Short Stories

This page will include ‘SHORT EXCERPTS’ from a selection of stories which appeared in a recent book of mine ‘Collected Short stories Vol.1 ‘

Two stories in the book have won awards within Australia, one of those was FISHING.

THE BOY WHO COULD TALK WITH BIRDS

I was eight when it happened.  

This was a time I remember so well. You can’t always remember like when you are grown up, but you can put feelings into places and things, and now I am where I am I can tell you I remember that night so well. 

Seven o’clock.  

Dad always picked me up at seven every Friday evening. I would sit with my bag packed, along with a favourite toy, ready, watching, but not watching. You know when you can’t take your mind from what you want to do, but you must pretend you are doing something else. I would set the microwave for every half hour when I got home from school.  

At first mum used to get mad at me, then later she didn’t care.  
So I came in from school, got changed, set the microwave, then waited, watching the television, not watching, listening but not listening. I sat there on the lounge, immobile, bag between my legs, staring at the screen, but taking no notice of what happened at all.  

The bell would ring on the microwave at six thirty, and I would rush into the kitchen knowing I wouldn’t get to hear the seven o’clock bell, for now I would be really listening, listening for the sound of tyres on the gravel outside, watching for the sweep of lights across the front door as he turned into the driveway.  

Sometimes I could recognise the sound of the motor as he turned into our street, but that wasn’t often, there were always other noises trying to block this out. 

But it would be magic when I heard the car because I would be waiting by the door and be out before he stopped. As soon as I heard him, I would pick up my bag, then say goodbye to mum, who didn’t seem to notice if I was there or not.  

I would then give dad a hug when I got into the car, and he always smelled the same, a warm musty smell which seemed to envelope me, like it was a comfortable smell, I felt so much better when I knew that smell was around me.  

I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t smiling when I got in, and he laughed a lot even when I knew deep down he didn’t feel like laughing.  

I never knew him to get out of the car at home.

Funny now to think of it, because it was only later I realised he didn’t get out of the car, and mum never came to the door, it was like I stepped across an invisible creek, it was cold and uninviting, but dad was waiting on the other side, so I stepped across. I always stepped across, every Friday, and it was then I felt happy.  

It was amazing, all weekend I would feel good inside, and felt free, like it was the real me, and I hated going back across that stream on Sundays. 

On that special Friday, the stream must have swollen or something, because I heard the bell ring on the microwave at seven o’clock. I moved over to the front door and sat in front of it, waiting and watching.  

There was no sound of crunching gravel, no sound of the motor as it slowed to turn, no sweep of lights across the front door, and I sat, silent, wondering why I felt so cold inside.  

I don’t know how long I sat there, my mind was stuck in an empty place, but suddenly I was being wrapped up under the harsh glare of the lounge room, anger, noise, mum, the Grogan her boyfriend, me being pushed, pulled, pummelled and finally driven off in the car.

I was going to be ‘babysat’ and I knew I didn’t want to go, and wished I could stay instead by the front door, where I could be cocooned safely within my hope.  

Maybe the microwave had broken, and soon the lights would come, and the gravel would crunch.

Then the fear began to stare at me, and I began to feel the stream had turned into a river and was now too wide to cross, and maybe something had happened to dad and I wouldn’t ever see him again.

It’s easy to cry when you are little.

FISHING

Sunday morning, five am. It was damn cold.

“Come on dad, lets get going, we’ll get that five thirty train easy.”
“I’ve got the rods, tackle, bait, all ready, so lets get going, they’re out there waiting for us dad. But it’s really freezing, so good ‘rugging-up’ weather eh!”

I wanted to get to the river early, Sundays, the blokes get out there no matter what the weather.

It was only a two carriage train, single line, taking us away from the city, and deep into the countryside.

There had been a flurry or two of snow, but the day promised to warm up, and looking out of the carriage window the light was beginning to etch the trees against the skyline, under which stood cows stood all huddled together, frigid, steam coming from their inflated nostrils, getting ready to die no doubt.

The train was quiet this time of the morning, we’d never had a car, but I was happy with that, I could concentrate on what was out there, waiting for us.

This was all about the planning, the understanding, reading the signs. Dad had taught me all this when I was a nipper, I was defiantly ‘small fry’ then.

We always went on a Sunday, it was a darn sight better than going to some bloody church to be threatened with hell if you didn’t comply.

Dad told me the only time he ever went to to church was when he got married, mum had insisted, dad always did what mum wanted. 
You know, I never heard them argue, not even once, and mum was a truly great person, always smiling, happy, until the Alzheimers that was.

No, I won’t go there, if that’s the way God looks after his flock he can stick it!

The train ride only took an hour, but what a difference it made, hardly any houses, no stinking high rise, the air would be fresh, clean. I knew that.
“Come on dad, we’re here now.”

