It’s the Christmas season, a time of giving and rejoicing.
Therefore, I have a gift for you. I have written a Christmas-themed story for you to enjoy.
Click on the link below to download your copy.
A Christmas Story – The Cracker Factory
If you would like a signed hard copy, send me your address. Please be careful not to post your address in the public eye (I want to protect your privacy).
Blessings and Merry Christmas
Adam
The seagulls swooped and fell while others drifted on the updraft, hanging in the air like a child’s mobile suspended above their cot. The waves pounding the cliff face below provided the music, a lullaby of breathing in and breathing out.
I caught a glimpse of a Wandering Albatross whose wingspan is longer than I am tall. They say the albatross never touches land, except to feed and to mate, drifting from current to current. Is the albatross I see on the edge of the horizon a lost soul searching for home?
The ruckus of congregating seagulls at my feet was angling for the scraps from my lunch of fish and chips. Cheeky buggers; they have no manners. But I envy the birds and their power of flight.
When we were kids, my older brother and I pored over books we borrowed from the Library on paper aeroplanes. We manufactured every design and plan, testing our creations from the back deck of the house. Some we built for tricks, others for distance. My brother was fascinated with the physics of flight while I found the artistry in the folding. I branched out to origami, creating flocks of flightless birds I hung from the ceiling in my bedroom.
The need to fly never left me and I found the power to fly through words. Pen and paper, ink and ideas.
At my hand lies an old journal of mine I found when cleaning out boxes from the garage. My fifteen year old self was such an idiot. But there were words and sentences; flights of fancy in ribbons of black ink. I would slipstream over and under the words as they flowed.
Simply on a whim I tore a page from the journal and fashioned a crude paper aeroplane. Standing up from the picnic table I moved towards the edge of the cliff, parting the seagulls as an avian John the Baptist. As a prayer I launched the paper aeroplane, throwing my words into the world.
My word shall not return to me void, says the Lord God Almighty. I so hope the words coming back to me aren’t swear words.
The paper aeroplane took flight, bobbing in the eddies and draughts, flying down towards the maelstrom of waves. It dipped and spun, ducked and weaved to be consumed by the waters below.
Pages flew from the hanger of my journal, transformed into shapes born for flight. Some plummeted to the ground, felled by the weight of the words. Others returned to me from the void, swept upwards by thrusts of air. They flew over my head and were lost in the scrubland behind the car park. The temptation to search for my words was strong, to see what was so important that it should return, but I let them be.
With my journal now a spine without a body to support, I headed back to the car. I paused from turning the ignition, caught by one more vision of the albatross. Childhood has aged into adolescence, matured into adulthood, yet I am still learning how to fly.
“What do you mean ‘Headaches were not listed in the brochure’ darling? Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.”
“I only meant it as a joke, sweetheart.”
“The reason I have a headache is because we spent all day on the water, and, despite wearing sunglasses, the glare off the water and the champagne we drank has given me a headache. I’m not saying it because I don’t want to have sex with you.”
“I didn’t doubt you had a headache. It was meant as a joke, but it seems to have backfired slightly.”
“A headache is a headache. What you said indicated you were disappointed you weren’t getting any tonight.”
“I’m sorry. It was meant to be a light hearted jest. This is our honeymoon, after all. I thought we could spend some more ‘quality time’ together.”
“What do you think I am? Just because we’re on our honeymoon am I an amusement park rollercoaster to ride whenever you please?”
“No, I don’t think you’re…”
“I’m not the one with a penis bursting out of my pants simply because I ogle even a glimpse of boob. Is this what you were after? Just a moment ago you wanted my boobs in your face and now you won’t look at them?”
“At the beginning of the week you were up for almost anything. I’ll never look at the mini-bar fridge in the same way again.”
“Do you think I can be turned on and off like a vibrator? Take me, baby. I’m all yours. What, all soft and soggy now? Won’t the bucking bull try and throw off the cowgirl. And I wouldn’t go comparing myself to a stallion; a Shetland pony is more your style.”
“I’m sorry I said anything.”
“Don’t turn your back on me while we’re talking. I know this is our honeymoon and we have the rest of our lives to be together, but it’s not a 24-hour shag fest. It would be good to see a bit more of the sights while we’re here.”
“Okay, we will. Is this conversation finished?”
