A Trip to the Bank... short humour fiction

"I'll be Bozo," said Bob, leaning forward over the back seat to look in the rear vision mirror and touch up his wide red lips.

He dodged back as Artie's elbow jabbed at him from the steering wheel, "Get back! And take that floppy costume out of my way, Dummy! I'm not going to change MY name, even if we are supposed to be stupid clowns."

Bob was unimpressed. "Whaddya think, Danny-boy?" He asked their third member in the passenger seat. "And you guys better not be stupid. I hope ya both got your shooters where you can grab 'em quick without dropping ‘em. These stupid pockets are huge!

The car entered the main street, crowded with people and shops, all preoccupied with the business of coping with business. King’s Bank was on the right, an old heritage bank that couldn't be mistaken, with its big Grecian columns at the front, and wide brick stairs, no less than twenty.

"Come on Danny!" Bob urged, "think of a clown's name, quick."

"Aw, I dunno," Danny started.

"Dando!" Bob suddenly exclaimed, "That's what it'll be, Dando! Dando the clown… Yeah!"

Danny didn't answer, for his attention was caught by a white coated form running along the left footpath waving madly at them and grinning widely. He was pointing and laughing, involving a partner, also in a white coat, further up near the hospital entrance. St Benedict's Specialist Hospital for Children was an incongruity in the street. Another antique building adorned with vulgar pillars and multiple arches, it had been built long before many of the modern shops appeared.

The enthusiastic white-coated partner near the hospital gates was pointing too, laughing and acting like a monkey scratching itself.

"What the......." Bob exclaimed, "what's goin' on with that mad character?!

Artie summed it up, "Blast and damnation! We've been seen! He wants us to drive IN there! What are we gonna do NOW?!"

"We can't go into the bank now." Danny stated the obvious. "I can't believe this; you'll have to drive into the hospital grounds, Artie".

Their new found friends swept them into the hospital drive with exaggerated sweeping of their arms.

When the car came to a halt, no less than five figures in white coats stood around the three clowns. The grinner spoke up, "Boy! You’re early,  guys! Okay........... we can manage. What's YOUR name?" he asked Danny, opening the car door obligingly.

Thrusting a hand forward to shake Danny's, "I'm Craig. I booked you in!" he added proudly.

"Oh, did you?" Danny mumbled, "Great… I'm Dando." Then he added unnecessarily, "I'm a clown."

Five voices erupted in laughter, "No kidding!?"

Three mesmerised clowns found themselves escorted to the terminal ward. This was a small unobtrusive private hospital.

Bob was preparing to take charge again and opened his mouth to speak, when a nurse rushed up to Artie, "Ooh, you must be Topsy! I can tell you're a girl! I've wanted to meet your group for ages!" Then she looked at the other two, "Oh no, I forgot your names! I’m going to be introducing you to all the kids."

Behind Danny, Bob poked him in the back. "Oh sorry, I'm Dando, Dando the Clown" he stuttered, "And this bloke behind me is Bozo, Bozo the clown".

The nurse laughed as if he‘d told a funny joke, "I can see your clowns!" She could hardly stop giggling.

'Bozo' found himself at her elbow, "This is a very funny friend of yours," she told a little boy in a cot who had no hair. "He’s going to tell you some jokes. Say hello to Bozo, Marty"

Bozo stared down at little Marty, who looked back with big round eyes expectantly, from a pale thin face. "Are you a real clown?" Marty asked quietly, "Are you a real clown that tells stories?"

 Unprepared for the task ahead, 'Bozo' sat down and took Marty's hand. Then he started in a quiet voice, "Yeah, Marty. Aah, I’m going to tell you a real funny story... About three clowns who set off one day to rob a bank..."

Short fiction story Bill Hill

                                                                BILL HILL

I remember this boy in the playground–running--shouting--confident. William Hill was the baker's son in our whistlestop town.

"Lucky Devil," we said, "Living in the town." We were the farm kids who travelled on the school bus.
'
'Bill Hill the pill''-- ''silly Billy Hilly''-- we never tired of teasing him. He laughed and tried to punch whoever came close.

"Lucky Devil," we said, "to have parents who’ve got a shop." Sometimes we argued.

One day I got on my high horse and told him, "You don't know what it's like to work hard!"

"Yeah," an older boy joined in, "What about me? I have to shovel muck out of the cow-bails."

Yuck!

I was glad I only had to wash dishes, or set the table. Sometimes I had to change my baby brother’s diaper. Girls are luckier than boys.

"Yeah! You get fresh bread, lucky duck," a boy accused.

Bill Hill didn't look as if he ate much fresh bread. His bare feet and skinny white legs showed up against his khaki short

The rest of us were too smart to wear a hat. If we'd known what 'cool' meant we'd have said, "Man, wearin a hat’s not cool."

The teacher called a group of us aside. "Bill does a pretty difficult job, kids. Did you know his mum is an invalid? Bill has to clean his mum's false teeth, help get her in the bath, and feed her."

I felt ashamed; I could have cried myself to sleep; I didn't; I told my mum.

She said, "You’d better learn from your mistakes." I think I did.

We all grew up and left to get work in the city, and to meet real people who knew about real things. It was a great place for jobs, parties, meeting people, and life.

We country kids became city adults. Some went to uni. Most just got jobs.

Bill Hill became a chef's apprentice. He wanted to own a pastry shop. He used to talk about a French patisserie. We thought he was nuts.

We all heard, later, he'd won some big awards.

If only he hadn't gone to the city; if only he hadn’t got off the bus that night; if only… But he did.

 Now he’s dead. He’ll never get to have his French patisserie...because some crazy kid had to go out and stab someone for kicks.

The Train Station...short fiction (supernatural)

 The day started like any other. I boarded the train five minutes from my house, at Pelbarra Station, the end of the line; or beginning of the line, depending on which way you were going.

     I was going to visit my mate, Alex, known in school as ‘Mad Alex the inventor,’ In fact, he was the top grade twelve science student for the whole state. We’d been friends since kindergarten. He was one of those guys who would give you his last morsel if he thought you needed it. I loved old Alex; he was the brother you have when you don’t have a brother.

    The train passed three stations and Alex lived within walking distance of the next one we were approaching, Willeston Pound. I thought the place sounded like a home for wayward dogs! No, It was quite a classy suburb.

    As the electric train pulled to a halt, I leapt out onto the platform and headed for the exit. It was not unusual that no one collected my ticket. The platform looked the same as usual, but someone had made some changes for pedestrians leaving the station. 'That's funny... I was only here a week ago, and I didn’t see anything new then.’

    The old path, made by walking feet taking a shortcut, was now two paved pathways. They both lead to the gap in the railway fence. But one had a red wooden gate just inside the fence with a stylish sign, 'Welcome.'

     My interest was sparked, and like a cat not even near death from curiosity, I headed for it. I was the only one who got off at W.P. Most stations are quiet at 11 AM.

    As soon as I opened that gate and went through, a cold wind blew in my face. I turned quickly back, and was confronted by two massive padlocked wooden doors! 'Where the hell did they come from?'  With sweaty palms, I turned back again; I was in a large, enclosed room and men were sitting at small tables, like in a bar-room or coffee shop.

    The weirdest thing was these guys were all strangely bald, almost skeletal, and their eyes were bright, staring, green eyes. I wanted out, and out fast. But...I was locked in.

     I swallowed. There was nothing for it but to approach one of those men, so I went over to a table and said, "Hi."

    "Sit down young man. I see you made it here en route to there.”

     ‘There?’

    There were two of them at the table and the other guy said nothing, but just smiled.

    "How do I get out of here?" I burst out.

    They both looked at me with such intent, deep into my eyes, but still smiling, and then the speaker said, "It doesn't pay to be in a hurry to leave this room. I'm sure you're here for a very good reason. Won't you have a cup of coffee with us?"

    This really threw me. I didn't know what to do. I hesitated, but thought it might give me some time to think, so I said, "Sure. thanks."

    I don't remember a waiter or anybody like that but the coffee just seemed to appear. I only drink coffee once in a while. In fact, I don't even like it that much; but the coffee that day was delicious, maybe chocolaty...but not something I could describe again, just a really wonderful taste.

    I was enjoying the coffee, but something spooky was happening. No matter how much I drank, the level in the cup didn't go down. This was turning out to be the longest cup of anything I’d ever had! After a while I took bigger mouthfuls just to check. Sure enough it wasn't going down. ‘What the heck is going on here!?'

    "What is this place?" I questioned my newfound friends.

     They smiled at me again with that benign smile, and the talker said, "You’re not really there yet, but we like to see people in here. They usually only stay a short while. I'm sure you won't be here long."

    Well, that was a relief, but was I ‘here’ or ‘there?’ I looked around at the doors again; no hope there. I made another attempt to empty the coffee cup; I had a feeling that coffee was some sort of measuring stick and I wouldn't get out of here until the cup was empty.

    This time I decided on a more direct approach, "You think I'd be able to leave soon?" I tried to sound polite as I spoke.

    "You young people are always in such a hurry," the main one remarked. "Don't you know your journey of discovery is only just beginning?"

    "I'm a bit confused at the moment. Anyway, my name is Cal, well Callum really,” I said, trying to reassure him that I was willing to listen, but most of all wanted to be friends. I was willing to do anything at the moment if it meant I could get out in one piece.