The platform was tiny, there was no station master, it was far too early, so I picked up the rods, and carrying the fishing creel over my shoulder we were off.

With the sun coming up we had timed it right, still cold, but once you stepped out it didn’t take long to get warm, the goosebumps would disappear to who knows where.

It was quiet, but the birds were up and talking, they always seemed happy to me, living in their own world, just above ours. I know, when I come back, I want to be  bird, a Wandering Albatross would suit me, spend all my time cruising over the ocean waves, that’s the shot!

Although I’ve never seen the sea, but one day me and dad will get there I bet, after all, we do just about everything together, always have done.

He really is the best ever dad, and my best frien

PLATFORM 1

Pulling back the starched white sheets I suddenly felt the cold in the room. I clambered out, disengaged, and when I placed my feet upon the lino floor it was then I noticed the new black suit folded across the chair.
Hanging on the back was a white shirt, and over it draped a black silk tie.

Rubbing my eyes I looked again, and tried to remember. I know I hadn’t owned a white shirt for years, and certainly didn’t have a black suit. But there, on the chair, lay these scrupulously clean garments.

Bending down I smelt the newness, saw the sharp creases which were a legacy from a steam iron, then looking around I noticed the room was lit with an eerie green glow, as though a storm cloud had crept into the room overnight and had become trapped.

Maybe I’d left a window open, and one of those early morning fogs had slithered into the room. Weird though!

Everything was so still, hushed, silent. This was unusual for this household, and the road outside, it was always busy, yet this morning, there wasn’t a sound.

Staring at the new clothes, well they certainly smelt new, I began to dress, somehow it seemed right I should put them on, I don’t know why.
Strangely I felt my whole body aching, every movement was an effort.

The crisp white shirt felt good though, and slipping on the trousers everything appeared to fit.

I stood up straight, stretched, it was an effort. Shoes, yes there, under the bed, was a pair of my own shoes. They had been cleaned and polished, yet I never clean my shoes, and low and behold, tucked inside, was a pair of new socks, with the sticky label still attached.

This shocked me even more. Plain black socks. I had many pairs of socks. Christmas and birthdays I got at least 4 pairs, red white, blue, yellow (yes yellow), patterned, stripes, plain, you name it, I got it. Yet never to my knowledge had I ever owned a plain black pair.

Life was becoming stranger, was I dreaming, surely not!

The tie could create problems, seldom had I worn a tie, but as I dressed I didn’t have to worry what I was doing, I was on automation, going with the flow.

Yet, the total silence was deafening, and walking over to the mirrored wardrobe the vague hazy reflection of my face started to churn my stomach.

I looked so white, so very pale, and on the rise of my cheeks there was, what appeared to be, bright red powder, or maybe even rouge.

Me, with make up, that never happened, and my eyes, felt out of focus, like looking into a pond that was ruffled by a breeze, rubbing them they still wouldn’t work, what on earth was going on!

Ok I thought. Could my eyes have gone bad, too much reading, or lying on my back staring at the sun!

Fully dressed I walked out of the room and gently closed the door.

Making my way slowly down the stairs the threadbare carpet looked even more worn to me, you could see the brown strings holding the thing together, so I was being careful, the shoes felt slippery, I didn’t want to slide down on my backside.

How many thousands of times had I walked down these stairs, it had been many years, almost a lifetime.

Unusually, for this house, there was a lack of aromas, they usually crept about the house, but there was no bacon, no toast, no sausages, not even the lingering smell of a recent shower. Shower I thought, maybe I should have had a shower, I just didn’t think about it.

Maybe everyone had gone out, or were still in bed, yet the place was always so busy, and having no idea of the time I couldn’t even recall what time I had gone to bed.

I never get up early, and liked my mornings between the sheets, lazy, yes possibly, but I hated early mornings, that was for the bloody birds.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, and sensing something, I looked around, there was my dog Stryder, my old mate, loping towards me, but everything appeared in slow motion, like a film being run at half speed.

He stopped and looked up at me, then barked a couple of times, I saw him yap, but couldn’t hear a thing, and he never barked at me, so why now, what had changed with the mutt?

It was then I worried about my sanity, was this real?

Habits. Seldom changed habits. Walking along the hallway I gently pushed open the door to the kitchen, and got a shock.

My whole family were there, sitting around the old wooden table, looking, staring in my direction, not a word was being spoken.
They were all dressed, as though they were going on a trip.

Little Margaret, my darling daughter, well not so little now, had obviously been crying. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyes glazed over and red.

They all still remained completely silent, not a mummer, like showroom dummies, fixed in one position amidst an eerie sense of depressed tranquility.

Opening my mouth to speak I saw my wife looking straight at me, she put two fingers up to her lips, and slowly shook her head.