“Not even remotely. Poking me in the back with an erection and asking if I’m awake does not count as foreplay. Sometimes I like surprises, but occasionally, some effort and consideration wouldn’t go astray. And you can forget about the camera. I am not risking candid snaps ending up on my mother’s facebook page. And while we’re on the topic of ‘Things That Annoy Me’ it wouldn’t kill you to leave the bed before breaking wind. It is not necessary to fluff the blankets to check if it smells. Stop laughing. You thought I was asleep the other night when you let one rip.”
“How did a discussion about our sex life become an argument about my personal hygiene habits? You aren’t much better. The other day in the supermarket you dropped a landmine when you were with the trolley. I came back with the bread and copped a nostril of Satan’s butt crack.”
“I didn’t know it was going to smell.”
“You whisper with a clenched fist when you fart. And do you mind not taking a whiz while I’m brushing my teeth. It’s just… wrong.”
“If you could aim for the bowl, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“I’ll aim for the bowl if you don’t leave skid marks. Nothing worse than opening the lid and finding the brown hornet has practiced landing runs.”
“That’s gross.”
“You’re the one who started down this line of argument. And I don’t appreciate morning breath that would strip paint from walls in my face.”
“I don’t have stinky morning breath.”
“How would you know? You don’t have to breathe it in.”
“This bloody headache is killing me and the tablets haven’t helped much. I’m going to sleep. Good night.”
“So, sex is out of the question tonight, then?”
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged comedy, flash fiction, Friday flash, Humour, relationships, slice of life
The young knight moved with the rhythm of his horse as it plodded on through the rising mountain range. He remembered the day he left the citadel when dawn’s rosy fingers crept over the landscape, warming the cold earth with her delicate touch. A rooster heralded the day while the sows chuffed and snuffled amongst the hay in the stalls. The cows waited impatiently in the yard, eager to be rid of their bulging surplus, scuffing their hooves and quietly rumbling their displeasure at having to wait for the milkmaid.
In the stables, his horse sensed his nervousness and anticipation, and whinnied uneasily. Mounting the steed the knight looked around at the grim, grey walls. No fanfare sounded, no merriment signalled his departure. This was a journey anticipated with excitement and foreboding. Every knight had to earn his rank with a deed of valour. This knight sought the most prized of all trophies, the horn of the dreaded wyrm, the ancient red dragon.
Day followed day as the knight traversed the kingdom’s terrain. The green plains surrounding the castle and the village merged into the sparsely wooded forests. The trees transformed into cathedral-like pillars; sunlight filtering as a candle chandelier. The forest neither threatened nor welcomed, simply accepted the presence of the knight and his steed. High in the canopy birds chatted about the passing of the weather and the movement of the deer across the ranges.
Each passing day took the knight closer to his destination, the lair of the great wyrm. With each passing footfall of his horse, the animals became quieter until silence lowered its head in sombreness as the knight approached the dragon’s cavern.
The forest ended abruptly at the foot of the mountains. The sides rose steeply into the clouds forming a white wall. Wisps streamed out like banners unfurling declaring signals of war.
“Let us take the battle to this scourge,” said the knight.
The traverse was steep, littered with the bones of earlier combatants. The knight’s strength melted in his chest like the spring thaw.
“Have courage and fear not,” he said to himself.
Close to the summit the knight paused to plan his assault. At the cusp of daybreak the knight crept to the edge of the dragon’s cavern. Peering around a boulder he spied the great wyrm, curled on himself like a dog. The red sheen of the dragon’s scales glittered in the early light, a magnificent vision of ruby and rose. The slow rise and fall of its great body suggested it was sleeping.
“And what is your name, knight?”
The knight was taken aback by the sudden hail. “How did you know I was here?”
“You humans are clumsy and so predictable,” said the dragon. “You are best swatted out of the air like flies. But your name young knight.”
The knight took a stance of combat. “My name is Sir Justin of Thornleigh.”
“Ultimately, your name is unimportant. It is simply protocol. You are one more to add to the collection.” The dragon rolled to one side, exposing its underbelly. Melded into its scaly hide was a wall of shields. Justin recognised the standards of known champions.
“Dragon, would you give me the pleasure of your name.”
“Ulfthalas. Now pleasantries are over, we can commence hostilities.”
