Category Archives: Short Stories

The Red Balloon #3 – Simple Pleasures

Posted on May 13, 2010 | 1 comment

Streamers floated in the breeze and cake crumbs littered the tablecloth while the lounge room floor was strewn with the debris of a six year old tornado who had torn into wrapping paper to get at the goodies.  But Matthew abandoned the boxes of Lego stacked beside a bright yellow dump truck covered in layers of new t-shirts and pants for a dash around the backyard.  A bright red balloon trailed like a comet behind Matthew as he whooped and hollered while the dog leapt and barked and howled with delight.  In his game the balloon became an orbiting moon as astronaut Matthew moved in slow motion steps with a bucket on his head.  A few days later he imagined that it was a jellyfish when it hung in limbo between the ceiling and the floor and he pretended to swim around it as it bobbed in the air.  Grandparents and relatives chuckled their approval and remembered when things were simpler and would not begrudge a small boy his bright new toys.

1 Comment

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , ,

Afternoon Tea and Philosophy

Posted on May 10, 2010 | 2 comments

Jack and Stewie sat on the back step of the porch with a bowl of grapes and crackers philosophising on the things that are important to a five year old such as the change of seasons.

“What makes all the leaves on the tree change colour?” asked Stewie.

“Mum says that in autumn the tree begins to shut down and keep its energy for spring, so the leaves die and that’s why the leaves change colour,” said Jack. “What do you think?”

“I reckon that a bunch of little painters go around every night and paint the leaves a different colour, but it takes a lot of painters and time so it’s kind of like how Santa Clause can get around all the world in one night.”

“Yeah, that’s what I reckon too,” said Jack as they fell back to munching on their afternoon tea.

2 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , ,

Split the Difference

Posted on May 8, 2010 | 6 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #154 for May 7th, 2010

A man aspiring to be a pro bowler loses to his young daughter.

Steve entered the bowling alley with a little black rain cloud in tow.  The sulky weather system named Laura drifted in with her arms folded, earphones plugged in and the hood of her jacket pulled up.

“Dad, why did I have to come with you?”

“You know why.  Your Mum had to take your brother to the doctor and there was no one else to look after you.”

“But Samantha’s parents let her stay home by herself.  Everyone else’s parents let them.”

Steve wanted to trot out the Parent One Liner Guide Book to Trump Your Teen and use the “If everyone else was jumping off the cliff, would you do it too” line but thought better of it.  Instead he went with the truth.

“I’m not quite ready to let my just-turned-thirteen year old daughter stay home all by herself.”

“That’s not fair,” Laura replied.

“Fair or not, that’s just how it is, sweetheart.”

“But Dad…” she whined.

“I’m not going to argue this with you.  Sorry you have to be here, but that’s just how it is for tonight.  Can’t say having you here particularly thrills me either.  Bloke’s night and all.”

Laura’s face widened with teenage indignation at her father’s off hand comment.  She parried the blow with the sullen, silent treatment and folded her arms after burrowing into her earphones.

She rolled her eyes and chose to ignore the other members of the bowling team as they arrived in their matching purple and gold shirts, a fuddy duddy boy band on too much red cordial as she described them.  Mack “The Knife,” Peter “Wrench,” Jono “Dog Nuts” and her father, Steve “Goose” chatted jovially and set about their practice round, shining balls, adjusting shoes and strapping on gloves.

The four men set about their game and Laura watched the scoreboard set up something that resembled algebra, with numbers and “x’s” and dashes that was as confusing to Laura as the da Vinci code.  Her father had talked of going pro some time soon, but Laura had not bothered to understand.

As the first game drew to its conclusion, Laura’s boredom teamed up with her offended nature to speak up.

“Can I have a go?”

The boys smiled condescendingly but couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse her.  Steve stammered but no words really came out.  Self assured but not yet with the sassiness of a teen decided to challenge her father.

“What?  Are you afraid you’ll be beaten by a girl?” she said.

Laura pushed at the buttons she knew her father would respond to and he gave no quarter.

