Tag Archives: short story

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.”

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Horror Movie

Posted on April 9, 2010 | 6 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #150 for April 9th, 2010

A child walks in to a resident haunted house and is transported to another time.

Jake loved the idea of being able to escape into other worlds.  The back of wardrobes and any hole in the ground was explored on the off chance that there was something else behind the veil.  Even though he knew there would be nothing there, he always wanted to believe that there might be something.  When he couldn’t find that magical doorway, he created them on paper.  While Jake preferred exploring the recesses of his mind, his best friend Peter was more enthusiastic about just being outside.

“Let’s go check out the old abandoned Jenkin’s place.  They say it’s haunted.  We’ll pretend it’s just like a horror movie.”

Two torches, a length of rope, two comics, two apples and a backpack later, the boys traipsed through the vacant block of land adjacent to the creek.

“Scared?” said Pete.

“Nah.  You?”  lied Jake.

“Nah.  What you been up to this week?”

“Dad just gave me The Talk last night.  It’s just wrong; you know what I’m saying.  He was all um’s and ah’s and awkward, but at least he got the mechanics right.  I think I understand more from watching Desperate Housewives or nature docos.  And he kept humming this tune to himself and smiling.  Just so wrong.”

They stopped talking as they trekked through the long grass at the back of the Jenkin’s place until they stood at the back door.  The handle was brass and gleamed like it was brand new, despite the decrepit nature of the rest of the house.  Jake took hold of it and pushed down on the lever.  The hinges whispered as the door swung clear.  Jake snuck through the gap.  Pete heard a quiet sucking sound, followed by a distinct “pop.”  He pushed the door fully open and saw nothing but empty space.  The dust on the floor showed Jake’s footprints but they only went as far as two steps in.  Not even a shadow of Jake remained.

Jake stumbled blindly in darkness until his nose made a connection with something solid.  He ran his hands along the surface until his hands found purchase and he pushed.  When it didn’t work, he tried moving it to one side.  A door slid open, exposing Jake to this new world.  Through the window to his left he could see he was some way up in an apartment block.

Everything looked vaguely familiar yet looked a little bit older than he was.  It was a plain coloured room with a desk and computer opposite the door he had exited.  Jake looked behind him from where he had come and jumped at his own reflection in the mirror of the built-in wardrobe.  Sidling over to the desk he marvelled at the age of the computer; a translucent purple Apple desktop.  He picked up a mobile sitting beside the computer.

“This is so old it doesn’t even have a camera in it,” said Jake.  Putting it back down, he noticed the desk calendar, like his father had at home.  It was a daily flip calendar, with the date boldly stating, November 25, 1997.  He turned and scanned the adjacent shelves for anything to corroborate what he saw.  All the CDs on the shelf confirmed the date.

“Spice Girls,” he sniggered.  “Where’s all the new stuff?”

The door leading out of the room was closed.  He listened intently for any sound and when he was convinced there was no one home, he ventured out.  The apartment was not overly spacious, but roomy enough.

“Where’s the flat-screen telly?”  Jake saw no evidence of there being children.  The sound of laughter and a key in the lock sent Jake scurrying for cover.

A young couple entered and headed for the kitchen where the woman began unpacking takeaway food containers from a plastic bag.  The setting of dinner was interrupted by the young man sweeping the woman off her feet and carrying her passed Jake’s hiding place into the bedroom.

“But the food will go cold,” said the woman.

“That’s why there are microwaves.”

The strains of Foo Fighters “My Hero” pumped out of a stereo.  That’s Mum and Dad’s favourite song, thought Jake.  They always smile whenever they hear this song.  In adolescent curiosity he peeked towards the room and saw a writhing tangle of nakedness, but quickly averted his eyes.  Trying to find something else to look at he scanned the room he was in and saw a framed portrait on the dresser.  He recognised the couple immediately.  His parents’ wedding photo.