The fireball exploded from the dragon’s mouth. The knight dove to his right before rolling under the dragon’s tail as it swung overhead, the spikes grazing against his shield.
The element of surprise gambled on and lost, the knight sprang forward to attack at the dragon’s forequarters where the shield wall ended. The dragon’s cavern afforded some room for the wyrm to manoeuvre but the knight harried and hacked at the weak points, away from the fiery blast and the swinging tail.
Roars of frustration emanated from the dragon’s throat as it clawed back and forth to reach for the harrying knight underneath. The dragon raised its left foreleg and aimed to squash the knight. Bringing the claw down, the tips of its claws scored the shield, splintering the wood.
Taking his chance, the knight leapt up the dragon’s leg and swung onto its back. Sitting astride the dragon’s shoulders, the knight took his sword in two hands and raised it above his head, preparing to strike the death blow.
Suddenly, a motherly voice sang out like church bells at Sunday service.
“Justin, it’s time to come in for lunch.”
“I’m coming Mum. I’ll be there in a minute,” replied the young knight, pushing the bike helmet out of his eyes while the dog yapped and dodged around him. A green towel tucked into the collar acted as a cape, fluttering out behind.
The knight turned and addressed the dragon, “I beg your pardon, but I am summoned forthwith to sup.”
“Forsooth, one cannot deny the command. We will continue our melee at a later stage.”
Drawing his sword to his chest, Justin saluted the dragon and bowed in reverence to his worthy opponent. The dragon lowered its head to the knight in solemn respect.
The knight turned and began to discard his weapons and armour. The wooden sword clattered against the garbage can lid shield as it dropped into the dirt. Large gardening gloves fell easily off little fingers. The bicycle helmet bounced along the ground and caused the dog to leap away for fear of being skittled. A cardboard box covered in aluminium foil served as a breastplate and was left at the foot of the stairs as the screen door clattered shut. The dog sat expectantly at the door waiting for the boy’s return, but soon gave up and returned to gnaw its favourite bone under the shade of the orange tree.
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged adolescence, children, fantasy, flash fiction, Friday flash, surburban fantasy, young adult
This is a collection of vignettes written over a period of time, using the symbol of a red balloon. The other symbol is the black dog, a metaphor for depression. Each is only six sentences in length.
#1 – Prayers
Elise scrummaged in her little sister’s art and craft box for a marker. Sitting against the bed she wedged the red helium balloon her knees and began to write the jumbled and dislocated prayer of a twenty-something. Looking at what she had scribed, it looked like a crossword puzzle with the answers filled in but no clues to help give meaning.
Going into the backyard she took a deep breath and let the ribbon unfurl through her fingers as she exhaled. Elise shaded her eyes as it rocketed upwards, a seed propelled by faith, with hope that it would conceive and bring forth life, until she could see it no more.
She wondered if it had reached God or if it had burst before God could read it.
#2 – I’ve Always Wanted To Fly
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.
#3 – Simple Pleasures
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 him 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.
#4 – Hope
The red balloon bobbed above the heads of the comings and goings in the hospital corridor like a colourful speech bubble. It bounced into the children’s ward where tubes were worn like necklaces and bandages were a new zombie craze. Offsetting the bleep of machines and odour of sickness the red balloon added another splash of colour, lighting up sallow faces. With the help of a black texta, some purloined rubber gloves from the box on the wall and a little bit of creativity the red balloon became a dancing clown. Laughter expelled fear to the dark corners of the room while hope settled in the creases of rumpled blankets. And for a brief moment even the adults were children again, joining in the mirth and imagination, remembering their own made up games.
#5 – My Black Dog
My black dog flumped onto my feet while I watched television, formed to the curvature of the couch, and in his mouth was the tattered remnants of my red balloon.
All afternoon I had watched him skulking around the back door, but he nuzzled his way in, eyeing off the red balloon that floated on the draughts through the cracks in the windows. With a quick snap he had taken the balloon in his mouth and popped it.
He looked triumphant with his saggy jowls knowing I was defeated and would not move from where I had taken up position. The afternoon shadows crept like soul’s darkness across the floor, a marshy quicksand that sucks you down below into its depths.
However, my black dog tends to forget that I have a pocketful of red balloons.
