The Road Home and Other Award-winning Stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards

By Smashwords

“Is he going to be woofed and poofed like my Pixie?”
“Woof... woof, woofed and p-poofed?”
At Bill’s quizzical frown, the child pointed to the dog-grooming salon. “Mum says Pixie costs a fortune to keep smelling and looking nice.” A dollop of chocolate liquid fell from the cone onto Tipper’s nose. A pale tongue licked it off. “Oh Mister, I’m sorry. He’ll get sick. Good thing the animal doctor lives next to the poofing shop.”
“Clever thinking young lady, don’t... don’t worry he’ll be-be-be... okay.” Bill smothered a chuckle. He didn’t feel like laughing although her innocent logic was irresistible. Should’ve waited in the car, he thought.

From "Top Dog" by Barbara Fraser

“How many of you have cheated on your partners?” Gene had less-confronting ways of beginning an after-dinner speech. But he figured this largely-Australian audience would respond positively. It was right to the point, and a contrast to the dry presentations they would have been hearing for the past three days. Gene expected a range of reactions: wry smiles, nervous exchanges amongst the organisers, even a shyly-raised hand. Academics could be so socially inept. Once he had seen two heads at different tables snap to exchange glances. Illicit lovers outed, at least from his vantage point on stage.

From "Natural Selection" by Graeme Simsion

Thirty-three highly entertaining short stories explore the nature of Australia and the Australian character in this anthology of award-winning stories. Written by established and new writers, each story has been chosen for its unique contribution to Australian literature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smashwords
• Release date: Feb 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465894847

Book preview

The Road Home

and Other Award-winning Stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards

Edited by

David Vernon

Published by Stringybark Publishing

PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

http://www.stringybarkstories.net

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: This revised collection, David Vernon, 2018

Copyright: Individual stories, the authors, various.

These are works of fiction and unless otherwise made clear, those mentioned in these stories are fictional characters and do not relate to anyone living or dead.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Introduction — David Vernon

Top Dog — Barbara Fraser

A Living Treasure — Beverley Lello

Catching a Ride — John Scholz

Reflected Fear — Michael Wilkinson

A Confession in Three Parts — Graeme Simsion

Elena — Peter Bishop

Growing In — Liliane Grace

Death on the Bendigo Train — Kim Torney

The Strong Boy — John Scholz

The Ones Left Behind — Eloise Verlaque

The Memory of Roses — Anne Dwyer

Hunted — Graham Parks

Sea Change — Tania Favazza

The Joy of Sailing — Michael Wilkinson

The Road Home — Beverley Lello

Tequila and the Big Palamino — Vanessa McKinley

Ten Pounds for Your Thoughts — Chris Westlake

More Than Rain — Jeanette Fegan

A Day Like Any Other — Nan Doyle

Billy — Richard Stone

The Flood — Nan Doyle

A Short History of Bell — a small town in South Australia — Myfanwy Tilley

Therapy — Julie Davies

Natural Selection — Graeme Simsion

Should’ve Driven On — Barbara Fraser

Walking in Someone Else’s Thongs — Holly Bruce

About Time — Kerry Cameron

Out of Date Stuff — John Scholz

When the Water Came — Lucy Bignall

Things to Do Before You Die — Jeanette O’Shea

Mosquito Creek Union — Graham Parks

Point of View — Carol Price

Savoir-faire — Graeme Simsion

About the Award

About the Judges

Other Titles available on Smashwords

Introduction

— David Vernon

This anthology of thirty-three short stories showcases the highly commended and prize-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Award 2011.

This is the seventh anthology of short stories from Stringybark Publishing and I am continually delighted at how different each story collection is. The imagination and thought that goes into each story is wonderful. As usual, this collection has stories from seasoned writers who are well known to the Australian reader as well as less known writers and some who have been published for the very first time. This is what Stringybark Stories is all about: giving the opportunity to readers and writers alike to read and write new, fresh and contemporary material relating to Australia.

Happy reading!

David Vernon

Editor and Judge

Stringybark Stories

February 2012

Top Dog

— Barbara Fraser

Must stay focused to get through today, Bill muttered to himself.

He leant forward from the seat fronting the dog-grooming salon to stroke the neck of the black greyhound lying at his feet. A man, holding a caged budgerigar, walked past and opened the door adjacent to the salon to help a woman carrying a cat-box to enter. Hissing and caterwauling resounded along the row of businesses. The dog hardly reacted.

