Stories

A Curious Child

Lulu loved shiny things. The sparkling diamonds on her mother’s bracelet. The gold engraving on her father’s fob watch reflecting the morning light.
Every shiny flash beckoned Lulu. Some days she sat for hours staring at a tiny shiny speck. Other days she flitted from room to room, searching for the next shimmery thing.
Lulu’s mother encouraged her fascination, sharing in the delight when Lulu discovered a new shiny trinket, hoping it meant she was just like other children but secretly fearing that she was not.
Over time, Lulu became more obsessed with finding every shiny thing.
When Lulu’s mother spotted her trying to climb the staircase to reach for the chandelier, Lulu scampered into the drawing room. Her mother raced after her to find Lulu climbing the mahogany dresser before kissing the oil painting of her father in his naval uniform. Then Lulu jumped down off the dresser, ran into the kitchen, switched on the electric toaster and stuck a shiny silver knife into the slot to see the sparks fly. Lulu’s mother had no idea if her daughter was hurt. Lulu never made a sound and was yet to speak her first word.
One summer, after her mother was diagnosed with hysteria, Lulu’s parents left her in the care of a nurse. When the nurse dozed off on the plump sofa in the drawing room, Lulu spotted a sparkle of light on the large brass door handle. She touched it and turned the knob, opening the front door.
Lulu stepped outside, her eyes staring at the sun until they burned. She blinked and stared again. Lulu stumbled forward, blinded by the light. The hard gravel turned to soft grass then cool soil then sinking sand. Lulu stood on a beach, shifting her gaze to the shimmering ocean. She clapped her hands then ran into the water, grabbing at every shiny light on the waves.
A voice behind called her name. Lulu turned to see the nurse on the shore, waving both arms high in the air. Suddenly the sand dropped away from under Lulu’s feet. ‘Mummy!’ she cried, before water filled her mouth.
Lulu sank beneath the surface, closed her eyes, and saw a bright white light.

My Angel

‘Don’t touch me!’ The tiny 90-year old woman twisted and turned on the hospital bed. Her right arm hit the bedside table, knocking a plastic rose-and-vase set onto the floor.
The nurse stepped back. ‘Dorothy, you need to calm down,’ she said. The nurse’s assistant stood a few feet away in the corner. Stay put, the nurse had told her. Don’t do anything unless I tell you.
Dorothy held the bedrail with both hands and tried to hoist one leg over.
The nurse stepped forward, grabbing the old woman’s forearm. ‘That’s enough, Dorothy!’ she said.
Dorothy started screaming. ‘I have to go home,’ she said. ‘To Bertie. I need my angel, my Bertie.’
The nurse pushed Dorothy back onto the bed.
A male resident appeared in the doorway, dressed in tartan pyjamas that matched his dressing gown. He clapped and laughed as the nurse wrestled with Dorothy on the bed.
‘Robert! Back to bed,’ the nurse yelled. ‘Now!’
Robert stopped clapping, tucked his hands into his pockets and shuffled down the hallway.
Dorothy kicked scissor legs high in the air. ‘Bertie! Bertie!’ she cried. ‘They’re trying to kill me! Where are you, my angel?’
The nurse stretched out her right arm and the assistant placed a large syringe in the palm of the nurse’s hand. With her left hand pushing down on Dorothy’s torso, the nurse jabbed the needle through the sheer nightgown into Dorothy’s bony bottom. Dorothy howled, her arms and legs shook then collapsed motionless on the bed. She pulled the bed sheet over her head and curled up into a ball.
The nurse and assistant left the room, as Dorothy sobbed into her pillow.
At the end of shift, the assistant nurse opened her locker and took out a small parcel wrapped in white tissue paper with a gold ribbon. She tip-toed into Dorothy’s room and placed it on the bedside table, where the plastic rose-and-vase set had been.
Next day, when she arrived on shift, the assistant nurse poked her head into Dorothy’s room. The elderly woman sat upright in bed, eyes bright, hands clasped on her lap. ‘Hello, Dorothy,’ the assistant said. ‘How are you today?’
‘Much better, thank you,’ she said. ‘I had a visitor!’
The assistant nurse spotted the torn wrapping paper on the bedside table.
‘And who, by chance, came to visit?’ she asked.
‘Bertie!’ Dorothy squealed. ‘My Bertie!’ Then she looked puzzled. ‘Well, I didn’t see him, but he must have come when I was asleep.’
The assistant nurse sat on the chair next to Dorothy’s bed. ‘Why do you say that?’
Dorothy looked down at her clasped hands then opened them slowly like a lotus flower. ‘Because he bought me a gift,’ she said, looking down at a miniature angel figurine in her hands.
‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ the assistant nurse said.
‘It’s my Bertie,’ Dorothy said, tears in her eyes.