He gave her a few basic pointers and techniques, chose her a ball from the rack and let her up to bowl.

Her father asked, “Would you like the bumpers up to bowl sweetheart?”
She looked at him from under her eyebrows and turned back to bowl.  She measured the lane with her eye, swung her arm back and released the ball.  The clatter of pins resounded triumphantly as they fell, leaving two off to the right.  A smattering of polite applause came from behind.  Taking her second shot, she eyed it off and delivered the shot, clearing out the frame.

“Good bit of luck there darling,” her father said.

Steve’s first shot went slightly wider than he had anticipated, leaving an awkward seven-ten split.  He prepared the shot but only cleaned up one.  From the second frame, Laura’s confidence grew while her father’s weakened.  She channelled every ounce of teenage indignation of not being allowed to stay at home all by herself and delivered each ball with conviction.  Spare followed strike, but not everything that glisters turned to perfection.  Steve’s first frame set the pattern and there was no recovery.  Laura smiled smugly at another failed attempt to convert a seven-ten split and the boys shifted uneasily.

The last pin failed to fall and Laura whooped in celebration.

“I beat you.  You should have left me at home.  I beat Dad,” she gloated in a sing-song voice.

The Knife, Wrench and Dog Nuts clapped her on the back and were very thankful their children hadn’t been there.

“Don’t worry, Steve,” said Wrench, “You just had a bad game.  It happens.”

“I can still ground her for being cheeky and a sore winner,” Steve laughed as he took Laura’s hand and headed home.

6 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

The Letter

Posted on April 30, 2010 | 5 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #153 for April 30th, 2010

“My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon.”

She snapped back to the faux sincerity of the doctor’s office, focusing on the doctor’s slightly skewiff tie, hearing his question but not listening.  He repeated it for her.

“My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon,” she said.

She thanked him for his time and shook his hand.  Such a formal gesture she thought for such a circumstance as this.  Gathering her handbag she headed for her car.

Rummaging in her hand bag she found her mobile phone only to find the battery had gone flat.  Her initial irritation gave in to relief as she found that words had escaped her.

The drive home was only brief, but she was thankful that it didn’t allow her to dwell on her new information for too long.

Feeling skittish she popped the kettle on.  The news from the doctor had unsettled her.  Her hand wavered above the handset of the phone, ready to call her husband, but the tears threatened to overwhelm and betray her.  She thought writing it down may help to align the pieces of the puzzle scattered in her brain.

Pen and paper were retrieved from the sideboard and sitting down with her cup of tea she paused, afraid to commit her fears in ink.  Time after time she scrunched the paper into a ball and pushed it aside.  The words refused to be drawn out.

Walking around the small kitchen table she shook out her mind like a blanket and sat down again.

“My dearest husband,

The battle we have fought has left us scarred.  We cannot pretend otherwise.  We have inflicted wounds against each other.  And drawn the blade across our own skin.

This is a time when peace must stake its claim that we may stand together and not falter.

I am weary.  I am tired.  And yet they are not adequate enough to speak of the pain within my bones.  Release will come quickly.  And I will need you at my side.

Your loving wife.”

She folded the paper into thirds and lay it down in front of her.  The evening crept into the kitchen.  She sat and waited as the shadows moved stealthily up the wall, descending the room into a darkening mist.

The jangle of keys announced the arrival of her husband.  He stuck his head around into the kitchen and stopped.  Putting aside his keys and wallet he sat down at the table and took the letter pushed across towards him.

When he had finished reading, he refolded the letter and leant forward to reach for her hands.  She let her hands be taken as his lay gently on top.

She spoke, “I’m pregnant.”

His smile sealed their hope in her heart.