Jake’s eyes widened like dinner plates as his pubescent mind began to join the dots and draw for him a picture that was something that nightmares shrink away from.

Jake took off back into the wardrobe from where he had come and knocked Pete clear off his feet.

“Dude, where have you been?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nah man, something far worse and hideous than you can possibly believe.  I.  Saw.  My.  Parents.  Having.  Sex!”

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The Carpool Conspiracy

Posted on April 4, 2010 | 4 comments

Andrew pulled the car into the kerb for Stuart who began to prattle, “Man, I had the fiercest chili con carne last night and you guys are going to suffer big time.”

“Let me introduce you to Ellen,” interrupted James, indicating the newest member of the carpool, “and you may want to keep that smell to yourself.”

Stuart settled into the back seat, but before too long, last night’s dinner punctuated the conversation, for which he apologised profusely. Ellen seemed unperturbed by the noise or the smell and somewhat amused at Stuart’s discomfort. But then a new smell struck with the silence of a ninja and the strength of an atomic bomb.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” quipped Ellen, “but you don’t grow up with three brothers and not learn to defend yourself.”

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The Hagiography

Posted on April 2, 2010 | 4 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #149 for April 2nd, 2010

An April Fools prank gone too far.

In Mr Gorman’s Year 9 History I learnt a new word: hagiography.  I forget the two Greek words that it comes from, but I remembered that it was the writing of saints’ lives.  They made wonderful reading for a pubescent lad, like a Boys’ Own Adventure.  In the name of piety they lived high up off the ground on poles or in remote caves like bats, or ate random bugs and insects.

My school had its own hagiography: the holy scriptures of the boys’ toilet block.  History is written by those with a permanent marker.  The disciples and zealots wrote in indelible ink the actions and statements of their saviours.  I remember sitting in a cubicle in my first year of high school, amazed at the profundity of adolescent thought: “Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to crap but only farted.”  From time to time a persecution would take place and the toilet block would be repainted.  In time, new scriptures would replace the old.

The ghosts of boys from ages past were immortalised in gold letters on tablets of darkened oak.  They hung above, in the shadows of the hall, ranged along side pennants of long won tournaments of the paddock.  For some, this was the path to righteousness, the whispered legends of past old boys who had become bigger than their exploits.  These were the heroes and legend of old, stored in the apocryphal gospels of yearbooks and school photos.

For others, status was born out of unbuttoned collars and half-slung ties.  Years of indeterminate rebellion characterised by subversive acts or a single moment so inspired it was without peer.  I wanted it.  That moment.  That glory.  I wanted to walk the footpath to the front gate of the school with a swagger and nonchalance.

After Mr Gorman’s history lesson I started to look for Greek and Latin phrases.  Fortes fortuna adiuvat – “Fortune favours the bold” became my motto as I chalked my way around the school, boldly proclaiming my intentions.  My other favourite was “luceat lux vestra,” let your light shine.  I was going to be the brightest candle that burned, even if my time should be cut short; there was to be no pastoral retirement.

My final year.  I planned for April 1, Holy Thursday, to engage in an act that would make me immortal.  Six hundred boys filed into the assembly hall for the term’s final liturgy.  I was poised, waiting for the moment.  After the priest’s homily, in that moment of quiet reflection, I set off my mobile phone.  It rang once and all eyes darted to find the culprit.  Twice.  Eyes focused in.  Thrice.  I had their attention.

“Hello.”  Pause.  “Yes, I shall pass a message on.”  I stood to my feet.  “That was God.  He says that we should have girls at our school next year.”

The laughter teetered, but I knew I had them.  I had my moment.

The priest leaned forward.  “It seems that there is no need as we already have one in our midst.”

The jeers and hollers rang as loud as church bells.  I had been trumped.  The nearest teacher stormed down the aisle and I obediently followed.  The aftertaste was acrid, bitter.  I couldn’t spit enough.  Status, legend; all illusory onanism.

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Puberty Blues

Posted on March 26, 2010 | 8 comments

[Fiction] Friday

Friday 26th March “Shhh… did you hear that?”

