Reaching Out

Here is the first part of another of my award winning short stories, published in May 2020 by Stringybark, in the collection entitled ‘Close to Heaven.’ There was no theme required but the story had to be set in Australia, hence the Akubra and the Arnott’s Monte Carlo biscuits. I enjoyed writing this piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy reading it. Your comments are always very welcome

REACHING OUT

‘Isabel.’ He taps her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think we should head back now.’

Beyond the bay, the water of the Southern Ocean is grey, blending with storm clouds that cover the horizon.

She stands with her arms folded across her stomach. Her frown, when she turns to face him, could mean disapproval, or confusion, or something else which he does not understand.

‘Do you mind?’ he asks. ‘I’m just concerned about that cough of yours.’ He pats his chest and pulls his Akubra further down on his head.

What more can he say without sounding interfering, or worse, like he’s fussing over her? Back when he was in the game last time, forty years ago, men were supposed to be protective of women; to take charge; be the knight in shining armour. He’s been told that modern women hate that.

‘What are the rules?’ he’d asked his twenty-four year old son.

The answer wasn’t encouraging.

‘Gees, Dad. What am I supposed to say? It was always you and Mum telling me what to do. Not that I took much notice. Now you’re asking me to tell you, my father, how to pull the chicks. What would Mum think? Not that she can hear of course, but . . . Dad.’

He fiddles with the buttons of his jacket and considers putting an arm around her. Is it too soon? Will he frighten her away? He only met her last weekend, in the final session of the retreat. Even then she seemed controlled, or shut off, but everyone was grieving and he didn’t give much away either.

He decides to risk it. Perhaps she just needs a nudge in the right direction. It’s his idea of the right direction and it might not be hers, but life’s too short to muck around. Look what happened to Jess. Happily married, both retired, ready for the big trip to Europe, then that bloody idiot went through a red light.

That’s in the past. Now, he’s on this beach with a nice woman. He’ll give it a go.

‘Isabel, let me show you something.’ Stepping closer, he puts his arm loosely around the back of her waist.

She holds firmly to her crossed arms, hesitates, then allows him to lead her away from the water.

What can he show her that she might find interesting? He’s worried that she’ll think him stupid.

Seagulls swoop over the ocean and scamper along the beach, screeching their claims for dominance and territory.

‘I found a nest up here the other day,’ he says, recalling the tiny woven basket and the grey-feathered parents taking turns to guard their eggs.

She tilts her head to look at him. He is reminded of a scene from an old romantic movie; the sort he went to in his teens when he was dating Jess.

‘Do you want to have a peep?’ Without waiting for a reply, he leads her up the path.

When they reach the nest, he presses a finger to his lips. She nods her head and waits. He lifts out shattered eggshells and broken twigs and leaves. Isabel takes his hand and holds it between her warm, smooth-skinned palms. Her mouth turns up a little at the corners, but her eyes are unable to participate in the smile she gives him.

He wants to ask her what happened to make her so sad; why she can’t smile with her eyes. It’s too soon for that.

‘Perhaps they just flew away,’ she says.

Reluctantly, he removes his hand from hers. ‘Will you come and have a coffee with me?’

Back at his house, Isabel appears far more relaxed than he feels.

‘You make good coffee.’ She breathes in the warm aroma. ‘Pretty china, too.’ She takes a sip and holds the mug with both hands. ‘I love your view.’

Still clasping the mug, she walks to the window. ‘It makes you feel good, doesn’t it, that shimmer on the water?’

The lump in his throat stifles his reply. That’s what Jess had said when she first saw the place. He goes to the pantry, fumbles with sauce bottles, waiting for the fluttering in his belly to cease.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’ He waves a packet at her. ‘They’re only Arnott’s Monte Carlos; my daughter must have left them here.’

Isabel turns to face him. ‘I’m sure they’ll be lovely, but I’m not hungry. You have some, though.’

He takes his coffee to the table, puts two biscuits on a plate and sits down, indicating for her to join him. ‘Come and tell me about yourself,’ he says.

To be continued:

COUNTRY LIFE CONT

I hope you enjoyed the story so far. This one is true; it happened in 1965, when I was twenty four. My husband was the surveyor for the Waroona dam. The only accommodation within miles of the place was a farm house that had been left empty for several years.