I Wish I Knew

Your patient file stated that my birth was routine. I disagree.
When I was born you gave me away to complete strangers. Government calls it adoption. Psychologists call it abandonment. I don’t have a name for it even though it’s the canvas upon which my whole life has been painted.
People said you gave me away so I could have a better life. Better than what? I wish I knew.
When I was thirteen Mum told me she wasn’t my Mum. Well, not my ‘real’ Mum. I said, what does that mean? She said, it means you’re special. But I felt different. Other. Odd.
For eighteen years I wondered about you. What you looked like. Where you lived. Why you didn’t want me. Whether you wondered about me, too. I searched for you in the crowd at the local shops, and on the train platform on the way to school.
When I was thirty-one we met for the first time in a seedy hotel on the city fringe. I brought flowers, and a heart begging for belonging. You brought a pile of loose photos from your past. Some black and white, some colour. Faces of people I’d never met. We parted without touching. Not even a hug. I phoned the next day to thank you. You didn’t return my call. I don’t know why. I wish I knew.
When I was forty we met again in a noisy nursing home in the western suburbs. You shared a tiny room with a skeletal woman who kept crying out for cigarettes. You looked different. Mellow. You wanted to know all about me, you had many questions. But it was hard to talk in that cramped room with the crazy lady in the next bed.
You said sorry. You cried. You sobbed. I held your hand. I held back my tears. Until you said I was beautiful.
When I was forty-four you died. The brother I’ve never met buried you next to the sister I’ve never met. He tried to find me so I could attend your funeral. Even posted an ad in the paper seeking me out. I didn’t see the ad. I don’t know why. I wish I knew.
I wish I knew you.

I Like Jazz

In May 2018 I wrote a short story for the monthly Furious Fiction competition sponsored by the Australian Writers Centre. My story did not win and was not shortlisted. As a writer, that is always disappointing. However, I believe that each story finds a home, if destined to do so. And, sure enough, three months later, my short story, I Like Jazz, was snapped up by the community organisation Teen Organ Donor Awareness Inc who described it as ‘a perfect example of what they are aiming to achieve’ – raise awareness among teens that making poor choices can lead to death or disability.

Keeping Secrets

This story is dedicated to the countless number of housewives who work hard day in day out to create a loving home for their family only to discover that their life is a monstrous lie.

8 Word Story

Short stories can be a challenge to write. An 8 Word Story takes that challenge to a unique level. Mind you, it can be done. As evidenced by the more than 10,000 8 Word Stories submitted to the Queensland Writers Centre (QWC) in late 2017 as part of their joint promotion with GOA Billboards. The attached link is my selection of 8 Word Stories that were published on the QWC website.

My Grandmother’s Manor

The first flicker of this story appeared one brisk winter’s morning as I walked along the river and reminisced about my childhood.  My adoptive father’s stern step-mother represented the lack of connection I felt in my family unit.

Love Hurts

Another piece of micro-fiction inspired during an on-line course with The Writer’s Studio, when I first saw the main character in my mind his whole world unfolded before me, especially his deep sense of alienation.  There is so much more of his story left to tell.