Andy had stumbled across a discovery that excited and startled a ten year old and he had to show his best friend, Pete.  The two paused briefly before the open office door.  Looking back down the hallway they heard the strains of the afternoon football match and the sound of can being opened in the lounge room.  Andy led the way into his father’s office and pulled the door partially closed behind them.  He sidled over to the built-in wardrobe and slid back the door.  Thrusting his head into the semi-darkness he rummaged around while Pete kept watch on the door and listened for approaching footsteps.

“Here it is,” said Andy holding a magazine like a holy object.  The front cover was emblazoned with by-lines that screamed of eye-popping full frontals, “the best you’ve ever seen” and other saucy secrets.

They stared in wild-eyed wonder at the burlesque strip tease performed on the pages.  Breasts fell out of lingerie and bottoms were exposed from all angles.  They had never considered there could be so many variations on a theme: size, colour, shape, pubic hair landscaping, piercings and tattoos.

“Shhh… did you hear that?” said Pete.  The boys paused and waited.   Each could feel their heart thumping a frantic ostinato.  A cupboard door closed shut and the crinkle of fast food packaging joined the sound of the game.  They returned to their investigation of masculine curiosity and perversity.

Pete couldn’t believe his eyes when Andy reached the centre of the magazine.

“That’s almost life-sized,” he said.

Andy unfolded the pages to show the curvature of breasts and buttocks and a finely manicured lawn with the staple as a secondary bellybutton ornament.

They flipped backwards and forwards through the magazine stopping to read the articles that made them giggle with words like “throbbing” and “pulsating” and they were unsure why there was a constant reference to cats.

Caught up in their surreptitious discovery, they didn’t hear the door open behind them.

“There you two are.  Been wondering what you’d been up to; thought it was too quiet.”  Andy’s father suddenly stopped when he saw the naked panorama.

Andy and his father locked eyes.  Andy just stared, shamed in his guilt.  His father bored down on Andy in parental displeasure but broke contact first.

“That’s not something that you should be looking at,” his father chastised.  “It’s not appropriate for someone your age.”

“But why do you have it hidden away in the cupboard?  Don’t you want Mum to see?”

His father rattled his brain for the appropriate parental response and grasped at the first one that would get him out of answering the question.

“Give me that.  You two go outside and do something.”

Andy’s father took the proffered object of indiscretion and watched them walk ashamedly from the office.  He looked at the rolled up magazine and sighed deeply.  Checking that the boys were indeed outside playing, he dumped the magazine into the garbage.

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The Table of Knowledge

Posted on March 26, 2010 | Leave a comment

“Here’s to a ten years of The Table of Knowledge,” said Dan as he slopped the first round of beers down.  James reflected on the Table of Knowledge, the weekly symposium begun by six idealistic university undergraduates; they had been at the same table discussing the world’s problems and in some measure solving them.  Their banter traversed stories of marriage and divorce, children and careers; their friendship now held together by alcoholic glue.  The better part of a decade had been wiped away like dregs and James now saw five men discussing which female newsreader would look better naked.  He was startled to think that in another ten years he could still be at the same table, telling the same stories, just like other patrons who inhabited the dark recesses of the pub.  James put down his half finished beer and walked out into the night.

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A Walk in the Black Forest

Posted on March 18, 2010 | 9 comments

[Fiction] Friday

Friday 19th March
Your character doesn’t make impulse purchases, but one day at the market they felt compelled to buy… what?

Geoff followed in the slipstream of his girlfriend around the flea market as she moved from stall to stall like a bee after nectar.  She took in racks of oddment clothing, holding them against her and asking if he liked the colour, but didn’t usually wait for an answer.  This was followed by handmade knick knacks and jewellery, pot plants and the requisite doner kebab stand.