    "Do you think I've been here long enough?"

    "Oh, the next stage of your journey won't be far away," I was told.  “You have got a very sharp brain my young friend, but always remember to feel your heart.”

    “I understand,” I answered, not really understanding.

     I sipped at the coffee again for something to do and discovered that the level in the cup was slowly dropping at last. I was ecstatic. I made another attempt to get information from my companion “Aah,” I started, but they didn’t seem to hear.

    “The world is a strange place,” the boss went on, “And you won’t always be sure of yourself. If you endeavour to find that balance between your head and your heart, and understand there are elements much stronger than you can ever figure out, just be content, son.”

    At that, he covered my hand with both of his.

    Despite my fear it was somehow comforting. “Heartbreak will affect you,” he said, patting my hand , “But don’t let it turn you away from those who care about you.”

     All the time I'd been here I'd been thinking, 'I wonder if I'm talking to dead people', but I wasn't sure if I really wanted to know the answer.

    Mr Talker then assured me, "Your real journey of discovery has just begun."

     I wondered what I was going to discover, but my coffee cup was all but drained, "Do you think you could open the doors now?" I asked pointedly.

    "Aah, the impatience of the young...” Talker sighed. “Remember, we’ll be thinking of you.”

    ‘Wow, I think he told me to go,' I thought, and looked around quickly. Sure enough the red gate was back! I was almost too scared to stand up, "Should I go back through the gate?" I ventured.
    
    He just smiled, and said "We've enjoyed your company."

    I took that as a yes, and headed out, but then I got another shock; as I opened the gate I was confronted by a huge stairway. I looked up: it would be quite a climb. Halfway up I stopped and looked around. Everything seemed solid; as if it had been in place for a hundred years. I wondered what it was all about and why I had to climb out up such a hill of stairs.

 ‘Guess I’ll just have to deal with it.' I started to climb with determination, but, like magic, after three more stairs, I was at the top! I wasn’t even perspiring.

    When I was standing on the platform again. I turned to look back down the stairs. There were NO stairs; there was no red gate. There was only one well-worn pathway leading out of the railway ground.

     I set off along the footpath lost in thinking about what had just happened, until I was alarmed by a strong smell of smoke and a commotion up ahead.

     Then I saw it! The house Alex lived in was reduced to ashes, and twisted, blackened remains were still smoking and shooting off steam as firemen trained huge hoses of water on utter ruin.

     I screamed, “Alex!” He was nowhere to be seen. I expected he would come running out of the smoke, and had already decided he could sleep at our place. People were standing around, but the street was definitely empty of Alex; that's what worried me.

    Police were there tying blue-check ribbon to spikes in the ground, and one put his arm out and held me back, "Hold on, Son," he said to me, "Nothing you can do in there."

    "My mate!" I was shouting now, "Where's my mate?"

    "What's your name son?" Constable Kelly, (as I found out later), asked,
  ignoring my outburst.

    Then I saw Alex’s parents pulling their car up to the kerb. They ran to me, and I knew for certain, Alex was gone.

    Alex's parents had been out shopping when the fire broke out. He had been alone, working on his invention,

     “Something to do with chemicals,” his mum said. 

    Of course it was with chemicals...I was supposed to be there helping him! There'd been an explosion; a big one, they said, and a raging fire that almost destroyed the place before the fireman arrived.

    I should have been there. I should have been with him. But I'd gone through that red gate ......that red gate that didn't exist.

    I sat on the train home like a robot with a flat battery, Until I started remembering the things we used to do. He’d call on the phone, “Yeah?” I’d say.

    “Buddy!” he’d yell.

    “Mate!” I’d yell back. It was a routine we’d stuck to for ever.

     Through a blur of tears, I stared out the train window. That memory started a flood, and I could no longer control my emotions. I never carried a handkerchief… Well, as if! But my sleeve just wasn’t adequate.

     In a dream, I became aware of a hand tapping me on the back. I started, and turned my head. An old lady put out her arms, drawing me in and patting my back. She said nothing… just rocked me back and forth. Of course, the dam really burst then. I was embarrassed and grateful all at the same time, but I couldn’t stop. I must have soaked the old lady’s shoulder, blubbing and sobbing my heart out, until I ran out of tears.

     “He was my best mate,” I half whispered, half hiccoughed. “Why did he have to die?” 

     The old lady just put a big man’s handkerchief into my hand. “Indeed, Sweetheart,” she said softly. “Why indeed.”

    Mum was home. "Oh Callum, thank God you’re all right!" she burst out, flinging herself on me before I’d even got past the door. "Someone's house burnt down in Alex’s street. I’ve been worried sick about you. I know how Alex likes to do those experiments and make things. I thought if it was their house… Oh, Callum, I’ve been so worried. I know it’s silly…”

     She was jabbering on like a demented hen.

    "Yeah," I answered, "I know. It WAS Alex. He blew himself up-- I should have been there helping him. I guess I must have run late getting there."

    Then I thought, 'Alex must have been a lot smarter than me; he must have learnt all his lessons of life. I obviously have a lot of stuff to work on yet.'

    I turned back, and hugged Mum close.

Ashes out of Hell Part three.

After Bobby is left alone in the cave thinking that he’s been abandoned  by his mother and aunt, he comes to the realisation that he and the injured cockatoo need food. To that end he sets out to find whatever he can.

 Any reader who doubts that some of the following scenarios could be possible should refer to "Black Saturday," a collection of stories told by people who narrowly missed death in the Victorian bushfires of February 2009. The book is edited by John McGourty.


 As Bobby walked from the cave entrance, he faced the fire’s devastating aftermath once more. Grey ashes and blackened bush debris littered the mountain side. His mouth hung open as he stared down at his sneakers, almost obliterated by the inches-deep ash. It was impossible to avoid stirring up the rubbish and blackening his clothes as he stepped over soot-laden limbs and crunched charcoal underfoot. He picked his way carefully as he descended, unable to find any trace of the pathway he was used to walking. Occasional thin spirals of smoke and lonely black sentinels were all that remained of the hillside bush. Bobby wondered where the array of distant, familiar roofs of houses was, but as he got closer to the bottom of the mountain he knew that the piles of rubbish he'd seen in the distance had been houses before Hell took his mother and auntie away.

  When he reached the first collapsed heap that had once been a building, it was obvious someone had been here since the fire, for he found blue chequered tape surrounding each heap. A half metre of tape lay on the ground, and he picked it up, toying with it absently. Police had been here. Not understanding the holocaust created by the bushfire, Bobby's eyes grew wider as he gaped at the  scene of destruction.

   Nothing seemed familiar. He couldn’t see any sign of his own street, and in panic he started running. When breathless and panting, he stopped. Tears smeared his grubby cheeks as he looked around desperately. He saw no untouched houses, and no people remained. Wiping away his tears on his sleeve he suddenly saw, across the street he was standing on, a familiar large rock. It was a rock he often jumped on, or jumped over. Sometimes he sat on it, while Maisie tendered their small garden. Obeying impulse, once more he called for his mother and his auntie. Then he heard a familiar sound; a car engine approaching.

   Now scared. he ran for cover, avoiding the remains of the house and choosing the heap of rubble in the back corner which used to be a shed. He squatted down behind the twisted corrugated iron sheets out of sight. When he could see clearly he could tell it was a police car with two officers inside peering into all the nooks and crannies of previous happy homes. He wanted to call out. He wanted to get help -- but his family, especially his grandparents and uncles, hadn't think much of coppers. According to them the coppers hated all blacks, and as the car drew away, the dilemma left Bobby unprepared. He rose and held up his hand, opening his mouth to shout. Then he thought better of it.

   When they'd gone out of sight he rose again, and ducking under the blue chequered tape he searched for something familiar. He left behind the remains of the steel garden fork, still sticking out of the ground with the stump of its handle now just brittle charcoal. Where was his mother and his auntie?  Where were all the others, the elders, the relations, the friends? He sat on the rock, held his knees and dropped his head onto his forearms, sobbing his heart out. Bobby was a little boy again. Just for a little while all alone, he could drop his being in charge persona. The place was like a ghost town, everything destroyed and deserted. Bobby was convinced that in almost going to hell he had caused devastation to the whole town.
  
   Seeing no one and unsure what to do, he wandered, heading further up the old street. Ahead he was shocked to see something he hadn't been able to see before. Three burnt out cars told a sad story. A large tree had crashed across the roadway, and apparently in the thick smoke the first car had crashed into it. Two more had concertinered into the first one. Walking up to the first car he stared curiously in through the door, wondering at the window glass now hanging like a ghostly stalactite from the door frame. On the road pools of melted metal alloy had set hard around the skeleton wheels.

   Dejected, Bobby wandered back to his place, where another thought came to him. His fond neighbour and a loved friend of his mother and auntie, Sister Angelica, had lived next door to them. When he looked across he could see that no one would have survived in her house either; an old-fashioned bath tub on four gnarled legs remained white and lonely, nestled amongst the twisted iron. It looked ghostly and out of place.

   When Shaz and Maisie first met Sister Angelica, she managed to persuade them to accompany her to weekly Bible study in the Catholic Hall. Apparently they loved it, still joking and talking about it when Bobby came home from school, and even cooking the occasional cake to share for morning tea.
 Only the year before Bobby had started religious instruction at school almost by accident, when his mother had been talking to his teacher, and she asked, "Would you like Bobby to go to religious instruction Mrs -- aah -- Sharon?