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged flash fiction, Friday flash, life in general, red balloon, slice of life
The Committee members shuffled papers and snapped locks on briefcases. Coffee orders were taken and promptly delivered before withdrawal symptoms set in. The small bowls of lollies were passed from hand to hand and rapidly emptied. The cream biscuits were always popular comestibles, except for those who believed in the fattening effects of dairy-based products. Otherwise they were simply scoffed down with slurps of tea or coffee. Chocolate biscuits had been banned after an unfortunate incident involving The Chocolate Orgasm, otherwise known as The Tim Tam Slam, the Heimlich manoeuvre and an emergency clean up response crew from Domestic Hygiene.
The Chair of Non-specific Gender motioned for the meeting to start.
“First order of business: Inappropriate Adjectival Colour Nomenclature in the emergent adult nursery rhyme Baa Baa Black Sheep.”
Mutters of consternation rippled along the table. Tortoise shell spectacles and twin set cardigans were shuffled back into place. Spectacle chains rattled on pearl necklaces.
The Chair raised his hand and the murmurs ceased. “It is clearly understood that ‘black’ as a colour nomenclature is not appropriate. While as a colour designation it allows for a stunning example of alliteration in conjunction with onomatopoeia for pre-educational individuals, it has been suggested the adjectival colour nomenclature of the sheep contains racial overtones derogatory to the descendants of African origin. It is out task to determine another adjectival colour nomenclature. What other colours can we propose?”
“How about ‘Baa baa blue sheep? It maintains the alliterative structure of the nursery rhyme and has no apparent discriminatory overtones.”
From the other end of the desk came a response. “Blue is a stereotypical boys’ colour and we’d only be reinforcing the inherent patriarchal notions of gender, subjugating the feminine and universal womanhood.”
“What about pink, then?”
“Then you’re espousing matriarchal hegemony, which while brings a measure of equality back into society, only serves to reinforce the stereotypical colour of femininity for girls.”
“Baa baa red sheep?” someone else volunteered.
“It will give you the socialist vote, however I don’t see them reciting a chant that programs an economic model of the mode and means of production where the sheep has to give up its hard grown wool for the sake of a snotty young capitalist.”
A snort of muted laughter drew attention. “Three words: feminine hygiene product. I wonder if there’s a commercial featuring sheep playing tennis, running along beaches and generally being carefree?”
“And you can discount the colour grey as a monotonous capitalist framework for serving the system.”
“What about purple?”
“Historically it’s the colour of royalty. The monarchists would be saluting with Earl Grey Tea from their Wedgewood china cups. Especially with a royal wedding front and centre of the public eye at the moment. However, the republicans wouldn’t stand for it.”
“White?”
“Too many colonial and imperialist overtones. And besides, it’s too bland. It’s like vanilla ice cream; everyone eats it, but no one really enjoys it.”
“Yellow?”
“Well, sheep aren’t really an Asian thing are they?”
“Green?”
“It gives you the environmental vote, but then you’ve lost the capitalist community.”
“Orange?”
“Too Dutch. Have you ever watched a sporting event where they are playing? It’s an eye sore seeing a wall of orange.”
“Can I suggest ‘Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep’?”
“The rainbow has been appropriated by the GLBT community so come Mardi Gras time you could sing about sheep all you want. But then you’ve marginalised the heterosexual community and let’s face it, they are the ones currently filling the majority of vacancies in formative adult nurturing centres and pre-educational institutions.”
There was a pause as the committee stalled at the lack of remaining colours. An impasse looked inevitable. A voice broke their ruminations.
“I think we are overlooking a very important part of this nursery rhyme.”
The committee looked towards the member.
“Well, if you ask me, isn’t this little ditty a little bit species-ist? Why does it have to be a sheep? What about other wool-bearing animals: llamas, alpacas, goats? Shouldn’t they have a say in all of this?”
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged adolescent humour, flash fiction, Friday flash, Humour, irony, satire
Jake slipped into Biology class, head down, eyes up, heading for his usual seat near the window, close to the front of the room. The teacher wheeled a trolley out from the Prep Store. Lifting a large fish tank she placed it in the middle of the teacher’s desk, inviting the students to come forward.