COUNTRY LIFE CONT:

“It’s only possums.” Robert’s voice was sleepy but not concerned.

“Are you sure?” I whispered, conscious of our baby son sleeping in the corner.

“Yes. Go to sleep, love.” He rolled over and was snoring in minutes.

Thump, thump. Wham. Scuttle, scratch. The noise continued. Bloody army of possums, I thought, trying to switch my mind off, desperately wanting to sleep before Stuart woke for his next feed.

“Darling, can’t you do something about them?” I shook my husband awake. “Stop them making that racket?”

“No. Just go to sleep, love. I’ll sort it out in the morning.”

Sure that I had been asleep for only minutes, I woke to our son’s hungry cries. The first rays of sunlight poured in through the uncovered windows. I slid out of bed and tiptoed across the lounge room floor, nearly stepping on an enormous cockroach, at least ten centimetres long. My screams woke husband and daughter.

Robert killed it with his shoe. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll get some bait today. What time is it?” He walked back into the bedroom as Jane wandered out from her room, rubbing sleepy eyes.

“Where are we, Mummy?”

“This is our new home, darling. You go back to sleep. I’m just going to feed Stuart.”

At eight o’clock, with baby asleep and husband gone for the day, I made it a game. “Let’s see how many of the beetles you can find.”

Almost gagging at the stench of each one as I stomped and whacked, I killed forty two cockroaches, following an excited, three year old daughter around the house. Empty cupboards, left untouched for seven months, provided the largest horde. In the bathroom, on the enclosed back verandah, crackly brown creatures scurried into crevices in the walls and floor. Shutting the door on them, I burst into tears and picked up my daughter.

“Clever girl,” I said, burying my wet face in her pink frilly dress.

“More, Mummy.” She wriggled from my grasp and ran back to the kitchen, opening cupboards and peering inside. “All gone.”

The disappointment in her voice made me smile. When she grows up I’ll tell her about this day, I thought. I wonder how she’ll respond then.

That night, having beaten the ceiling with a broom in the hope of chasing away the thundering hordes, we were about to get into bed.

“Are cockroaches carnivorous?” I asked the man who had spent half an hour putting baits in places where our adventurous daughter would hopefully not find them.

“I don’t know, love. Why?”

I looked at the cane basket where our baby lay sleeping: at the four wooden legs that held the frame up off the floor.

“They can climb up the legs.” Tears poured down my cheeks. “They might eat him.”

“Well, let’s put him next to our bed for tonight and tomorrow I’ll fix something.”

In bed he held me, kissed my lips, ran a finger lightly over my nipples. I wanted to respond in the way he wanted me to. My back stiffened. Images of cockroaches everywhere, scurrying, splattered, stinking, attacking my children like a rampaging army.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “Sorry, I can’t.”

He turned over and was soon asleep.

I lay on the other side of the bed, unable to shut out the sight and smell of the disease ridden vermin that inhabited the house.

A week later, with electricity restored, house scrubbed and disinfected, I started to feel that perhaps the six months that we’d committed to—his new job and renting this neglected farm house—might be bearable, despite the lack of phone, transport or any other means of communicating with family and friends.

“The possums seem to have moved out,” I said as the three of us sat around the kitchen table on Sunday morning.

“Really?” Robert continued to concentrate on his bowl of cornflakes.

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Um. There’s something I should tell you.” He spoke slowly, hesitantly.

We had dealt with the kitten dying from snake bite and the cattle breaking through the fence around the house, making the journey to the outside dunny hazardous.

“What now?” I asked.

“I think I’ve killed all of them. I’ve been setting traps at night and getting up before you were awake in the morning. I couldn’t put baits out for them because they’d head for the water in the tank and pollute it.”

“But you’re not supposed to kill possums.” Suddenly I felt guilty for causing the death of our native animals, despite the problems they had caused.

“No, they weren’t possums.” He had a worried, guilty look on his face. “I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d freak out. They were rats.”

COUNTRY LIFE

We arrived after dark, kids asleep on the back seat, dog alert, whining to be allowed out of the car. Country smells had him quivering with excitement, so Robert let him out first. I hoped he wouldn’t explore too far on our first night in a strange place.