He didn’t mind the day out with Miranda, but what really got him was her impulsiveness.  Everything she bought was a bargain, she claimed, and Geoff nodded assent and observed the cacophony of the senses abused by the toothless, dreadlocked, bearded and heavily tattooed busker whose guitar seemed to be missing a number of strings.  At the moment Miranda was poring over a trestle table of dye tied cloths.

Geoff took the moment to glance around and settled his eye on the stall behind to his right.  Amongst the dream catchers and shamanic artefacts were blankets.  At least that’s what Geoff thought they were.  On closer inspection he saw that they were in fact bear pelts with their heads drooping over the edge of the table.

The woman behind the stall stepped up to the bench and said, “Do you like them?”

Geoff looked up, literally, into the sapphire eyes of a Germanic looking woman with broad shoulders, ample bosom and flaxen hair shot through with silver tied into a plait the thickness of a ship’s rope.

“You don’t see these all too often,” said Geoff.

“They belonged to my great-great grandmother back in the motherland and she brought them out with her many moons ago.”

“What’s the history behind them?”

“It’s a family of European brown bears; father, mother and cub who were menacing a village near the Black Forest.”

“Wonder if Goldilocks met them?” quipped Geoff.

“Fairy tales have a strange way of being somewhat true, no matter what Disney does to them.”

Beside the pelts was an array of knives, plain and ornate.  Geoff spotted one with a horse head handle with an ivory inlay.

“My great-great grandmother was good with a knife.  Or so the legends say.  This is apparently the one she used on these three,” the woman said indicating the pelts.

“How much?”

“Thirty dollars.”

Geoff opened his wallet and handed over the money.  Taking his purchase from the Germanic woman with the ample bosom he went over to catch up with Miranda.

“Oh you bought something.  That is so unlike you.  You’ll have to show me later.  Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

The afternoon clouds interrupted with sudden peals of thunder and spits of rain.  As the crowd dispersed to find shelter and stall holders quickly covered their wares, Geoff took a final glance at the stall.

The woman grabbed a stole and cast it around her shoulders.  It was a burnished red and the hood resembled a wolf’s head like a Roman centurion.  She disappeared as the rain formed a curtain between them.

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Cinnamon Doughnuts and a Neenish Tart

Posted on February 18, 2010 | 8 comments

“Good morning, Mr. Robertson.  It’s good to see you.  Would you like your regular order?”

“Good morning, Angela.  It is good to see you, too.  As fond as I am of the cinnamon doughnuts, I shall have a neenish tart in honour of Mrs. Robertson.”

“I am sure she would have approved.  How long has it been?”

“Just going on two years, my dear.”

Angela finished scribbling down the order, uncertain of what to say, but slipped back into her business manner, “Take a seat and I’ll bring your order out.”

Mr Robertson took a seat near the window of the coffee shop and carefully placed his trilby on the left hand corner of the table.  Drawing his pocket watch from his waistcoat he checked the time against the Town Hall clock.

Angela placed her hand lightly on his shoulder as not to startle him, letting it pause before placing the tray in front of him.

“I added something a little extra,” she said indicating the second paper bag.  “I’m sure Mrs Robertson wouldn’t mind.”

Mr Robertson chuckled gently as he caught the aroma of freshly cooked cinnamon doughnuts and watched the oil leave its fingerprints.  He began arranging the silver tea pot, milk jug and sugar bowl with a measured deliberateness and shaky hands.

Finishing his tea and tart, Mr Robertson prepared to leave.  He checked the time on his watch before donning his hat.  Reaching for the bag of cinnamon doughnuts to fold the top he noticed a slip of paper.  It was the stub of a receipt from the café and it simply said, “Sorry.”  He folded the note and slid it into his pocket beside his watch.

On his way passed the front counter, he doffed his hat to Angela, “Thank you.”

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Chocolate

Posted on February 18, 2010 | 6 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #144 for 26th February, 2010

The bag was empty except for a smudged, slip of paper which said, “Sorry.”