STEEPLE

The people of Marly Gomont were very proud of their little community, and in particular their fortified church, but more so they were proud of their steeple, at ninety eight metres it stood majestically pointing up towards the skies of France, whilst staring across the superb valley of the Oise, a wonderful green land made famous by Paul Cezanne in 1880.

There is very little of the village, which is situated in the Prefecture of Laon, as is often said, blink and you may miss it.

In nineteen forty one the population was down to one hundred and thirteen souls, many of the men, and some of the women, had left to fight for their country, Germany had invaded in May 1940 and had plans to annex this part of France for German settlement, with the French Government surrendering to the invading army on the 22nd June 1940.

It was a black day for the proud French people.

Luckily Marly-Gomont had avoided the conflict, mostly because of it’s size and position, no one much knew it was there, except for the locals, they knew, and were prepared as best they could be.

The bombing over England began soon after the declaration of the war, the Germans were ruthless, cruel, and indiscriminate.

At times, mostly during darkness, the people of Marly Gomont could hear the aircraft as they made their way towards, or from, their targets. They were dark evil shadows crossing the moon, a premonition of doom for many innocent people, did the crew know or care, that was something no one knew.

On the night of October 25th 1941 many residents were woken by the sound of an aircraft coming their way, it still had altitude but was a lot lower that usual, and by the sounds it was making it was in trouble.

For those who managed to get out of bed quickly enough they could see, high above them, a dark shape highlighted by what appeared to be flames, it was a moonless sky and without the fire it would have passed over them unseen.

They watched as it flew slowly over the top of their little village, which wouldn’t have been seen by those in the bomber, the French inhabitants were very careful about lights at night as the Germans, on occasions, would drop a bomb or two if they had any left, they didn’t care where they landed.

On this night a few of the villagers stood together, the plane disappeared over them but it was obviously losing height, luckily it was soon well clear of their homes, but a few minutes later they heard an explosion quite some distance away, the plane had crashed and most likely burst into flames.

Looking at each other they decided the search could start in the morning, it was cold and drizzling with rain, it was unlikely there would be survivors, but if any of the German crew had survived they would have to look after themselves, for this small group of French all hated them as they spread their evil across the land. 

War was something that was much more than a crime for these peaceful people.

The day broke grey, the rain had stopped, but the clouds had grown heavy in the sky, they were heading for winter, and in this area of France it could get vey cold.

Monsieur Hugo Dubois left his fermette at first light, every day he and his small dog would walk the village, past the church, and down to the river. It didn’t matter what the weather held, snow, rain, or sunshine, it meant little.

Hugo had spent most of his seventy years in the village, and was a contented man, why travel when you believe you already have the best.

Apart from the birds it was quiet that time of the morning, and was good country, the little dog called Lily knew that because the place was a haven for wonderful smells, especially those left by foxes.

Lily hated foxes, had never seen one, but hated them none the less, well hate such as a little dog might have, which lasted only a second.

Passing the church Lilly stop dead, it was unlike her. She barked, a little snappy, this was also unusual for the dog, it took some effort for her to bark at all. Hugo looked down, she had obviously smelt, or seen something, but what?

An animal of some sort he guessed. The moment was soon over and they went on their way, little did they realise they were being watched from on high.

The day began to grow lighter, although the clouds stayed low and threatening.

Mia Simon was going to her small vegetable patch which sat alongside others just outside the village, she had a basket, and this for her was the normal morning ritual, it was something she enjoyed, harvesting her own food, lovingly grown and cared for.

Passing the Church she thought she heard something, an unusual sound, it sounded human.

Looking around her she started to walk away.
There was a small cemetery, she wondered if someone was there, but why would there be, could be a drunk, no that wouldn’t happen, not in her village. 

By instinct she stopped again and listened, there it was again, that sound, definitely human, but where did it some from.

She looked about her, there was nobody, it was still far too early for the majority of the village, the more they climbed into winter the later the people started moving, it got mighty cold there, and usually snowed in the new year.

The sound came again, a little louder this time, it was a mystery, but she had to go and look around. There was a gate that led into the church grounds, with her basket on her arm she walked through and into the cemetery, all was quiet, until the sound came again.

It was the shock, she couldn’t make it out at first, looking up she saw there was a shape on top of the steeple, what on earth was it. 

Unbelievable, it looked something like a man, then she saw something move, hell it was human all right. She crossed herself and said a quiet prayer to Mary who looked after her and the family. What could she do, it was so high, the steeple that was.

Then she wondered, was this a apparition, a sign from God, could it be that she is the only one that could see it, but what on earth did it mean?

Full versions appear in my book of Short Stories Volume 1

 Full versions appear in my book of short stories Volume 1