“Can you put the lights on high beam, love?” My husband’s voice echoed in the vast space around us as he turned back to the meter box.

Obediently, I leant across and adjusted the headlights. Robert stood out against dark brown, weatherboard walls that could do with a coat of paint. The green, cabled jumper that I had knitted for him in our student days, still hung loosely on his trim frame and his corduroy trousers from the same period, looked suitably warm for the frosty night air.

Yes, I am following you anywhere, I thought. Let’s hope this new venture will give us enough money to go back home and pay the mortgage.

“The power’s not connected,” Robert said, walking towards me. “We’ll have to unload in the light from the car. There’s a kerosene lamp in one of the boxes inside.”

He opened the passenger door and reached into the glove box. “Here’s a torch. Go and see if you can find the lamp.”

Coming to this lonely farm house was bad enough. How did he think we could unload the children, make up beds and find everything in the dark? I got out of the car and walked across crunchy grass. The front door was unlocked. A pity he didn’t check the electricity this afternoon when they delivered our stuff, I thought, stepping inside.

Waving the torch around, I noted a brick fireplace, pale brown stains on the ceiling, walls painted yellowish green, jarrah floor boards, no curtains on the window. Plonked in the middle of the living room were the boxes that we had packed several days earlier.

“It has to be in one that he packed,” I muttered, pushing aside my efficiently labelled handiwork.

Robert came in, carrying two cases. “Jane’s awake,” he announced and continued walking through a doorway off the living room. “Have you found the lamp yet?”

My breath came out in a noisy rush as I ripped a box open. Towels, books, the dog’s lead and his water bowl got thrown on the floor.

“Do you remember where you put it?” I was almost in tears as I continued pulling things out of the box.

“It’s okay, love. I’ll find it.” He gave me a quick hug. “You bring the kids in. Jane’s bed’s in that room. Stuart will be in with us.” He pointed to the room where he had just put the cases.

It was one in the morning when we fell into bed. Almost immediately, it started; thump, thump in the ceiling. Eyes staring into the dark, heart thumping as loudly as the intruders, I was wide awake and ready to defend my babies.

To be continued:

One Week to Harvest part two

He hurled the plastic bottle at the fence. Harry ran to retrieve it. Dropping the trophy on the ground next to Gus, the dog lay down, paws touching scuffed leather. Gus squatted beside him, ruffled his course black fur, then brushed away a slobbering tongue.

“It’s okay mate. You don’t have to lick me to death.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth as Gus tweaked his dog’s ear. “You can’t work out what the hell’s going on, can you? Don’t worry, I can’t either, but let’s have breakfast and we might feel better.”

The generator started up when he switched the kettle on. Automatically he took two bowls from the dresser and placed them on the table.

Like barbed wire, pain wrapped around his heart. “Why, Amy?” He shoved the second bowl back in the cupboard.

Kenny Rogers, crooning about the girl who found another man, made him want to turn the country radio station off, but the news was about to start. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how little he had eaten the previous day. Nutrigrain, milk and honey; Gus filled his bowl and gave Harry a handful of dog biscuits.

Bombs dropped on Syria; refugees crushed trying to board trains to Germany; fires out of control in California; former priest arrested for molesting boys in 1978.

“Makes my problems seem almost irrelevant.”

The kettle was boiling as Gus got up to make coffee. Amy collected the cups; seven all together, from places they visited on their trip to Tasmania. The blue one, decorated with a rooster, was Gus’s favourite; bigger than the rest and without the flowers, hearts and lovey-dovey words that covered the others.

He was about to stir two teaspoons of sugar into his cup when the local news came on.

“A damaged Harley Davidson was found by a passing motorist at two o’clock this morning. It had run off the road, probably due to severe storms last night. A man and his female passenger were taken to the Geraldton Hospital.”

One Week To Harvest

This short story was published in a collection called Timber, in 2018. Some of you might have read it, but for those who haven’t, I’ve decided to post it here in serial form over the next two weeks.

There are no pictures. I hope my words paint the scene and the actions for you.