   "Aw yeah, if ya like," the mother responded.

   "And what religion are you?”

   "Aah, I dunno," Sharon thought for a second then asked, "What’cha got?"

   "Well...Pastor Angus comes this afternoon. He's from the Baptist Church. Will he do?"
  
  "Yeah, that'll be good," Sharon decided. So Bobby became a Baptist by default. When they discovered Sister Angelica living next door, or at least when Sister Angelica discovered them, Bobby already liked Pastor Angus. Not daunted though, Sister Angelica wasted no time in taking advantage of the opportunity to gather them into her flock, Bobby included. She babysat him countless times, even altering her Saturday morning work at the Catholic church to babysit Bobby while Sharon and Maisie attended to taking their turn on the roster to clean in the Baptist Church. Sister Angelica never questioned the ladies dedication to two different churches. Her solution was, "The Lord works in mysterious ways." And the ladies enjoyed the social life. In return they all loved Sister Angelica. She and Maisie hung over the fence talking gardens, and Angelica was always passing over cuttings from her’s.

  As Bobby daydreamed, he almost jumped out of his skin when a voice startled him, even more so because the voice was Sister Angelica’s. At first he thought he was dreaming, and then it came again, louder. He whirled around and there she was, old slippers and apron as usual, grey hair wound into a tight bun on top of her head as always, running down the street towards him.

   They ran into each other's arms and Sister Angelica lifted him off his feet and hugged him to her. They were laughing, crying, embracing; overwhelmed with joy. Through his tears Bobby saw another figure standing a few steps behind Sister Angelica.

  When she put him down he wiped his eyes hurriedly and acknowledged 'old Zeke' from the other side of the street. Zeke’s house was a little old-fashioned cottage, probably built in the early 1900s, and Bobby was shocked to see the house was still there, standing untouched by the fire's fury. It may have been a few doors up on the other side, but why hadn't he noticed it? He couldn't believe his eyes. All sorts of questions were running through his mind. How had it suddenly popped up? Where did it come from? Bobby was astounded.

   Angelica hurried the two boys back across to the cottage where Zeke formerly shook hands with Bobby saying, "Good boy, Bobby, good boy. God, this is remarkable. Where have you been boy?"

   Sister Angelica hushed them while she ushered in tea, a cold drink and raisin toast for Bobby, and a large plate of biscuits and cake to share. Bobby couldn't believe his eyes and stuffed food into his mouth so fast the others hesitated to speak.

  A rapid discussion followed but it would be quite a long while before Bobby heard the full story of how Sister Angelica escaped her house unhurt, and none of them would ever learn why the fire spared the little cottage.

   It appeared that Sister Angelica, at her own house, had rescued the family of five from the first of the crashed cars, leading them up her few front stairs with the beam of a strong torch light, shining through the thick smoke. The family included a six-month-old baby boy, held close to his mother's chest under a wet towel. The nun plunged them all into the bath, with instructions to sit there together until the fire had passed.

   Terrified and choking from smoke, children and mother pressed close together up to their waists in the water, their knees up to their chins. That's how Sister Angelica would remember them.

Clutching her torch, she left them with the words, "I'm going across the road to sit with Zeke. He's all alone and must be terrified."

  When she got there she and Zeke sat in his lounge chair holding each other, praying and crying silently, waiting for an end to the madness.

   One by one they heard the houses exploding around them.

   Then the wind changed.
   Eventually they rose from their seats and surveyed the devastation. Their breathing came easier, until Angelica took in the sight of her own house, and a strangled cry escaped from her throat. Along with everything else, the family she had rescued had perished. The unfounded guilt she would feel at the sight of that bath tub she would carry for the rest of her life.

  But today was a day for joy, for the return of dear little Bobby. Zeke insisted they stay with him and the three found some happiness together. Bobby grieved for his mother and aunty, but Zeke rejoiced in his new found friends and for the first time in years felt useful.

  Then Bobby remembered something in the middle of breakfast the next morning, "Sister," he asked earnestly, "I've got to go back to the cave. Can you give me some food for my friend?"

  Sister Angelica was stunned. "Bobby! You have a friend back in the cave? Who is it?" she exclaimed in shock.

   "My mate, Ashes," answered Bobby, “He escaped from hell too, and hid in the cave with me."

 
   Intrigued, Angelica asked incredulously, "Ashes? Who’s Ashes? Where does he come from?"

   "He’s a bird, Sister; with a broken wing I think, and burnt feathers. I had no food left and we ate all the bread and quanongs. He'll be starving!"

   "Oh, we can't have that," Angelica agreed.
 
   Bobby frowned. "Will you come with me?"

 "Of course, Darlin’." 

  "What about Zeke?"

"Oh, Zeke's not up to walking up any mountains," "Not at 85!".

  So the two set off; but when they came to the first 'house' at the base of the mountain, the police car was there again, with a Sgt Chester and Constable O'Neill inside.

   Sister Angelica rushed up to the car declaring, "Sergeant, Sergeant! Look who we found! It's Bobby Olonungooloo! He's alive! He's alive!"

   But the sergeant’s response was rather cool. "Bring him over here sister, I need to talk to him."
 
When Bobby was seated in the back of the car, the sergeant asked him, "Where have you been, boy?"
 
As the discussion went on the sergeant told him roughly, "Aah -- Don't worry about any birds kid. Just watch out for that old Catholic crow! She'll have you in the Catholic Church before you can say Jack Robinson! I'll take you to the aid station." Bobby didn't yet understand about people's prejudices, especially against religion. He knew about racism but this was his first experience of bigotry.

  Reefing the back door open, he jumped out of the car and ran to Sister Angelica, clutching her and crying, "I want to stay with you. I want to stay with you!"

   Shocked, the nun asked, "What's that old bigoted reprobate been saying to you, Sweetheart?" Then she put him gently aside saying angrily, "Wait here, Bobby," and marched to the car.

  "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You're just an old bigoted alcoholic!" She snapped.

  "Ah, shuddup!" the sergeant responded angrily. “Bloody Catholic nuns! Always interfering!"
 
   The constable was shocked, "Steady on Sarge; I'm a Catholic. Anyway, don't you think it's time we left?"

"Yeah, ya probably right O’Neill," Sergeant Chester grumbled, "We’re not gonna do any bloody good here!"

   The constable spun the car around, showering gravel and stones and bouncing up out of the gutter back onto the road before driving off in a cloud of black dust.
 
   Angelica and Bobby sat down on the ground together to gather their wits. The nun put her head in her hands.

  When they got to the cave they fed Ashes some seed and water.

"Do you think he could live with us, Bobby?" asked the nun. Then she added, “Of course, you’d feed him and talk to him every day for me, wouldn’t you?”
 
  "Oh yeah! Great!"
  
   “And of course we’d have to check with Zeke. It’s his place,” Anjelica said quietly.

 
    “Yeah, I s’pose,” Bobby almost whispered.

   The next day, needing supplies, Bobby and Angelica trudged the four miles to the aid station. There was much rejoicing over Bobby's rescue, and, notwithstanding the generalised grief, the miraculous escape of Zeke and Angelica in Zeke's house.

   When asked what she needed most Angelica replied, "A push bike." It was delivered that afternoon.

   It was old, but it did the job and she was grateful. Now she had transport.

  About a week later Zeke surprised her by asking to borrow the bike. It was three hours before he returned, pale and worn out. She put him to bed with tea and soup.

   He recovered and potted around the garden for the next two weeks until one afternoon Bobby ran around the side of the house to be confronted by the old man's prostrate form on the ground.
                                         --0--

  Angelica sat in the lounge of the old man's cottage with her arm around Bobby. They missed their new-found friend who could never return.

  "God works in mysterious ways, Bobby," Sister Angelica consoled.

   The solicitor sitting opposite them agreed, "He does indeed," he remarked. "I don't think you realise how much Mr Ezekiel Toms thought of you, Sister.”

   She responded, "He was a dear old man -- so kind. He was Scottish you know, and so sad he had no family. I think he must have been very lonely. I wish I’d got to know him sooner."

  Mr Baker was satisfied that he had made no mistake, and informed them of his mission. "Mr Toms altered his will only two weeks ago."

   Sister Angelica and Bobby couldn't believe they were now the joint owner s of a little cottage.
Angelica looked at the history around them in the house, then they looked at each other -- a Catholic nun and a boy. "Okay," she remarked, "I might not be your first choice, but here we are Bobby, a little family nonetheless."

   Bobby's arms went around her neck and he whispered, "I love you, Sister."

Ashes out of Hell Park 2

 The last Bobby has seen of his mother and aunt is when they leave him around 5 pm at the cave to go to a meeting with the tribal elders on the creek bank where the mob always meets.


                                                    Ashes out of Hell: Part 2

 An hour later as the cave became dark, the man of the house lay down on his pillow and tried to sleep; but the noises were louder, and not so comforting when he was all alone. The noises were louder; the dark was darker, and it took on shapes of its own. Even the cave walls seemed to be grotesque and whispering. Bobby's eyes were wide in the dark. But wide staring eyes grow weary, and eventually he slept.