That’s right Tip. Don’t get involved. You’ve enough problems of your own.

As the late afternoon autumn sun warmed his back, a shadow edged to his vision. Bill looked up, into the eyes of a child. He did not hear her approach nor obviously had Tipper. There was no ear pricking or tail movement.

What’s your dog’s name, Mister? came from ice cream ringed lips. Why is he wearing a cage on his head? I wanted to give him the end of my cone. It’ll have a bit of chocolate in it, but he can’t open his mouth.

Bill sat upright thinking how, or if, to answer. His name is T-Tipper. Should he go on? Yes, couldn’t hurt; might even do some good. And, thanks for your gen-generous offer but-but-but dogs mustn’t eat choc-chocolate. Could poi-poison them and he has to wear a muzzle because he’s a … greyhound. The youngster stepped back. But-but Tipper’s not dangerous. It’s the law for-for greyhounds in Australia, to be m-m-m-muzzled.

Is he going to be woofed and poofed like my Pixie?

Woof… woof, woofed and p-poofed?

At Bill’s quizzical frown, the child pointed to the dog-grooming salon. Mum says Pixie costs a fortune to keep smelling and looking nice. A dollop of chocolate liquid fell from the cone onto Tipper’s nose. A pale tongue licked it off. Oh Mister, I’m sorry. He’ll get sick. Good thing the animal doctor lives next to the poofing shop.

Clever thinking young lady, don’t… don’t worry he’ll be-be-be… okay. Bill smothered a chuckle. He didn’t feel like laughing although her innocent logic was irresistible. Should’ve waited in the car, he thought. But this sunny area’s more comfortable for Tipper.

Greyhounds are fast, aren’t they Mister? How fast can Tipper run?

In his p-p-prime he could do ssss-seventy kilometres an hour. He’s won dozens of ra-ra-races and lots of mo-mo-money.

The child finished her ice cream ignoring her mother beckoning through the window.

Pixie won a blue ribbon for the most beautiful puppy in my school’s pet show last week, but I only got a box of chocolates. Haven’t opened them yet and now I won’t give her any. Thanks for telling me Mister. She waved to her mother and pointed to the dog lying at Bill’s feet. What else does Tipper do except win races, Mister? Can he do tricks? Pixie can shake hands.

He’s made me Australia’s top… top greyhound owner for several years, and pro-pro-produced many pup-puppies. They’re also, win-win-winners. So I’m a t-t-top dog breeder as well.

The mother emerged from the dog-grooming salon leading a white fluffy Shih Tzu. She signalled the child to follow.

"Mum! Wait, Pixie must meet Tipper. He’s Australia’s famous-est greyhound."

Bill stood up, brushing back his receding grey-flecked black hair.

Good, good… after-afternoon Madam.

Good afternoon. I hope she hasn’t pestered you. She’s such a chatterbox but I had to send her outside with her ice cream.

No worries mad… madam; we’ve had an in-in-interesting conversation. B-b-b-but your girlie’s a b-b-bit off the mark, such an honour be-be-belongs to Black Top a greyhound from the 1960s. Bill hesitated, trying to control his stammering, always worse talking to women. But Tip-tip-tipper’s a des… descendent of that famous dog.

My ex’s father follows the dogs. Hardly ever wins although he did buy Pixie for Jane’s sixth birthday last September. She nodded towards Tipper. With money he won on a dog called Gundagai Jane, chanced it because of the name.

It’s a, ssss-small world lady. She’s one-one … one of mine. Bill pointed to Tipper. This fel-fel-fellow is the original sss-sire of the Gundagai Johnston sss-stud, I-I-I’m Bill Johnston. Bought T-t-tipper as a p-p-pup twelve years ago and never looked b-b-back. Bill blinked rapidly and looked away. Embarrassment at his awkward speech showed in his eyes.

My name’s Margaret Yale, pleased to meet you. The woman took a camera from her handbag. May I take a photo of Tipper, you, Jane and Pixie? I’ll email it to Jane’s grandfather. He’ll be chuffed. He lives in Sydney and doesn’t come to Wagga Wagga very often so I send him interesting photos of Jane.

Likewise, I-I-I’m very p-p-pleased to meet you. Is it okay here, l-l-l-light enough, not-not… too much tra-tra-traffic? Bill sat down, clamping his mouth shut to cover his gawkiness. Jane sat beside him holding Pixie. Tipper slowly sat up.

Everything will be fine. Margaret smiled, clicking several times. They designed digital cameras for amateurs like me.