Josh scooped up his mobile from his bedside and scrawled through the text messages from the night before.  He stopped at the one that read, “Thnx 4 talking last nite.  C U at skool on Mon.  Katie.”  His heart skipped a beat.  He remembered her black hair pulled back into a single roped plait that hung over her shoulder and the sapphire earrings that dangled when she laughed.  They had spent most of the night at the edge of the party, caught up in each other’s company.

He spent the morning catching up on homework and headed downstairs for lunch.  His younger sister Caitlin was diving into a peanut butter sandwich while his Dad read the paper.

“How was last night?” his mother asked from the bench.  “Would you like a sandwich?”

“Yes please.  Cheese thanks.  Last night was good.  Had fun.”

“Didn’t hear you come in.  Were you late?”

“Nah, I was home by curfew.”

Caitlin popped her thirteen year old nose into the conversation, “I know something you don’t know.  Josh spent all night talking to a girl.  Emma’s sister was at the party and told her all about it and Emma told me.”

“Oh, that’s nice dear.  What’s her name?”

“No one in particular,” mumbled Josh.

“Mum, Katie Byrne isn’t just anybody,” chimed Caitlin.

“Shut up, Caitlin,” Josh hissed as his face reddened.

“She’s lovely,” his mum said.

His father kept reading but threw his son a wink over the paper.

Josh took his sandwich and excused himself, saying he had more homework to complete.  He was having a hard enough time getting through Year 12 studies without having his sister point out his fledgling love life to his parents.

Sitting in his room, Josh looked again at Katie’s text and began to devise a plan to find another way to talk to her again on Monday.  He needed something tangible to help him open the conversation.  He had no idea how the two of them got talking in the first place.  The thought of approaching Katie made him nervous but he needed to speak with her again.

Scooting through the myriad movie clichés in his mind, he narrowed it down to chocolate.  A reconnaissance of the kitchen yielded the last two Tim Tams in the packet.  He carefully wrapped them in plastic film and hid them in a paper bag.  His plan was formed.  He wanted the courage of Marty McFly’s dad to approach the object of his desire; he just didn’t want to come out sounding like an idiot.

“You are my density,” he mimicked.

The buzz on the train to school the next morning was all about the party and Josh and Katie’s liaison had not gone unnoticed.  Josh skimmed his timetable and was thankful Katie was not in his morning classes.  Recess would be his opportunity, although when it came, his stomach felt more like a writhing pile of snakes.

He rummaged through his school bag looking for his present.  Nothing.  Gone.  Disappeared.  Vanished.  At the bottom he found the crumpled paper bag that had held his treasure.  No matter how much he looked in the bag, it did not contain the two wrapped Tim Tams.   The bag was empty except for a smudged slip of paper which said, “Sorry.”  Josh was dumbfounded but it gave way to fury when he saw the smiley face scrawled in pink highlighter.  Caitlin.

“What’s up?” Derek asked.

“My sneak of a sister flogged my biscuits and left me a note just to rub it in.”

Josh felt deflated; his plan amounting to nothing but crumbs and an empty bag.  He felt gutted and flopped down against the wall.

“Have you lost something?”  Even dressed in the sack of a school uniform Katie was appealing.

“I was wondering if you would like to share a choc chip biscuit,” she said offering her hand forward.

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Mrs Cartwright

Posted on February 11, 2010 | 7 comments

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #142 for 12th February, 2010

A family’s life changes dramatically after they are bequeathed an old painting in the will of an obscure relative.

“That picture just really creeps me out.  Great Aunt Mavis had a weird taste in art,” Jason commented.  “The frame looks like a kid has used macaroni and shells and spaghetti and mashed them together and stuck them on with wood glue.  And anyway, why do we have to have this monstrosity looking at us everyday.”

“Because Great Aunt Mavis left this to us in her will and we should respect her wishes.”

Stephanie piped up, “She smelled funny.  She smelled like old people.  And that picture looks funny.”
“Come along dear and we’ll get you something to drink.”