The class crowded around the teacher’s desk staring into the large fish tank jostling for best viewing rights. It was converted into a terrarium, the top covered with thin wire gauze, filled with twigs of eucalyptus leaves. Jake found himself nearest one end of the fish tank with two girls peering around his shoulders. Heads swayed backwards and forwards, peering in, hoping to spot something.
Finally a curious student asked, “Miss, what’s in there? Apart from leaves and stuff.”
“Look closer. Look for shapes that look like sticks but perhaps are not.”
The class reconvened their search.
“Oh, look. There.” Jake pointed, his finger close enough to the glass of the fish tank to form condensation. He wiped it clean and pointed again before withdrawing.
“Where?” someone asked. “I can’t see anything.”
“Hang on, I can see it,” said the girl behind him. “It looks like a stick is hanging upside down.”
With the puzzle solved, exclamations of discovery sounded around the desk.
“Found one here.”
“There’s another on this side of the tank and it’s different again.”
The teacher began writing on the whiteboard, telling the class the scientific names of the occupants of the fish tank.
“What you see are phasmids, or more commonly known as stick insects. To be more precise, they are of the class Insecta and the family Phasmatidae.
The teacher removed the wire gauze and reached into the leaves. Drawing her hand out, a stick insect spanned the length of her hand, its legs dancing an insect version of The Robot.
“This little beauty is ctenomorpha chronus.”
“It’s like a pencil on steroids,” said one lad, causing laughter to erupt.
Jake laughed too, taking note of its pencil-like body shape, angular legs and looking for all intents and purposes, like a stick.
A few students recoiled, uttering shrieks and expressing shivers as the alien insect began to move along her hand.
“Can I hold it, Miss?” asked Jake in a bold show of visibility.
The teacher extended her arm towards Jake who offered his open palm to the insect.
Jake mimicked the stick insect’s movement with his head, rocking backwards and forwards, swaying like there was a breeze. He wished it was a fire-breathing dragon.
It had been hidden away in shape and hue. The camouflaged shades of green and brown and angular lines of legs shielded it from spying students. Outside the safety of leaf and twig the insect was vulnerable; Jake felt an affinity with the creature.
“Oi, dancing boy. Give us a go,” said one boy.
Unaware he had continued to mimic the insect’s actions ever so slightly, Jake’s face flushed. Extending his hand he watched the stick insect traverse the fleshy terrain.
The array of school uniform framing the edge of the teacher’s desk caught Jake’s attention. They looked like the leaves on a branch in their uniformity: white shirts and grey shorts for the boys and white shirts and blue skirts for the girls. A navy tie completed the camouflage.
Around the edges subtle differences emerged. Shirts tucked in and shirts tucked out. Ties adjusted to the top button, also done up, to ties flying at half-mast. Skirts exposing more thigh than covering it or knee length decorum. Blouses framed cleavage and an array of coloured bras, signals of defiance or signs of invitation. Hair was spiked, straightened, teased, gelled and preened while metal fragments adorned ears, eyebrows, lips and noses.
Jake loosened his tie slightly, fingering the top button until he felt the pressure of the collar release.
Returning the insect to its environment was a signal for the students to return to their desks. Jake retreated to his seat, blending in again as the lesson continued.
At the conclusion of the lesson Jake slipstreamed from the classroom to the corridor in the wake of the student body as it ebbed and flowed from one class to the next, pushed and pulled by the phases of the bell, disappearing from sight in a whitewash of uniforms.
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged adolescence, flash fiction, Friday flash, growing up, life in general, sketches, slice of life
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.”
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged flash fiction, Friday flash, microfiction, relationships, sketches, slice of life
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.”
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged adolescent humour, comedy, flash fiction, life in general, slice of life
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.
Posted in Short Stories
Tagged children, flash fiction, Friday flash, life in general, relationships, slice of life
I am an English teacher and drummer/percussionist with an interest in literary pursuits, creative endeavours, rhythmic permutations, theological amplifications and comedic outbursts.
Here you will find my creative detritus: articles on living a creative life and writing explorations.
And other ideas I have snaffled from the papers stuck on the fridge door.
Twitter: @RevHappiness
Instagram: @handwrittenpages
My collaborative epistolary novel, "Post Marked: Piper's Reach," written with Jodi Cleghorn (@JodiCleghorn) out now via Vine Leaves Press.
Come and browse through the library; there is no need to be silent.
A Fullness in Brevity - Adam Byatt