.

The local newspaper reporter stepped out of her car, pen and paper in hand.  Her camera man checked his pouches and went to get the story from the police and take some snaps.  She scanned the scene.  The police and ambulance officers moved about their duties with precision. The neighbours were kept at a respectable distance behind the police tape and their own fears.  Huddled in small family groups they whispered gossip and theories to one another.  Parents kept a firm hand on their children, drawing them in close.

The footpath in front of the door was strewn with shards of glass, a set of keys and a large padlock.  Inside the corner store, police cameras illuminated the carnage; a secondary tempest and lightning storm making the onlookers shield their eyes.

Neighbours peered into the narrow doors of the store into the storm’s epicentre.  Wads of bloodied cotton mixed with stock strewn on the floor.  Numbered cones outlined the scene; a forensic dot-to-dot puzzle.

The reporter moved from group to group, looking for a story angle.

People huddled in small groups, furtively eyeing the shadows, hoping that nothing was hiding.

One old man in a faded cardigan and tattered slippers shuffled up to the reporter.  “I’ve lived in this area for thirty years and never has this place been robbed or broken into.”  A cigarette passed to his lips.  “Mr Lee’s been a part of the scenery for almost twenty years.  He knows all the kids by name and their families.  He is a fair and decent man.  Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know,” said the reporter.

“I buy my paper every morning on the way to the station,” said one man.  “Mr. Lee is always smiling and good for a chat.”

“And I get bread and milk from time to time when I forget to stock up,” said the woman next to him.

The child huddled in between them butted in, “I buy chips and lollies from Mr. Lee.  I especially like the bags of mixed lollies where you get one of everything.  Teeth are my favourite lollies and I could eat a whole bag of them in one go.”

“Bought my first girlie mag from here,” said a young lad, baseball cap perched precariously on the back of his head.

“And your first smokes.  Both of which you bought with a fake ID,” countered his mate.

“Shut up, man.  Don’t tell her that,” replied the young lad, punching his friend in the shoulder.

The clatter of a trolley diverted people’s attention to the doorway of the corner store.  Ambulance officers surrounded a body strapped to the trolley, one holding an IV bag above his shoulder.  Mrs Lee stuck close to her husband, one hand holding his, the other clutching a fistful of tissues.

“There’s no story here for us,” the camera man said to the reporter.  “Police reckon it was just a robbery that turned violent; probably local thugs shaking down the owner or kids needing cash for whatever.”

The reporter snapped shut her notebook relegating the story in her mind to spare column inches tucked away in the middle of the paper.  The camera man packed his bags, ready to chase the next vision to be broadcast on the front page.

As if on cue, the police cars and ambulance faded from view, the police tape waving like a broken hand.

The neighbours bade silent farewells, sticking closer to one another, fearful of the shadows that were suddenly darker and more menacing.

10 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , ,

The Highchair Philosophers 2

Posted on November 1, 2010 | 3 comments

Morning was a relaxed time for Samuel and Jeffrey.  The whirlwind breakfast activity had subsided, giving them time to ponder over a drink.  They shooed the cat away who had temporarily taken over the sunny spot on the back deck.  The cat knew its tail was in jeopardy if it didn’t skedaddle.

Thoughtfully they chewed over the news and events of the previous day, giving comment and opinion as fore-casters of the future in time-honoured fashion and opining on the past.

Their attention turned to the hallowed halls of education.

“My Big Sister started school this year,” said Jeffrey.

“My Big Brother starts next year,” said Sam.  “Is Big School different?”

“It certainly is.  Each day, she puts on her school uniform, packs lunch in her bag and off she goes.”

“What else happens?”

“She says that they do numbers and letters and reading.  Sometimes there’s drawing and colouring in and pasting.”

Sam sat open mouthed.  “You mean there’s no playing?  No blocks or trucks or Lego or cars?”

“There’s playing, but only at certain times and no blocks or trucks or Lego or cars.  But I haven’t told you the worst part,” said Jeffrey.