As mother and daughter stepped to leave, Bill stood up taking his wallet from his coat pocket. Here he was in a situation never imagined when he arrived twenty minutes ago; from which he hadn’t a dog’s chance of making worthwhile unless he acted fast. Determined not to stammer he took several deep breaths and gritted his teeth. He extracted a card.

Please take my business card? It has my ee-ee-email address. Bill proffered the card. I’d love a co-co-copy of the photos, especially after to-to… today.

Of course I will. Margaret read the card. Mmm… you not only breed and race greyhounds, you have boarding kennels. Bill nodded. I could use you if we have to leave Pixie somewhere. Bill nodded again. You’re close enough for me to get there easily. Bill nodded repeatedly. Thanks for the information.

Mrs. Yale …

It’s Miss Yale. I reverted to my maiden name.

May, may-may I call...? His resolve faltered.

You can call her anything except Mags, piped Jane. Says it rhymes with fags and she’s given up smoking now Pixie needs poofing.

Sorry for that, Margaret grinned. Nice meeting you, but we must go. It’s late and I still have to shop.

Jane knelt at Tipper’s side. Can I give him a goodbye pat?

Yes of course Jane. Bill gathered up Tipper’s leash. But only touch his-his … head, and n-n-neck. His back-back-back legs are very sore. It’s why we’re visiting the Vet.

Tipper’s slowly wagged tail showed he relished the attention especially Pixie’s interested sniffs to his muzzled head. After mutual farewells the child, mother and fluff-ball walked away as the man with the budgerigar came out the Veterinary surgery door.

Many left mate?

Just the squealing moggie, brute only needs booster injections. I’d give it a lethal one if it was mine. He walked off with his bird.

Bill steeled himself, bent and lifted the old dog into his arms then slowly approached the door. He knew from the Vet’s insistence he take the final appointment today, he could not expect good news. He should have acted sooner. It was selfish keeping Tipper alive in pain. He’d have to learn to live without him. Endure the loneliness. Run his business without his rock, his inspiration, his friend. The cat owner held the door open for Bill as she left. He walked into the empty waiting room, as May’s autumn daylight faded.

Bill removed Tipper’s muzzle and sat holding him. If she doesn’t email the photos soon, I’ll look up her number, he mused. Hopefully she lives in the district.

An inner voice shouted. What chance has a stammering greying forty-five year old have, with an attractive thirty-something woman?

Get stuffed. I’m going to contact her. Bill muttered.

Mr Johnson, please bring Tipper in, said the Vet from the surgery door. I’m sorry but the X-rays show the verdict’s not good. The bone degeneration has advanced and the cancer spread. We need to discuss… err… options.

Bill rose, gently holding his treasured companion close. He must not waver. Tears seeped from his eyes as he buried his face in Tipper’s neck.

Tip, it’ll only be a little prick, he whispered. And thanks old mate. If I play my cards right, you might have made this my lucky day.

Barbara Fraser, from a career in science, mathematics and English teaching enjoys writing memoirs and adapting life experiences into short stories, particularly ending in a twist. Together with husband and two children she has, resided in the Adelaide hills, rural South Australia and Papua New Guinea, bred and driven harness horses and travelled extensively throughout Australia. Her published works include topical articles, adult and children’s stories, fables and producing, with enthusiastic committees, the seventy-five year histories of, a country district and a prestigious South Australian secondary school.

A Living Treasure

— Beverley Lello

South of my days’ circle, I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep. Judith Wright

The young chap’s just left. Said he wanted to interview me for a school assignment. Some funny idea about oral history. He called me a living treasure… thought he said, Is living a pleasure? Not as much anymore, I said, stuck here in Sunny Days Home for the Aged, or whatever they call it, but I’ve had my share of pleasure, believe me. He got me all stirred up, thoughts in a swirl, couldn’t settle down after he left, couldn’t get one thing to sit still in my head. Thoughts started marching like I was back in the army; left, right, left, right. All that drill to get us ready to fight the Japs, all that marching up and down; eyes right, salute, marching, marching. Next thing I know I’m back there in that hot hell, New Guinea.

I could smell the jungle, the stench of rotting vegetation, wet earth. The smell of decay and death. Everything crumbling and steaming and falling apart like it was overcooked. Nearly made me gag. Haven’t thought about it like that for years. Funny thing the brain how it stores everything up and hides it away and then when you least expect it the pictures start lining up, the film begins and you can’t find the off switch on the projector.

Nurse