Jason stood transfixed, despite his uneasiness, and stared at the image within the macaroni frame.  The old woman in the painting wasn’t Great Aunt Mavis; she was from another era altogether with a starched high necked blouse and black jacket.  Jason couldn’t work out whether she looked like a domestic servant or matron of an educated social class.  At her neck was a brooch that looked familiar, an oval shaped ivory piece.  Jason remembered that his mother had one in her jewellery box.  It was an heirloom given to her by her mother.

He shook off the whole thing and retreated to his bedroom where the cacophony of sound overwhelmed the ability to solve a simple quadratic equation.

The portrait took a place on the sideboard with the panorama of family portraits, overlooking the family dining room table.  Jason shifted in his seat so that he could keep an eye on the picture.  Somehow he felt that if he didn’t eat his vegetables the woman in the picture would disapprove in a way that was part-mother and part school principal.

“It’s nice to see that you are expanding your palette beyond deep-fried and sugar-coated,” his father said.

Jason shrugged it off and asked to be excused to continue some overdue homework.

The next Wednesday, Jason arrived home after school to find a strange woman vacuuming the lounge room.

“Where’s Mrs Andrews?”

The vacuuming stopped and the woman straightened, holding an old fashioned posture and looked directly at Jason.

“I do not believe we have had the pleasure of an introduction.  My name is Mrs Cartwright and you, I believe, must be Jason.  I am Mrs Andrews’ replacement.”

“Mum never said anything about getting rid of Mrs Andrews.”

“That is correct, but all things in time must change and now I am in charge of keeping this domicile in a neat and proper fashion.”

Jason grunted and sauntered off to the kitchen.  Passing through the dining room he noticed that the portrait from Great Aunt Mavis was face down on the sideboard.  Silently he approved of the picture not looking at him.

“Please keep the kitchen tidy and refrain from drinking the milk straight out of the carton.”

Jason paused mid-gulp and wondered how on earth she knew.

“You are just like every other young man who wants to be a man, yet still behaves like a child,” came Mrs Cartwright’s clipped voice from the lounge room as the vacuum cleaner started up again.

The Wednesday routine with Mrs Cartwright soon slipped into habit with Jason, but she unsettled him, just like the woman in the portrait.  One afternoon as he sat at the kitchen bench with a biscuit and cup of juice, Mrs Cartwright entered and began wiping up the invisible crumbs.

“You have a wide range of reading material in your room, Jason.  You have great works of literature like Shakespeare, illustrated stories and some secret material I suspect you do not want your parents to know about.”
Jason felt his stomach turn.  “It is quite remarkable that you are fascinated with images of women who are exposed in their nakedness for page after page.  It is quite shameful of those women to be exposed themselves for the entertainment of men.  Such lechery is unbecoming.”
Jason turned to protest his privacy.  Mrs Cartwright stared back and said, “I have been watching and observing.  You have made some positive changes, but there is still a way to go.”

He skulked out of the room and threw a backwards glance at Mrs Cartwright.  He met her eyes and looked down, taking a quick notice of the brooch clasped at her throat.  He hid out in his room until she had left and then dashed back to the sideboard.  The picture was upright and there the woman sat with the similar brooch.

The next Wednesday, Jason put his plan into action.  Waiting until Mrs Cartwright was cleaning in the bathroom, Jason padded down the hall and into the lounge room.  Glancing back, he could still hear Mrs Cartwright.  He ducked into the dining room and saw the turned down picture.  Reaching out he turned it over.  Within the frame he saw nothing; there was no woman in the picture.

“What is this?  Harry Potter?  People can move in and out of pictures?”

“Yes, but not in the way that you think.”  Mrs Cartwright stood at the other end of the table.

“That brooch.  Where did you get it?”

“It is mine.  And I can see that your mother has inherited it.  It is my link with this time.”

“So you’re dead?”

“The link between life and death is paper thin, but I exist between the two.  Cleaning house keeps my mind occupied.”

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