5 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

The Red Balloon #2 – I’ve Always Wanted To Fly

Posted on April 29, 2010 | Leave a comment

I’ve always wanted to fly as I watch the balloons float away above the carnival, wishing I had that freedom.  The closest I can get to that wish is memory and imagination.  My body aches at the remembrance of grasping the chain of the swing set; leaning backwards, getting dizzily disorientated watching the world arc from blue to green to blue.  I imagine flying feels a lot like swimming in an aquiline ocean, rising and falling with the phases of the moon, feeling the push and pull of the currents.  Reaching behind I untie the red balloon from the handle of my wheelchair and say a little prayer.  I let my red balloon go into the blue firmament of heaven, above the heady aromatic cloud of fairy floss, deep fried food and the dusty warmth of cattle, to live vicariously for me.

Leave a comment

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

The Red Balloon #1 – Prayers

Posted on April 25, 2010 | 4 comments

Jake scrummaged in his art and craft box for a marker.  Sitting against the bed he wedged the red helium balloon between his knees and began to write the prayer of a six year old.  Going into the backyard he released it, letting the ribbon unfurl through his fingers.  It rocketed upwards, its string a tail, a seed propelled by faith, with hope that it would conceive and bring forth life.  Jake shaded his eyes and watched it ascend towards heaven until he could see it no more.  He wondered if it had reached God or if maybe it had burst before God could read it.

4 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

Give Me Your Hands If We Be Friends

Posted on April 23, 2010 | 5 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #152 for April 23rd, 2010

A segregated audience at a school play leads to a town revelation.

The stage lights focused on the solitary actor positioned just off centre, seated on a cardboard boulder.  The actor’s face strained, trying to remember his lines, his thick tongue protruding slightly.  A quiet prompt caused a wide smile to appear.  Short hands and stubby fingers repositioned the ivy wreath on his broad forehead and began.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.

Louise stopped scrawling notes for The Hopetoun Chronicle’s entertainment blog.  She had come along to the opening night at the invitation of the director, in order to spruik the performance.  She scanned the list of players’ profiles and found the actor playing Puck.  Andrew Davison.  His first performance the program stated.  The glossy black and white photo showed a smile that somehow captured the essence of life and innocence.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:

Shuffling back in her seat, Louise replayed the earlier mental conversation with herself.  Attending the play would probably mean she would miss seeing her favourite band; at best, catching the last few songs of the set.  But it was work and some things were needed to be done to move up the journalistic ladder.  Amateur theatre.  Louise had scorned the black skivvy and beret brigade at college, concluding that it would be appropriate to use a silencer should you need to kill a mime.  School theatre was a rung below that.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;

Puck continued his delivery with the slightly slurred delivery of a person with Down Syndrome, yet its timbre did not clash with the metre of the Bard.  Louise scanned the audience and saw the attentive faces of fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters.  She saw in their faces a distinct pride, a connection with the actor on stage that Louise did not share.   The faces in the program all had family in the audience, all who had come to watch a play.  They did not see physical impediment or intellectual disability.

Else the Puck a liar call;

It pricked at Louise.  This was a world that she had avoided.


So, good night unto you all.

They were the forgotten ones; the shadows around the periphery of community, held at arm’s length like the lower castes.


Give me your hands, if we be friends,

Yet, here was life and love and acceptance.  Louise realised that it was her hands that retreated, firmly pushed into metaphorical pockets.  Now they were applauding, not as Puck requested, but because Louise was busy writing notes to show the town one more barrier to overcome.


And Robin shall restore amends.

5 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

The Magnifying Glass

Posted on April 16, 2010 | 1 comment

“All you have ever done is find fault and be critical, without ever taking a look at yourself,” his wife said as she slapped a magnifying glass into his hand.

He turned the object over in his hands in bemusement but remembered times as a child crouched in the dirt, magnifying glass focused inches from the ground watching the ants move in their industrial symmetry.  Back then it allowed him to peer into the nooks and crannies of insects and under rocks, yet as he grew into adolescence he turned his magnified gaze onto the people around him.  He explored the crevices of people’s character, pinpointing their weaknesses to his advantage.  Proudly he stood with chest of burnished bronze and crown of gold; too caught up in his reflection to notice the feet of clay.