   But then he woke; and while sleep still lingered he coughed, and lay still, trying to adjust his mind and his eyes. In the pitch black he wondered if his mother and aunt had returned. Then he heard it; a strange, loud, roaring in the distance, with something like crackling not far away. He couldn't stop himself from coughing. He lay there, until alarm suddenly gripped his chest when he recognised the smell; it was smoke.

   His vision instantly revealed the black wasn't so black...the black was a dulll reddish orange waving around on the cave walls, and there was an eeriness. The crackling continued but everything else had ceased; and only the low roar continued, like 100 trucks on a road somewhere below the mountain. He coughed more and struggled to breathe. Suddenly fully awake he leapt to his feet and ran to the mouth of the cave, where he was confronted by a world of searing red heat.

   He screamed out, "Mummy! Mummy! Aunty Maisie, Mummy!!" He screamed as loud as his lungs would allow.

   Fear filled his heart and he heard his aunt’s frequent loud admonitions, 'Bobby! if ya don't behave ya goin’ straight to the gates o’ hell!'


   Absently reaching out his hand to lean on the cave entrance, he felt it hot on his hand. "Shit!" The glowing red air was burning his legs and face and he ran back to his sleeping bag, collapsing in a heap and sobbing into his pillow, "Mummy, Mummy, where are you?"


   Waves of burning heat rolled around the cave. Fearfully he cried, "I'm at the gates of hell! Auntie said I'd go to hell! And now I'm there!”
 
   Tragically, he pleaded, "Mummy, comeback."

   Without warning, along with a heavy gust of heat something brushed his face as it rushed past. It felt like a bunch of grass with twigs tangled in it. He heard a gasping and a sort of groaning as it passed. Bobby yelled and flung his hands around, swiping at the intrusion. Jumping to his feet he ran the few feet to the cave entrance again, holding his pillow to his chest. Hopelessly, he cried and called for his mother.

   Finally becoming conscious of his face and shins burning, he sank down against the inside rocky cave wall, huddling behind the pillow instinctively to shade his skin.

   After a time, strangely, the heat seemed to lessen; Bobby edged the pillow from his face and watched in wonder as the great red fire wall slowly retreated back down the mountain. His breathing became easier and his coughing eased.

    Later he would learn that the wind had changed.  As he sat there a great surge of cooler air blew from the back of the mountain, sucking the smoke and heat with it out of the cave. Bobby took a deep breath and found he didn't cough. The burning hot air cooled off a little. He waited, and waited, for his mother and his aunt to come stumbling up the mountain, until fatigue claimed him once more, and the tired child, clutching his pillow, returned to his sleeping bag, where he curled up and fell into an exhausted sleep.

   As a pink dawn bathed the mountain Bobby awakened again, and in the pale early morning light, stared dismally across at the other stilll-empty sleeping bags, until, out of the depressing stillness, he felt he was being watched. His fingers gripped the edge of the pillow as his eyes strained. At last he saw them--round black eyes--eyes ringed with white, returning his stare. Unblinking, they watched each other.

   And then Bobby spoke softly, "G'day, bird, I heard you go past in the night; scared the shit outer me." Then he added, "You come through hell, did ya?"

     A large bedraggled bird had been forced into the back of the cave where it lay injured and frightened, staring fearfully at Bobby, who added, "Ya’ got black stuff all over ya’! An’ ya’ got a broken wing too. Ashes -- that's what it is, ashes and soot all over ya. You sure bin close ta hell!"

    The bird said nothing.

   All of a sudden, Bobby yelled and jumped to his feet when a loud shriek shattered the quiet. The bird shuffled back further and raised one wing.

   “Errk,” it growled, limping and unbalanced.

    “Orrh, you’re a white cockatoo!” exclaimed Bobby.

 The bird staggered uncertainly like a drunk, raising his buttery yellow crest and surveying his surroundings.

   When it screeched again Bobby yelled,  "Aaah!"  clapping his hands over his ears, "Cut that out, bloody noisy cockatoo!" The cockatoo growled and raised his pretty yellow crest twice more.

   "Sheesh! Man! You're noisy! And a bit of a mess...even got your wings burnt -- there's nothin’ much left of ‘em. Anyway, your crest’s still there, most of it, hey?"

   The cockatoo said nothing.

   Then Bobby added, "But don't make those damn screeches like that or you’ll deafen me!" He lay back down on the sleeping bag and his new companion settled itself on the cave floor.

   With the bird to give him company, Bobby dozed off again, and when he woke up the sun was shining brightly at the mouth of the cave. He sprang to his feet startling his new feathered friend.

   "Sorry fella," he said sinking back down to a sitting position. The cockatoo hardly moved.

   "I better get us some breakfast," Bobby informed the bird importantly. "Keep an eye on things, Ashes." But before he could take more than a few steps, the cockatoo, wobbling backwards, let out his ear piercing screech again.

   Bobby's hands flew to his ears and he agonised, "Aw, shut up Cocky-- a bloke’ll be deaf!"

   Hurrying out of the cave, he returned in half an hour with a cup full of water and three quandongs in his cap. He slapped two slices of white bread together with half a quandong between them for himself and then gave the bird two halves of one to nibble saying, "Now I’ve got one more for you, Ashes, but there’s no more ripe ones left, and these might be a bit burnt. I’ll go back at lunchtime for more water.” They sat quietly, disconsolately nibbling at their food.


 “Sheesh,” Bobby was the first one to utter a sound. “I can’t hear nothin.” No birds sang outside; no frogs croaked; and no dogs barked in the distance. No leaves rustled, and no branches were left on the eucalypts to groan in the breeze. It was just deathly quiet.

    Bobbie thought about his mother and his auntie. “I wish Mummy would come back, and Aunty Maisie too. She’d know what to do... Aunty Maisie always knows what to do.”

    At lunchtime he returned with the water in the cup again, and was happy for the bird to drink what it wanted. “Only got two half-ripe fruits this time,” he told the poor injured creature.

   Suddenly the boy remembered something. He scratched around under his auntie's sleeping bag and came out triumphantly with a small tin of jam. Maisie had half removed the top with a can opener and placed plastic wrap around the open top.

  "Look Ashes," he said happily, "Look what I found. I forgot about Auntie's plum jam. "But we haven't got a knife or a spoon; never mind, we’ll use a stick." As if in reply the cocky gave a growling screech.

   Bobby hurriedly scooped jam on to slices of bread as best he could and they tried an open jam sandwich. Ashes tilted his head first on one side and then on the othr, peering at the offering. He picked tentatively at first, then got stuck in, licking the jam with his little velvety 'mully-grub' tongue, before wiping his beak side to side on one foot.

   Inevitably, supplies were dwindling. Bobby knew what they had wouldn't last long. He sat on his sleeping bag with his back up against the cave wall thinking of his mother and his auntie and dreading what might have happened.

    At once his resources crumbled, and he fell down clutching his pillow and sobbing uncontrollably, jerking out in between sobs, "Mummy, Mummy, where are you? Please come back Mummy. Please, please come back."

  This was now the pattern for Bobby: rebounding from the need to take charge of not only his own welfare but the cockatoo, back to what he really was: a little boy desperate for comfort himself.

  A wretched, troubled night passed slowly and eeriely. Breakfast was a repeat of the day before but Ashes was uncomfortable, gasping and shuffling around, frequently squirting the ground with loose white mess, accompanied by ear-splitting shrieks. Bobby escaped with only tummy cramps but was forced into a major decision.

   "I gotta go and get some help; find some food anyway," he said, half to himself. He left a slice of bread and jam for Ashes, warning, "I think that half-burnt green fruit is making us sick, mate. I'll be back as soon as I can."



Ashes watched him go.

  End of Part 2



END Part 2

iAshes out of Hell-- Part 1 of a 3 part fiction story

 I wrote this story a few years ago after the notorious Australian bushfires, which killed nearly 200 people.


                                                       Ashes out of Hell  (Part 1)

 “Mummy" sobbed Bobby, “I’m at Hell; I’m at the gates of Hell Please help me."

     The lonely ten-year-old’s sobs only reached the cave walls. Bobby cried quietly, traumatised, confused, and desperate for his mother.

                                                                         --0--

    Morosely, his mind wandered back over events two days earlier in the household of three run by his beloved mother and aunt.

  "We got no money Maisie; how we gonna pay the rent this arvy?" Sharon asked her older sister.

  "Aah, don't worry Shazzy, I bin thinkin’-- we'll take Bobby ‘n go up to the cave in the mountain for a coupla nights."

  "Bobby!" Maisie called taking control immediately, "Get ya pillow and sleepin’ bag, we’re goin’ on a picnic for a coupla nights up to the cave."

  "Why Auntie Maisie?'

  "Rent man comin', we gotta get outta the way for awhile."

    “Anyway," she added, "Yer mum an’ me gotta go to a meetin Sat’dy arvo’. Everybody meetin’ with the elders at the creek where our mob always gets together--tomorrer night, ya know? You'll be okay in the cave, eh?"

  "Sure auntie," Bobby kicked his schoolbag with the toe of his sneaker.

  Sharon Olonungooloo, Shaz to most of her friends, gave birth to Bobby when she was only 17. Now 27, she was still pretty and slim, with long shiny black hair, and though she considered herself drab and uninteresting, many of the tribe regarded her as beautiful. But they knew young Bob was her top priority in life and few would dare to challenge that.