As a writer, I sit alone at my computer, imaging people in situations and creating lives and stories around those imaginings. Most of my characters remain stuck, unloved and unknown, inside this laptop. I think they all belong on pages in books, so on the rare occasions when others judge my stories as worthy of publishing, I get madly excited and want to broadcast my words to the world immediately.

However, that wouldn’t be fair to the publishers who hope you and many other readers, would pay for the joy of reading all the stories in the collections like Timber. Stringybark Publishing does a great job, encouraging writers like me.

I’d really love to know what you think of the story so far and please come back next Saturday, the 19th September, for more.

Here is part one of:

One Week To Harvest

Grey clouds tumbled overhead, like waves in a stormy sea. Ripened wheat danced in the paddock.

From the doorway of his shed Gus watched the motor bike – a Harley Davidson, its shiny black metal splattered with mud. His ears throbbed at each rev of the throttle; the pain was nothing compared with the agony gripping his heart like the thrust of a sword, forge fired, cutting deep and searing flesh.

Amy didn’t wave, didn’t even look back, just wrapped her arms around the object of her passion and buried her face in his leather jacket.

Drops of rain mingled with his tears as Gus turned away. Inside the shed that was meant to be their temporary home, Amy’s bras and panties, normally scattered on chairs, the floor, their bed, were glaringly absent. In the corner where she sat to write her stories, the desk he’d made from a she-oak felled on their land, looked pristine. Devoid of laptop, printer, books and paper, the photo of him and her, taken on their honeymoon, stood out as a solitary reminder.

Harry, his black coat dripping, wandered into the shed. Doggy eyes sought answers from his master. He had followed the bike, bearing Amy, as far as the gate. His tail normally wagged so fast it knocked cups off the coffee table. Now it drooped, leaving a wet trail on the floor.

“Come here, fella.” Gus sat on the couch and patted his knee. “It’s just you and me, mate. You don’t know what she sees in that fucking mongrel either, do you?”

Man and dog ate alone that night—two tins taken from the unpacked box of groceries. Gus warmed his Irish stew in the frying pan that he and Amy bought when they moved in together. Harry sniffed at the contents of his metal bowl. Outside, rain continued pounding on the tin roof and gurgling down the pipes that fed into a tank, several metres away.

The bed was cold; empty and cold. White sheets were unforgiving as Gus lay down, his right arm automatically reaching for the warmth of Amy’s body. Gentle tears turned to wracking sobs, their sound blocking out the rustle on the other side of the bed. Never permitted, Harry crept in beside his master. Together they survived that first night.

At sunrise Gus crawled out from a tangle of sheets, pillows and doona. Harry was waiting by the door, tail wagging intermittently, as if he wasn’t sure such behaviour was appropriate, but a new day awaited and he was eager to be outside, exploring its possibilities.

“Okay, fella. You can go for a run. I’m having breakfast first.” Gus opened the door and let his dog out before stumbling back to the clothes rack where, until yesterday, three floral dresses and a rainbow rack of t-shirts were jammed in alongside his collection of shirts and jeans. Black, grey and navy appeared more depressing than convenient without the contrast of Amy’s wardrobe. He pushed coat hangers along the bar in an effort to close the gap.

Harry was back, snuffling at the door, when Gus walked out to fill the water bottle from the tank.

“Shit.”

In every direction, as far as he could see, ripened wheat lay prostrate in the paddocks.

“Just one bloody week to harvest.”

Write a Book in a Day

**The name and cover for last year’s book in a day**

Today I want to tell you about last Saturday, when I joined eight of my writing friends at the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writing Centre in Greenmount, to write A Book In A Day. This is a competition to raise funds for children’s cancer research. It’s a group writing project, with usually 8 – 10 people who come together for one day (twelve hours only) to produce a book, including illustrations, to be read by children aged about 10 -16. The books are given to the children in hospitals, but anyone can procure and read them. Each group nominates a day to suit them between 1st June and usually 31 August, but this year it’s September. The parameters are different for each group. No-one can pre-plan or try to guess the situation, issue or characters as this is not permitted until 8am on the selected morning.

As this is a fund raising venture as well as a fun activity, we all donated monies towards our entry. I’m hoping that, once you’ve read about our day, you might want to also participate in sponsoring our team for WABIAD. (WA Book in a Day)To get to the sponsorship page for our group, TNGers, click on this https://writeabookinaday.com/team-sponsorship/?id=86 or copy and paste the link. You can then scroll down to fill in your details and donation amount. All the money goes to the Children’s Cancer Research. A big thank you from all the children you’ll be helping, and from us.

Armed with food—fruit and biscuits for morning tea, soup and crunchy breads for lunch, home-made brownies and other nibbles for afternoon sustenance and the promise of a home cooked Indian feast for dinner, plus liquid refreshments to help celebrate our success—we arrived at our venue well before 8am. We brought laptops, cords, USB ports, paper and pens to make notes and anything else we might need for a full-on day of writing. Our skilled artist came laden with paints and pencils, pots and paper, ready to create hilarious renditions of characters and situations as the rest of us developed our ideas.

On the dot of 8, coffee, tea or chocolate beverages to hand, we were given our clues. This year’s competition hasn’t finished yet, so I’d better not broadcast ours, but I can tell you what we had to write about last year, to give you an idea of what’s required.

In 2019 our characters were a piano tuner, a dentist and a necklace (we always have one non-human character). The setting was a motorway and the issue was the discovery of magic powers. Creating a story suitable for 10 to mid-teens is a challenge. Setting it on a motorway had several of us tearing our hair out. No swearing allowed in the publication either.

Each year we also have five words to be included anywhere in the story, block letters making it easy for the readers to find. Community, skipped, magic, canvas and sings appeared with little effort.

This year, with our characters, the setting and the issue noted, our first task was to decide boy, girl, man, woman, age, names, appearances and the fun part – who will be the baddy? Setting and issue already decided for us, we found it fairly easy to fill in the details of who, where, when how and why. The discussion got quite heated, with nine enthusiastic participants keen to contribute ideas. Our group leader had the task of noting suggestions on the white board. As we needed to get around to the actual writing as soon as possible, this part of the process was a bit messy. Fortunately this year our leader was calm, organised and a quick writer. Unfortunately, his handwriting was often difficult to decipher, but he didn’t mind repeating himself, several times.

Eight of us were there to write, so the story was broken up into eight chapters. We then chose which chapter we wanted to create. This method works quite well, except that it’s easy to miss some vital bit of information that needs to be in your chosen chapter, or, as often happens, the information is repeated in the previous or following chapter.

We had an added problem this year. One of our most enthusiastic members was recovering from major surgery and couldn’t be with us. Face book Messenger to the rescue; he was able to participate in the initial discussions, although with limited understanding of all the conversations the exercise proved a wee bit frustrating for all.

Once a big chunk of writing was done, around lunch time, each participant read out what they had written so far. The omissions and double-ups were obvious. After lunch—everyone enjoyed the soup, many returned to the pot for seconds, and much of the bread and butter disappeared—bodies moved around tables, paragraphs were removed, inappropriate representations swapped for agreed replacements and generally, solutions were found that helped the story to flow.

Our ninth member is an artist as well as a writer. Without her illustrations our stories would lack the necessary sparkle. She worked on a separate, long table at the head of the room and visited each of us to discuss details about the way we imagined characters and scenes. Hair—long, short, curly, blonde, grey etc. Facial features—eye colour, head shape, facial hair? Is the character smiley, grumpy, studious, etc? Are the characters fat, thin, tall, short? Clothes—style to portray the character. And of course we all had to remember those details in our section of the story. We’re so lucky to have a talented artist on our team. Her illustrations were often hilarious and always perfect.

Our leader had to write his chapter as well as edit all of ours as we finished, plus scan the pictures and story, in correct order, to come up with our finished book by 8pm. Writers had finished by about 7pm and the last illustration just needed to dry before being scanned, closer to the deadline.

Cameras and phones captured appropriate images of diligent creators, bottles were opened (and our leader was still working) while we dragged out the last of our creativity for funny reviews and a synopsis for the back cover. Coming up with a suitable name for our story required several sips of wine for most of us and (thank goodness) a stroke of genius from our youngest member.

There were cheers all round as the finished book was sent off, via the internet, well within the time limit. Now we just have to wait for at least a month, until judgement day.

We believe we have produced a winner and I hope you will want to purchase a copy or three. They make great Christmas presents for children in that 10 – 16 age group.

If you are prepared to add to our financial donation, you can sponsor us by clicking on this link, https://writeabookinaday.com/team-sponsorship/?id=86 or if that doesn’t work, copy and paste it to connect to WA Book in a Day. The TNGers sponsorship page should appear. Scroll down to fill in your details and donation. Many thanks from us, the organisers and the children.

When we get the results of the competition I will let you know.

Love in the Time of Corona

I have just read my last blog, written over a year ago. I had intended to finish the story, including the effects of the chemotherapy and my eventual recovery. Maybe one day. In the meantime, I’ve also had a hip replacement just before everything shut down in WA and I was isolated for two months – Covid 19, plus not being able to drive until my new hip healed.

I expected to do lots of creative writing in that time, but my Muse went on strike. I was told by other creatives in the family that they had the same problem. Artists and writers enjoy the silence of their own space, but it seems we also crave human interaction.

Once the worst was over, for us in WA, I started writing again, initially inspired by that isolation. My partner and I couldn’t get together for several months. This was my response, written for a poetry competition with ‘Love’ as the theme.

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CORONA

Now I wake to an empty space beside me

to the absence of your smile

your eyes alight with love

the gentle caress of your hand

on my thigh, my breast

the touch of your lips on mine.

I miss your greeting,

‘Good morning my darling

I love you my darling.’

Will I ever hear your voice again

so close beside me,

and know that for you

I am the most beautiful

most treasured woman in the world?

My Breast Cancer Journey: Operation Recovery

At the beginning of this story I said that I felt strong enough to write it down. This episode is causing me a little more trouble as I have to again face my emotional responses after leaving hospital. I’ve had several attempts, but it’s like opening up an old wound. Please forgive me if I waffle a bit.

After five days and nights confined to one room I was more than ready to escape back to the comforts of my own home, despite all the care I received in hospital. I am particularly grateful to the nurse who gave me my first shower.Continue reading→

My Breast Cancer Journey cont: Finding a Lump

Again I want to state that my reason for publishing my story is to help others understand the importance of continuing to have mammograms as we age, regardless of what the medical ‘experts’ advise.

If you missed the first chapter, please scroll down and read it, to make better sense of this one.

I hope that by going public with my breast cancer journey I will help others who might also be somewhere on this journey.Continue reading→

Queensland trip cont: Atherton Tablelands

Our trip to Queensland seems so long ago but I do want to tell you about the other places we visited, including the rest of our day out with Louise in the super comfortable black Mercedes.

We felt so small in comparison with the giant curtain fig.

After the quaint town of Yungaburra, (see my posting by scrolling down the page if you missed it earlier) we made a quick stop at the famous curtain fig tree. I have purposefully left us looking like midgets in front of this monster.

Lake Eacham.

Our next stop was Lake Eacham. Formed from an extinct volcano, it looks very peaceful now. An ideal spot for picknickers and swimmers (if they are prepared to tackle the very cold water), we found families spread around on the grass that leads down to the water. I’m sure it’s very popular in the hotter months as we were miles away from any beaches. With lots of reeds and grasses growing around the edge of the water I was afraid of stepping on a snake. I didn’t see any, but it looked like snake territory to me.

Malanda Falls

Malanda Falls, another short drive away, was well worth the visit. A steep walk and numerous steps down from the carpark meant that David couldn’t get to the water which tumbles over rocks, and forms a dam. It looks like another great place to cool off in summer, but swimming is not permitted. I presume it must be part of the local water supply for domestic use.

We were supposed to have our car and driver until about four pm, as she had another two bookings from Cairns – a wedding and a school dance – from 6pm. However, Louise was so keen to show us all the best places in the area that it was well after four when she dropped us at Palm Cove, with a half hour drive down the coast and the need to clean the car (a black Mercedes did collect some dust which spoiled its shine) ready for her next passengers. We had been careful to not leave a speck of dirt, food etc inside the car for her.

It was a fabulous day, well worth the cost. If you’re traveling to Cairns or further north and want the pleasure of seeing this part of Queensland without the hassle of difficult driving, we recommend Elliott’s Limousines, owned and run by Louise – a lovely lady and an excellent driver. And the best, most comfortable car.