“Turn this lens back on yourself and perhaps you’ll see something,” she said before turning on her heel and collecting her last bags from the front door.

1 Comment

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , ,

Snap, Crackle, Blergh.

Posted on April 15, 2010 | 12 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #151 for April 16th, 2010

While digging in a cereal box for the toy surprise, a child makes a grisly discovery.

Jackson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded down the hallway towards the kitchen.  The morning had ticked over into double digits, which was the prescribed time that an almost thirteen year old boy should emerge from his hiding hole.  He still wore his flannelette Superman pyjamas and matching slippers.

From the kitchen he collected the necessary utensils and cutlery to make breakfast.  He sat down at the table across from the television and surfed for Saturday morning cartoons.  He moved the cereal box between himself and the television and looked at the proclamation at the top right hand corner.  Contains one “Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge” said the packet.

Jackson had a rule, slightly unorthodox as it was.  The rule was that the surprise toy or gift must not be scrummaged for; it must fall from the box during the pouring of cereal.  Only that way would it truly be a surprise.  Scrummaging was for those who had no discipline, like sisters.  Especially his sister, Celia.

Today’s the day, thought Jackson, calculating how many bowls he had consumed, their relative volume and what was left in the box.  He chanced a peek and saw the plastic edge jutting out like a shark’s dorsal fin in a sea of cereal.

Out of the box tumbled golden flakes of sugar-encrusted breakfast-y goodness.  Jackson waited and poured.  And poured.  The bowl filled half-way.  Three-quarters.  Edging towards full.  It was almost at Jackson’s Point of No Return where the adding of milk would cause an overflow onto the table.  And you didn’t want to get Mum offside if you spoiled her clean tablecloth.  One final shake.  Light caught the plastic and reflected like a diamond as it dropped in slow motion.

Jackson looked down as his prize with the anticipation of Indiana Jones.  He even licked his lips.

Option A

Jackson let fly with a string of invective that would have made the school bully blush.

“Jackson, what caused you to say such a thing?” said his mother.

“All week I have been waiting for my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and all of a sudden I find I have a girl’s doll dress up set.  I’ve been had.  I’ve been swindled.  I’ve been set-up.  I am going to email the breakfast cereal company and demand to know why my breakfast cereal box contained a Belle of the Ball Dress Up Set and not my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge.”

His mother nodded, “Just don’t use that type of language.  You can help me with the washing as punishment this afternoon.”

In her bedroom, Celia tried on her Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and thought it looked rather nice with her fancy dress ensemble for Stephanie’s party that night.

Option B

Sitting atop his sugar crusted flakes was a small vacuum-sealed bag.  A long finger pointed accusingly at Jackson.  Just above the cleanly cut stump was a simple gold band.

“Mum, I think you need to come and see this!”

His mother came into the kitchen with a questioning look, which suddenly brightened up.

“So that’s where I put it.  I must be more careful when disposing of ex-husbands.  How careless of me.  Let me take that from you.”

She scooped it from the bowl and put it into the pocket of her apron.  Jackson stared at his bowl before pushing it away.

12 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , ,

Ashes to Ashes

Posted on April 13, 2010 | 4 comments

Josh clambered up the high stool in the kitchen and sat down with a bemused look on his face and directed a question at his mother, “Mum, what did the priest mean when he said ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ at Grandpa’s funeral last week?”

His mother dried her hands on a tea towel, to give herself time to think of an answer to satisfy a five year old’s need for information.

“Do you remember from Sunday School, when you learnt that God made Adam out of the dirt of the Earth?  Well, it means that when we die, we go back to dirt and dust, just like where we came from.”

Josh nodded vacantly as he began to process this new information and wondered if he should store it in the category marked “Science” or the one labelled, “Weird Stuff Mum Says.”

“Does that help you dear as it looks like you have another question to ask?”

“If that’s the case I need you to have a look under my bed at all the dust and tell me if someone is coming or going.”

4 Comments

Posted in Short Stories

Tagged , , , , , ,