  Unfortunately for Sharon, she grew up in a household heavily influenced by alcohol and violence,   and when she found herself pregnant and announced it to the man in question, she received a broken jaw for 'bein stupid'.
                                                           
  Angry and headstrong, she’d walked out and spent endless months sleeping rough, on park benches if she was near a town, on an old piece of cardboard under a tree, or in a dry drain if she was lucky.

  Her much older sister, Maisie, walked away from her secure job of cleaning rooms in the only motel in the small country town where she lived, to seek out the young eight-months-pregnant-Shaz. She determined to make a better life for the three of them, because, as she often told Sharon, "I shouldda
looked after ya better Shazzy, Ya was just a kid."

  They both doted on Bobby; he was the reason they got up and cooked breakfast every morning.

  Maisie was 38 now and plump around the middle; but strong, physically and mentally. She was the one who dug the garden; she was the one who mended the fence and didn't wait for the landlord to do it. She had an impatient 'get it done now' attitude to things, attributed superciliously by the rest of the family to her half-caste father. But, he'd been a notorious drunkard and because of her family experience, like Shaz, she had no tolerance of alcohol, calling it, 'the bloody booze.'

  In the hot western summers the sisters favoured shorts, singlet tops, and flip-flops, and in the incongruous winters, donned tracksuits and sand shoes for the bitter mornings.

  Maisie was an organiser and the boss-- a survivor; Sharon knew they'd be all right with Maisie.

  At school Bobby had his share of problems, as any black kid outnumbered by whites would have; but his tolerance and good humour won him many friends. After a while the bullies recognised that if they picked on Bobby, they picked on Bobby and his mates! When he visited his friends’ homes his politeness won their mothers over and Bobby was never short of a ride to sports practice.
                                                                     
                                                                        --0--

  Shazzy, Bob and Maisie threw their sleeping bags and pillows down on the cleanest part of the cave floor that they could find. They travelled light with a minimum of clothes and a minimum of food. Soon after dark they put their heads down and fell asleep; or at least the women fell asleep, breathing deeply. Bobby lay staring into the blackness, listening to the different sounds surrounding the cave.    He could hear a boobook owl in the distance; a gregarious willie-wagtail forgot it was night time, and crickets sounded deafeningly loud. He heard geckos, mating possums and a koala beating his chest. 

  But the heat was oppressive and Bobby missed the breeze that wafted in his window at home, and the colourful football-patterned curtain blowing over his bed

  Eventually, when tiredness overtook his lean little body, he slept, and they all woke when bright daylight filled the cave.

  Clambering over the rocks and following the little wallaby pad they knew about, they made their way between the trees down to a little water fall a hundred metres or so over behind the cave. Disappointingly, it was barely a trickle, but there was a little pool of water in a sandstone 'basin,' enough for a drink and a face wash. Bobby sat himself down on an old blackened rock near the water's edge, and leaned forward as he slurped water from his cupped hands. 

  Then they explored around the watercourse for the quandong fruit that grew there. A couple of slices of bread and some quandong flesh sufficed for breakfast.

  The women passed the day outside the cave with their backs against a rock, joking and gossiping. Bobby lazed with them, read his comics or lay on his back watching the clouds; or he rolled over and teased a beetle as it crawled labouriously over the bark and stick obstacles that he put in its way.

  At 5 o'clock the women set off for the meeting, Sharon protesting, "I shouldn't leave Bob here on his own Maisie, he'd be all right comin’ with us, wouldn't he?"
 
  "Them elders won't like it; he'll be okay, Shazzy."

  Then to Bobby she added, "You’re gonna be all right here, aren't ya, Bobby?"

  Still, Sharon worried about her beloved son, "Now don't you move outter this cave Bobby. Don't you leave here and go anywhere, will ya? We’ll be back in a coupla hours."

  Maisie backed her up, "Yeah, darlin,’ you stay put! You leave here and God gonna find ya and send ya t’hell!"
 
  As the two women set off Maisie called over her shoulder, laughing as she spoke, "Remember Bobby -- you don't wanna end up at the gates o’ hell!"

  "Orr Maisie!!" Sharon admonished, giving her sister a hit on the shoulder.
 
"Sure auntie,” Bobby called back, head down, turning away and kicking at a stone.

END OF PART 1

The Mystery of the Missing Memory (short fiction)

I woke up facing a blank brick wall. It made no sense, that wall... I didn't recognise it. Everything was strange... unfamiliar. I reached out. My hand fell onto a cement floor. Thoughts came in a rush of questions. I'm on a floor? But...I'm comfortable. Why? Aah... I'm on a mattress. A mattress? Why not a bed? What time is it? At least it's daylight, but early? late? No watch! Where am I? Good God! I'm fully dressed! No watch... Maybe a wallet...Oh no! Have I been robbed? My head's hammering. That's it! I must've been robbed...hit on the head.

'No I.D... Great!', 'What now?' I stood. My legs shook. At least I was dressed. I looked down at my clothes. Khaki trousers? And a khaki shirt... emblazoned across the front with a big, red N/C, not familiar either. Must be work-clothes. I wondered what work I did. I racked my brains... nothing! It must've been quite a party! I don't know where I am and I don't recognize my clothes.

But I know my name.... It's... It's... Come on! You must know your name! By now my mind was in panic. My name! I must know it! Neil? Norman? Nothing!

I felt claustrophobic. I had to get out of this room. As I wrenched at the door, it flew open, and almost hit me in the face. I wanted to run, but my legs were stiff. I stumbled and fell over something. It must've been leaning against the door. 'God....it's a wreath!' It was large, made of white lilies... arum lillies! Was that thing meant for me?

I tried to stand, but my head throbbed with every movement. From hands and knees I looked around. Where in damnation was I?

Then I saw...a stack of boxes...not ordinary boxes. They were long polished boxes with polished brass handles. Coffins! The hair on the back of my neck rose.

Now I really panicked! Someone was expecting me to need a coffin and a wreath...and, from what I'd seen,...quite soon.

I wanted to get as far away as I could. I was in a back-room of sorts because there were trestles and long benches too. I rushed across to the only door and opened it a crack. As I did, I heard singing... hymn singing. I edged into the room, a show room of coffins, in neat rows. Each one was gleaming, topped with a small white price card edged in gold, and placed on a tiny silver tripod. In the corners of the room were elegant silver vases of more white lilies. As I crossed the display room, the singing increased in volume. I guessed the chapel was through the next door.

Again, I eased a door open a crack. The chapel was filled with a grieving congregation.

Nothing to do but wait, and hope no one came through the door. I sat, resting my shaky legs.

The service ended. I was impatient while the chapel emptied.

I peeped out. the coast was clear, so I squeezed through. But still not free, I sank behind a pew, then duck-walked, dodging around more pews. I reached the front row. Could I make it across to that door in the back corner? I estimated twenty feet to cross.

Everyone out the front of the chapel had their backs to me. I doubled over and ran for it, feeling a thousand eyes on my back. I heard no shouts of alarm and I didn't look back.

Outside the door, I was in unfamiliar surroundings again. I saw two men talking as they walked, also khaki-clad, and followed them. I couldn't hurry to catch up though, afraid my head would explode, just with the jolt of walking.

Then I saw what might help. About a hundred metres up the street was a police station. I made for it, But once inside I was confronted by blank stares. Two 'policemen,' wearing similar khaki clothes and khaki caps looked aggressive.

"Yes?" One asked sharply.

"I--, ah.. can't...."

"Yes, yes?"

In a flash of crushing nausea my memory returned. The hair on the back of my neck rose again.The mindless clapping of the sect...the chanting voices... "You will obey! Your mind is missing! Missing! He's Non-Compliant! Non-Compliant! Non-Compliant!"

I made a dash for the door

The New Swimming Pool (non-fiction)

 This is a short biographical account of an incident from my childhood. It is true and one day I may include it in my biography.
‘ I told the story o’er an o’er and bragged of my escape,’.. is a line from a well-known Banjo Patterson poem...’ The Man from Ironbark.’


                                   THE NEW SWIMMING POOL
"Come on, who's coming?"

    ‘Who's coming? There's somewhere to go?’

    "I'm coming! Where we goin' Dad?"

    "For a drive to find a place on the river for the new swimming pool."

    Dad was the president of the school committee for our little one-teacher country school and the men, (there were no women on the school committee,) had decided, with the teacher’s help, that the older kids from the school could go swimming on Friday afternoons, if we could find a suitable spot in the Burnett River. We had to find somewhere suitable for a girls' changing room as well, and another place, (very private place of course,) for the boys to undress and put on their swimmers.

    Mum and my brother came too. Who could resist a river on a burning hot day? I was impatient on the half-hour drive.

    "Up there behind those bottle-brush trees will be okay for the girls," Dad announced.

    I objected. "But Da-ad, we'll have to walk over these hot sand hills and away up that hill!" It must have been a whole five minutes away!

    "Well, you don't want the boys to see you, do you?"

    I was silenced. The boys would head off in another direction to their 'dressing rooms.' The thought of a dip in the cool river every Friday afternoon would be worth a few bunny-hops over the burning hot sand hills.

    The designated swimming area was a natural waterhole with a shallow gravelly crossing where the girls could cross on their way to their 'bathing sheds.' The deeper water was clean and clear to the sandy bottom.

    After the required official areas had been decided upon, it was time for trials to be run.

    "Last one in the water's a silly goat!" My father was always a bigger kid than the rest of us.

    I ran around to the far bank of the river where there was a log in the water but against the riverbank that you could stand on and dive from. I guess the river was about as wide as your house, but it seemed 100 miles wide to me that day.

    Well, not at first, it didn't.

    I stood there poised on the log; I teetered ready to dive; and just at the point where I was committed, I saw it: a golden-coloured water snake was lying just under the water’s surface in the shelter of the log! Using the very last contact of my toes with the log, I pushed out as far as I could.

When I hit the water I struck out in my self-taught thrashing style of 'over-arm' swimming, working like the very devil to make the opposite bank before I was swallowed whole!

    Dad and my older brother soon disposed of the snake. None of us felt guilty; all snakes were bad; the only good snakes were dead snakes. Back at school, 'I told the story o’er and o’er and bragged of my escape!

                                                            --0--

    It was hot where we lived, a dry, burning heat. 110°F in the shade was not unusual. I loved swimming -- there was nothing more invigorating; and I knew I could swim. It was easy. The teacher, Mr Allen, said anyone who could swim 50 yards breaststroke, 50 yards over-arm, and could dive down and get a painted stone off the bottom of the river, could get their junior certificate. I think we had to tread water for 10 seconds as well. I bet I did it first. Most of the kids got their junior certificates. I don't think the teacher could swim any better than we could. There were no swimming lessons -- I guess there was no one who knew enough about swimming to teach it anyway.

    One week I couldn't go swimming on Friday afternoon because I'd become 'a young lady now' and it was an unfortunate time of the month for me. I was mortified; how embarrassing! Mum said not to worry about it because she'd ring the teacher's wife and explain. Anyway, no one ever said anything to me about it. That's how we did things in the 50s.

    Years later I drove back out to that swimming hole. I took my husband and kids to see where I used to swim as a child. But they weren't impressed. The waterhole was no more; not like it was anyway. The gravelly bottom was now mud and the little shallow bit where we used to cross on our way to the 'dressing rooms' had dried up. I think golden water snakes would have been the least of our problems. I took the family to my old school as well. They weren't impressed with that either. Temperatures weren't measured in Fahrenheit any longer, and the day was hot, very hot. In fact it was about 37°C and I nearly died; I couldn't believe how hot it was! How did I ever survive in these rotten temperatures?

    Ah well, life goes on for us city slickers.

A short fiction story... Milly Drew

                                                      Millie Drew

A forty-something spinster, Millie Drew was our city suburban neighbour on the top side.

    Generally, she was the dependable type; she brought in the washing when it rained; watered your garden when you went on holidays, and minded us kids if Mum had a doctor's appointment. You could tell she was a spinster straight away. She was tall, skinny, with glasses, straight hair and no make-up.

    She and I developed a special relationship, although I use the wood 'special' somewhat loosely.


    The day it happened, I was trudging along, dragging my satchel through the dirt.

     “It's not fair! Why should I have to walk home, even if I do live so close to the stupid school.”

    I was hot and I just wanted to get to the house and be on the bed. Dizzy and nauseous, walking was an effort. I got a start when a voice interrupted my thoughts.

    It was Millie. "Hello young Marjorie Stubbs," she squawked. "My goodness, you look dreadful! What happened to your hair?"

    ‘Hair? What hair? Oh, my hair! Who cares?’

    But how to answer was my immediate dilemma. I hesitated over: 'Thank you. I feel dreadful, Miss Drew,' 'Nothing is wrong with my hair, but I'm not very well thank you, Miss Drew,' or 'I'm sick. Please help me, Miss Drew…'

    However, events suddenly overtook me, and I have a stark memory of that instant, a most unpleasant memory, although amusing in hindsight. I clearly remember the sky falling in, and my vomit oozing out between the straps of Millie's sandal.

    She leapt backwards with surprising speed, "Gad girl! Are you ill?"

    "N-No," I lied, wiping the spittle off my mouth with the hem of my uniform. "I'm all right."

    "I've got to go then, lovey." She was almost running, back in the direction of her house.

    Actually, I felt better. So I picked up my bag and started off again. I had fifty yards to walk, but I stood stock still. Just ahead of me, Millie Drew's foot had come adrift from her sandal, and she was bent double, trying to extricate herself from a shrub – trying to extricate her foot, that is. The straps of her sandal had wrapped themselves around the stem of the shrub. Really, it was just a freak accident. Because of the moisture, her foot had slipped out of the sandal.

    I drew level, and asked her, "Are you okay, Miss Drew?"

    "Oh, help me please," she whined, "I think I'm going to be sick."

    With that, she sank down on the grass with her head lolling between her knees.

    "I'll get Mum," I said, and without thinking, ran off to our house, just a few yards away now.

    "Mum, Mum!" I yelled, "Quick, quick! Millie's sick!"

    "Miss Drew, Marjorie, Miss Drew to you." As usual, Mum's first thought was for 'proper speech.'

    "But Mum," I persisted, "Millie's out on the footpath, I mean Miss Drew is out on the footpath, and I think she's sick!"

    "Oh, Marjorie, whatever gives you that idea?" Clearly, Mum didn't think I was qualified to make an on-the-spot diagnosis.

    This called for action. I grabbed Mum's hand and dragged her out the front door. "See?"


    We marched silently side-by-side towards the victim.

    Mum sat down beside Millie, flinging her hand out towards the shrub, "Fix the sandal, Marjorie!"

    By now, the sandal ponged. I had it almost untangled when the sky started falling again.
   The sandal filled again. Well, overflowed really… Took a bath even!

    My mother's attention was finally diverted from her neighbour to her daughter, and ever since then, I've had this special relationship with Miss Drew.

    Although I'm an adult now, from that day to this, she has only acknowledged me with a brief smile and a limp wave.

Short fiction Story... My Dad, Jeck

 MY DAD, JECK

I think it’s the smell of him I remember; or perhaps it’s the way he looked -- his baggy pants and his odd little limp; but then again it might be the way he smiled. I guess it’s all those things.
I just know in my mind the image is large. None of my other memories of my family loom so big. Nothing else brings me to tears like that mind picture.

  He was always called Jeck -- right from his childhood. His real name was Jack, but at one time when he was growing up apparently, the family had a workman from New Zealand; and in the way that only New Zealanders can manipulate a vowel, he became Jeck. The nuance in his name stuck.
Jeck was a fisherman. We lived just above the water in a part timber-part fibro house. Mum always called it a shack. "Don't bring visitors to this old shack", she'd say, ashamed of the place. But dad didn't care about the house.

  "The house doesn't bring in any money", he'd say. "All you need is a roof over your head -- what more do you want?"

  If she protested too much he'd say, "Do you want to build your own bloody house, Woman?"

  But he wasn't mean -- you could tell by the twinkle in his blue eyes that he was joking. He had the softest blue eyes and when he was taking the mickey out of you his whole face would light up. He could never disguise his laughing eyes -- such a contrast in his leathery brown face.

  After me, Mum had three more kids, so she couldn't leave. "I stayed because I had you children to bring up," she'd say.

  Mum knew it was her job to bring up kids and Dad knew it was his job to catch fish.

  Dad always wore the same clothes; day after day -- week after week. He never altered his outfit; he wore faded khaki pants -- a size too big -- and baggy round the legs. The material was supple; tough, pure cotton, well worn into his shape. The matching shirt had two big pockets, one on each side of the chest, with a buttoned down flap. He never bought short sleeves ever. He wore his shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbow -- always -- winter and summer. He had an old canvas jacket on the boat of course -- just for the winter winds.

  I remember standing on the jetty watching for his boat. When it came, gently rocking on the swell with a 'tock tock' of the wood as he moved his gear, the first thing I saw was him-- tall and erect in the boat-- looking for someone on the jetty. He never admitted it was me he was looking for. Satisfied I was there, he got on with fixing his equipment -- packing it away ready for the next trip.
I always thought he'd fall as he stepped out of the boat, because his limp was permanent, and getting out of the boat caused him to buckle down on his left side. He'd been to war and still had some shrapnel, he said, in his hip. That caused him to dip his one leg as he walked and with each step his trousers at the knee bobbed in and out

  His big felt hat was well worn too -- 'comfortable,' he said. It wasn't khaki of course; but maybe it was bleached by the sun, because it was nearly the same colour as his clothes. In any case it was always on his head. He'd come to the table and sit down and mum would say, "Jeck --your hat! For goodness sake!" So he'd put it down on the floor beside his chair.

  He had a real marine smell. Mum used to say the salt was in his skin. I loved standing on the jetty breathing in the rich salt air that blew my hair back like a sail on a boat -- and he had that same smell.
But sometimes he'd have a few fish scales on him and smell a bit fishy; and when he put his arms around me I'd wrinkle my nose up. He'd chuckle to himself and ruffled my hair with his hand -- his big brown hand -- brown from constantly being in the sun.

He'd pretend to be shocked and say, "I washed my hands in the sea!"
Mum used to have a hard time getting his clothes clean. She scrubbed them on a wash board with a big cake of home-made soap. Eventually her fingernails all went black and started to decay at the edges. She said she had 'a germ in the nail.' I think she had a germ in most of her nails.
When dad died, even though I was an adult, I felt as if I'd woken up in the middle of an operation and all my insides were exposed. Whenever I went back to the old jetty I would look back out over the ocean, close my eyes, and see him coming towards me, his feet braced on the deck of his little wooden boat. I’d feel my heart aching as if it was struggling to get out of my chest to go bobbing along on the water.

   Of course for the last 20 years he had a much bigger boat; but my memories were all of the little wooden boat, clunking against the jetty as he tied it up.
Last year mum died as well. I couldn't believe the old house was still there, until an official looking letter from the council finally found me, telling me I'd have to have the 'beach shack'  removed. It was a hazard they said, in case of a bad storm. I wanted to argue with them and tell them that it had stood there for 90 years, but you can't fight City Hall.

    I went back there -- in fact I spent a night there -- after I'd cleaned up one room of dead leaves and cobwebs so I could put my stuff down and sleep.

    I lay awake for hours thinking about the past. I don't sleep much at night any more anyway -- prowl around the house like an old witch looking for her broom most  can I just have a few minutes on posters are nownights -- and then doze like a drunk all day.

    Old age has not been kind to me and turning 70 was a real jolt. I've started going to church and I think about death a lot. That night there in the old shack, (sorry dad), I had this dream. I was down on the jetty; Dad wasn't coming and I got so tired; so I put my head down on the boards and looked up at the clouds. It was so peaceful there. The clouds started turning around in lazy circles and I felt as if I was drifting, floating, sort of in the air like a feather on the breeze -- or a little boat on the water. I didn't want it to end -- I just wanted to stay like that forever.

   Then In the dream I must have gone to sleep, because suddenly I heard this clunking -- loud enough to wake me up. I stood up on the jetty searching around for a boat, and then I saw him. He was in his little wooden boat; standing up straight -- feet braced on the deck -- but he wasn't coming towards me -- he was drifting away -- leaving me behind.

  Then I woke up. I got a real shock to realise I was back in the shack.

  I left the next morning and went home; but before I could make arrangements for the removal of the shack a violent storm blew in from the ocean and completely demolished it, spreading the old boards and tin all over the town. The council had to clean it up and take it to the dump.

A Crown of Sonnets

Giddy Nielsen-Sweep  January 2012


Author notes;

 No 1...  In this sonnet I’ve tried to establish the idea that where we’re born dictates our lifestyle, and have specifically identified South Sudan and the struggle of their oppressed people to maintain their Christian beliefs and lifestyle.

  No 2... Here I’ve set out the difficulties faced by the people, and their determination to stay as they are, despite many being killed in wars. (some around may weep.)

 No 3... identifies that even children were left to fend for themselves, (he’s just a boy,) is a reference to the lost boys of the Sudan.

No 4... I thought it prudent to include here some reference to the efforts around the world of people to achieve freedom. Hence the reference to  (freedom’s broken wall.) Throughout the Crown I have tried to encourage support for oppressed people.
I’ve emphasized the need of Sth.Sudan for charity. (wretchedness of humble hand) refers to taking handouts from charities. (...the vanquished... too hard to resist) is a reference to those who died in the famine and wars.

 No 5... This sonnet emphasizes the way that young boys are growing into men and are prepared to fight for their rights. I have used the pronoun ‘he’ or ‘him’ throughout, but it refers to the people as a whole.

  No 6... The people have had to fight but have achieved freedom. Declaring their independence, they have voted to become separate from the North, and are the independent country of South Sudan, able to worship as they please. Some of the young women are  training to become models.

 No 7... declares that it is up to each individual to make their home life happy wherever they are.  (daughters sleep in peace) refers to MFG(no easy reign)-- I suspect life won’t necessarily be peaceful in South Sudan, but for the moment the people are enjoying independence.



i. Fate Dictates

An accident of birth defeats acclaim
For fate dictates this life’s appointed home,
And silver spoon or tattered cloth’s the same
When destiny decides on where you roam,
Don’t judge a poor man by his state of dress
Or question why he acts the way he must,
The stone awaits for you to cast or bless
Start out by showing you’re someone to trust.

A tiny babe in helplessness displays
His innocence and purity so sweet,
In South Sudan that precious babe brings praise,
Though weakened cries depict his utmost feat,
Grant him that chance to grow with equal right
With passing years his stature can be great,
If giv’n the chance to bloom in any light
Should he be stirred, inspired to make life rate

If he is found to strive for rainbow’s end...
Remember, equal rights must not offend.



ii. Rights of Man


Remember, equal rights must not offend,
Give voice to those who’ve come to offer aid,
His accident of birth must he defend?
Each milestone reached, is triumph’s escapade,
Encouragement for him is scant, it’s slow,
Wrong birthplaces are hardships racist slur
The hill he climbs is twice as steep to know
Oppression then may seize his heart to stir.

Though steps at first are slow for brief reward,
The daunting task can offer no retreat,
 While unexpected progress used no sword
 Determination’s conquest tastes so sweet,
 He sees in dreams a warrior’s mighty coup,
 It gives him courage though his losses grow,
 When famine strikes, dependence grows on you,
 And if his family members die, tears flow.

 So from his lowly bed his visions keep
 That heart full strong, though some around may weep.


iii. Lost Boys

That heart full strong, though some around may weep,
Guides he who trudges on, he’s just a boy
With steadfast aim, against all odds to win
Outwitting those who parry and employ
A harsher tool to mould him to their whim.
Though child grows older, not just old in years,
His life will one day see an end in sight,
The land he sees ahead will hold no tears
Past lessons will sustain his growing might.

I know one day that boy will teach our whole
Wide world to work as one, work for goodwill,
Exhibiting a far off splendid goal
There’ll be no need for force or threat to kill,
For every heart that dwells between the ribs
Depends on where his spirit finds the cause,
From that first trembling breath in swaddled cribs
To adulthood through crudest bramble doors.

And when he sees his world is standing tall
He’ll grateful be for freedom’s broken wall.


iv. Harsh Nature

He’ll grateful be for freedom’s broken wall
Yet bearing floods and droughts, in sorrow mourns,
His weeping for lost souls makes heavy pall,
Yet there is hope, he knows, in many dawns,
The aim must always be to carry on
Despite a wretchedness of humble hand,
When loneliness is heavy load upon
His  head, he prays to God to save his land.

He needs no introduction to your sight
His birth is proof his needs are to exist,
The vanquished cowering under blinding light
Have found the struggle too hard to resist,
But there will always be the one who lasts
And finds the grace allowed for such as he,
Though left exposed to natures harshest fasts
He knows no other way that he should be.

God help those struggling on to find acclaim
Guide he who trudges on with steadfast aim.


v. Unfailing

Guide he who trudges on with steadfast aim
Against all odds let courage gain a win,
Protect this brave young soul in his god’s name
And guard him from his would be captors’ whim.
Though youth grows older far beyond his years
His life will one day see an end in sight
His land that waits ahead will hold no tears,
Past lessons will sustain his growing might.

The boy grown into man has crossed his land
Discov'ring what is meant by strong faith's goal,
He progressed holding fast to his god's hand
And slept beside a fire of smould'ring coal
His beating heart discerns not friend nor foe
Until he reaches liberty's new door
He's still a helpless child seeking to grow
To be that adult free from chains of war.

Rise up! Rise up! He hears the call is nigh
Fast bounds he to the fray with flags held high.


vi. Belief

Fast bounds he to the fray with flags held high
Resisting scorching breath of devil’s wrath,
The cards that he was dealt as dawn drew nigh
Were dealt on tribes of men in pauper’s cloth,
But still in trust the children, patient, wait
Adoring of their leaders, growing dim,
No questions asked about deserving fate,
Faith helps to recognize a spirit’s win.

They’re sure their life’s renewed from ashes’ dust,
Survivors gather to press on, regrow,
Å time of freedom glows within their trust,
When voting for the change they want to know,
Hold out your hand, hold courage out as gift
To those who need your strength give them your heart,
These handsome people don’t deserve to drift
Or have their families wrecked and torn apart.

Please care enough to show a smiling face
To people from this harsh dry desert place.


vii. Victory

To people from this harsh dry desert place:
Your life is yours to live as is your due,
Belief is strong now fervour’s freed that space
And you are seeing vict’ry’s verdant view,
You’ve taken all the hardships as life’s test,
And watched your leaders sacrifice and kneel
Then stood up straight and tall at God’s behest
Because you longed for freedom’s friendly feel.

So  people: where you live make happy home
And proudly bear the sense of who you are,
For Shangri-La reclines beyond the foam,
Beyond the rainbow’s end of golden bar.
Now South Sudan has reached that freedom goal
The boys and men who fought keep walking tall
And worship true to heart and true to soul,
Their daughters sleep in peace no fear at all.

While independence bears no easy reign
An accident of birth defeats acclaim.

Horror Holiday (short fiction story for a competition)

Holiday Horror

John and I didn’t realize what we were in for in our 60th year; didn’t realize we’d be lucky to survive it.  Turning sixty gives you a bit of a jolt, ‘Heck,’ you think, We’re getting old!’

    Just to prove that we weren’t getting old, we decided we’d go on a camping holiday.  Our daughter and her family do it all the time, and they had nagged us for ages to give it a try.

     “You’ll love it,“ the whole family promised. 

    John is a perfectionist, and by the time we set out, we were equipped to the nth degree. Because of my ‘Woolworth’s bladder,’ we even had a portable chemical toilet to use in the tent! Instead of taking a short trip one weekend for practice, we decided, ‘Why not make the most of this and go on a decent trip?‘ Consequently, we set off from Brisbane on a 1000 mile trip to far North Queensland.

    “We’re definitely going to see places we’ve never seen before, before we die of old age!” John declared.

    Staying in regular caravan parks presented no problems on the first two nights. But on the third night we found ourselves on a long stretch of lonely road between towns. When five o’clock in the afternoon came and dusk was only an hour away, John yawned and suggested, “Why don’t we pull in at the next suitable spot?”

    We found an ideal grassy riverbank, well off the road, with a concealed grotto to set up. John backed the trailer in behind the tent and we sat down on the grass to recover and sip a rare nightcap. The further north we’d travelled, the hotter the temperature became, and after a cold chicken and salad sandwich, we settled early atop our sleeping bags, ‘securely’ zipped up inside the tent. 

     “Oh, I could take this peace and quiet permanently,” I murmured into John’s ear. We soon slept.

    “Did you hear that?” whispered John.

    “What? What time is it?” I whispered back in the pitch dark.

    “Sshh! I thought I heard a shot,”

    “What!”

    I was suddenly wide-awake and bolt upright. I started groping around.“Where’s the torch?”

    “Don’t show a light! I heard voices too.” John’s voice was urgent and I could hear something I’d not heard often.

     With terror, I realized, ‘My God. John is scared stiff!’

     I clutched his arm. My throat suddenly felt constricted and my mouth went dry. Three more shots rang out in quick succession. This time they were close and there was no mistaking them.

    “Yooo-hooo,’’ A slurred singsong voice called. The sort of manic voice that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. In answer to the call, a guttural voice near the front of the tent chuckled.

    John crawled on his hands and knees towards the plastic tent window. I desperately wanted him back beside me, Then at the back of the tent someone tripped over a guy rope!. The tent shivered, as a blasphemous oath was uttered from that angry throat.

    I leapt off my sleeping bag onto my hands and knees and crawled, bumping into John in the dark.

    Suddenly, I heard John’s voice, sounding loud in the darkness. He had found his mobile phone and dialed 000. Thank God. I heard him say,  “Police!” He almost shouted.

    That evil laugh mocked him, this time from the direction of our car. They were moving around us.

    We huddled together, instinctively clutching at each other, when a loud tearing sound opened a huge rip in the tent wall. A patch of moonlight showed the damage.. They had  knives as well as guns! John gasped and I screamed.

    “Sshh,” John hugged me tighter. Tears of pure fear were trickling down my face. Then another rip opened in the other side. We could see around the inside of the tent now. We knew we would die. This must have been it! I suddenly had a mental picture of that reluctant policeman nudging our bodies with the toe of his boot.

    Without warning, the wrecked steering lock from our car was thrown through one of the rips. Although John had locked the car and brought the keys inside the tent, he had also  applied the lock to the steering wheel. This meant they had broken into the car. The fact that they had so silently removed the steering lock terrified us. Neither of us moved. Then just as unexpectedly, other tools started hurtling through the ripped wall of the tent. A screwdriver, a spare trailer ball joint, and other miscellaneous tools that could easily strike a person dead, landed on the sleeping bags and floor of the tent. We cowered down close to the ground In a corner.

    When a ghastly thought entered my head, I whispered, “John, they can’t drive the car without the keys.” He knew what I was thinking… they would take them from us.

    “They’ll hot-wire it,” I heard. I assumed that meant they could get it going without the keys. No sooner had John spoken those words and we heard the car drive away. But we had no way of knowing if they’d all gone.

    We must’ve sat cramped and still for thirty minutes in silence when John spoke, “I think they’ve gone.”

    “No no, don’t move.” I thought it was too soon to relax.

    As we sat staring around at the devastation inside the tent, we were suddenly plunged into shadow.

    I screamed, “They’re back!” I didn’t care how loud I sounded. My nerves were stretched to breaking and I couldn’t control myself any longer.

    “Sshh,” John tried to console me, “It’s a cloud.passing over the moon.” I was hurt and angry, and I sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder, until suddenly, once again, slivers of light danced around the inside of the tent.

    “They’re back! They’re back1” I screamed hysterically. We could both hear approaching cars.

    But when John spoke again, I could already see... The slivers of light showing through the slashes in the tent walls were flashes of blue.  The police had  arrived.

Poem... Mess – What Mess?

 This poem was printed in a Carer – Grandparent magazine. I'm on limited time today, so just one poem. Giddy

Mess, What Mess?

The advent began as an artwork I guess,
But then, manifested, in to such a great mess,
"Um, Grandad," he'd asked with a plaintive plea,
Wide eyes so big, staring up, pleadingly.

"Grandad, I need to make something for flies,"
"Oh, do you?" Grandad executes two sighs,
Then adds, "What do you need son?" as out he breathes,
"Well, I need flour, sugar, and a few tea leaves."

"Oh no, my goodness, not again, Tom,
Yesterday's mess on the path has not gone!"
But Tom is confused, of course he can't guess
What constitutes a terrible mess!

"But I need..." "No you don't!" Grandad's now so perplexed,
"No more fly spray, Thomas, I'm getting quite vexed!"
"Well, can I do painting? I need something to do,
And yesterday's paint on the path's wearing through!"

"It's flour and water, Tom, and at your age,
I was out growing cabbages, parsley and sage.
I'll give you the spade for digging out weeds,"
Now Grandad is thinking of his special needs.

"But Grandad, I'll get in a terrible fix,
'Cause Grandad, you know I AM only six!
And teacher says I'm the artistic kind,
I need special things to develop my mind."

So Grandad just sighs, and lays down his spade,
Would he change it? Of course not, for his life is made
Up of caring, and sparing the rod,
He'll probably pray though, for patience from God.

For once an old man thought his child-rearing had gone,
Until his daughter brought home little Tom,
And God has shown that what once was a mess,
Can now be considered artistic, no less!

2 Poems ... Channel-billed Cuckoo and The Koala

Author Notes
The channel-billed cuckoo and other birds migrate from New Guinea and Indonesia around March/April to settle in many parts of Northern Australia and New South Wales where they mate, laying the eggs in other birds, (currawongs, koels, crows etc,) nests. The C-b cuckoo can grow up to 66 cm. They are generally white and pale grey, with some black colouring. They're mating calls can be heard long into the night and early hours during summer. They are commonly known as 'storm' birds.The birds migrating north at the end of summer have to cross the Torres, (pronounced 'Torris,') Strait to reach New Guinea.

Channel-billed Cuckoo

 You are the largest cuckoo in the world,
 At 60 centimetres you‘re quite long,
 You’re parasitic habits come unfurled,
 Your procreation skills make your swan-song.
                         --oo--

 So Cuckoo male distracts crow from her nest
 And Mama cuckoo, when she thinks it best
 Can lay her egg in poor crow’s neat abode,
 Crow parents soon will feed new daily load

 On weary crow’s pained wings the cuckoo babe
 Begs food from mother half his giant size,
 Into the fray the hapless crow will wade
 Returning o’er and o’er, no longer wise

 Her own dear babes have hungered now to death
 Unable to sustain a starving breath,
 They’re pushed aside by giant baby mate
 Who’s building strength to cross the Torres Strait

 Back home to warmer winter tropic clime
 Young cuckoo bird flies off with fam’ly clan,
 But then when autumn’s chill says ‘now, it’s time’
 Back south he’ll fly to prove that he’s a ‘man.’

 That virile young cuckoo chooses a patch
 to call his own, while wooing his new ‘catch,’
 Australia makes a fine place he can breed
 And instinct has equipped him for his need.                       
                       --oo--

 And, glancing up, we’ll see that cruciform
 Display of stiffened cuckoo bird in flight
 He’s off for recreation in the North
 No more we’ll hear his ‘quornking’ in the night.





THE KOALA.
I bet you want to be like me and sleep all day in yon gumtree,
The view I've got is great to see; it's all around way down from me,
I have soft fur, blue-grey or brown, for hours and hours asleep I'm found.
I only want to be left safe, and not forced down from tree to ground.
     
Herbivorous marsupial, 9 kg in weight,
I very rarely take a drink, I don't need to hydrate.
‘Cause up in fork of eucalypt, (gum tree'll do for you)
I've all the fluid that I need from foliage I chew.

On thick dense furry pad I sit with balance quite superb,
September through to March I bellow loudly to be heard!
When thirty-five more days have passed our 'joey' will be born,
We hope he'll live despite the fact much forest now has gone.

The tourists love us most of all, and photos sell so well,
So some of us now live in zoos for all to 'show and tell,'
I come from underneath the globe in Aussie land down there,
'Koala,' that is what I am, but not koala BEAR!!
                  
A/Notes
Due to clearing of land for agriculture and housing, 80% of the koala's habitat has been destroyed.
September to March is the mating season, but koalas bellow all year round to warn off other koalas. Their calls are quite loud and are mainly heard at dusk, night and dawn.
Koalas don't usually need to drink unless there is a severe drought or heat wave.
'Show and tell' is what little children do in school these days, instead of bringing news.