“What could be worse than no toys to play with?” asked Sam, fear creeping into his voice.

Jeffrey dropped a bombshell.  “My Big Sister said that at Big School you have to sit in a chair.”  For maximum impact he dragged the syllables out as long as strings of melted cheese, “All day.”

“Like the Naughty Chair?” asked Sam.  “I was put on the Naughty Chair for drawing on the walls with Mum’s lipstick.  Apparently it was her favourite.  I thought I drew a good picture of Bob the Builder.”

“Dunno.  But all I know is that you have to sit in it all day.”

“So Big School is sitting in a Naughty Chair all day long,” Sam said, trying to comprehend such a villainous punishment.

The pair contemplated in silence as the cat ventured near enough for a pat, but wary enough should its tail be pulled.

Sam broke the tension.  “You know what this means?  We’d better on our best behaviour or else we’ll be sent to Big School to sit on the Naughty Chair.”

“You’re right,” said Jeffrey.  “I don’t want to get stuck on a chair all day long.”

3 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , ,

The Art of Blowing Bubbles

Posted on October 15, 2010 | 33 comments

Funerals in the movies tend to have rain in them as a metaphor of grief and sorrow.  At Nanna’s funeral, the day was just, well, a nice spring day.  My brother and sister stood beside me in the front row; our mother and her sister sharing tissues and sorrow.

I’ve come to think of memory as a photo album.  You know those little rectangular ones where you can flip through a hundred or so photos.  In my version I see my Nanna, the high coiffed hair held together by a film of hairspray.  I’m surprised her cigarettes didn’t set her hair alight with all that product.

You hold onto the little things about someone, whether it’s an event, a situation or a scent.  For me, it was something she said.

“You can never blow bubbles when you are angry,” my grandmother intoned. The word changed depending on the situation: sad or scared or upset, but the intent was always the same.

At the know-it-all age of five and full of boyish exuberance, I was trying to blow bubbles through a home made loop of wire dipped into bright pink dish washing-up detergent.

“This stuff is far better than any of that store-bought rubbish,” was her standard refrain.  And I must admit that even to this day I still swear by the bright pink sticky liquid.  It made awesome bubbles.

Try as I might, I could not get the bubbles to form a consistent stream like my grandmother made.  The more I tried, the less successful I was and the frustrations of a young child verged on tearful.  Nanna calmly took the loop of wire from my hand and dipped it.  She raised it to her lips and I watched the quiet exhalation of breath.  The bubbles streamed away, caught by the breeze.

“Slowly and carefully,” she instructed.

I dipped the loop and drew it towards my mouth.  The frustration was simmering but I paused while I took a deep breath.  With controlled focus I released the captured air and it raced towards the skin of detergent.  It bulged and suddenly burst.

“Try again,” was her reassurance.  It was hard to be calm when all you wanted to do was hurl the wretched thing across the yard.  The second attempt proved as futile.

“Slowly and consistently,” she repeated.

On the third try a small stream of bubbles stuttered then stopped.

“There you are.  That’s it.”

Reassured I tried again and watched the swirl of bubbles get pushed along by the wind.  We laughed trying to fill the air with as many bubbles as we could.  Little spheres popped noiselessly.

It became her sage advice for every occasion, should something go wrong.  She kept a bottle of solution and a wand on the kitchen windowsill.  Sometimes it was better than any headache tablet or cough medicine.

Nanna’s coffin slid through the curtain to the crematorium.   My father led my mother by the arm outside the chapel.  The mourners congregated in sombre two’s and three’s.  I stood aside in the shade of the alcove.  From my jacket pocket I removed a small plastic bottle of bright pink washing up liquid and a loop of wire.  A libation in honour of the dead.

Grief disrupted the rhythm of my breathing. A short, sharp inhalation held to stem the tears.  I drew the wand to my lips then methodically, deliberately exhaled. A steady stream of bubbles rushed forward settling in the hands of the breeze.  I watched them rise and dance, fade and disappear.

33 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , , ,