Hitler Did It

By David Vernon

Have you noticed how much can happen in fifteen minutes? You can sit with a child and complete a thirty-six piece jigsaw puzzle. You can clean a bathroom. Wash the car. The dog. Yourself, including the tri-weekly hair shampoo. Or, have a conversation that will change your life.
— from 'Fifteen Minutes' by Rebecca Raisin

“You’re running late today, Father,” Mrs Heagney observed as he stepped out of his car. “The store should have been open half an hour ago.” Mrs Doyle, standing beside her, nodded gravely in agreement.
“My apologies, ladies,” said Father Kennedy. “It’s chilly this morning and I had trouble starting the car.”
He had in fact remained in bed longer than usual keeping warm waiting for the sun to rise and bring much needed heat into the rectory. Better to employ a judicious lie now, he thought rather than invite criticism of a perceived indulgence at their expense. He could seek forgiveness later. He’d have a better chance with the Lord anyway, he thought ruefully.
— from 'Lay of the Land' by Charles E Brister

Robbie invested three weeks in pub dinners and movies before finally parking his Mini outside Olga’s flat and walking her to the door. It had taken longer than expected but there was an intensity about her that intrigued him. And sometimes she had seemed keen and then at other times there was a wall between them. But tonight he felt would be different. Wordlessly she took his hand and led him inside. As he unbuttoned Olga’s blouse, Robbie thought: “Better go easy, I’m probably the first.”
— from 'Just a Notch' by John Poole

Here are twenty-one unique, contemporary and entertaining short stories, chosen from some of the best entries in the Stringybark Short Story Awards and other clever tales that sail across the desk at Stringybark Stories. Selected by David Vernon this anthology is the fourth book in the Stringybark Editor's Choice series. Other books in the collection include: The Bridge, Between the Sheets and Yellow Pearl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Vernon
• Release date: Jan 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301810017

David Vernon

I am a freelance writer and editor. I am father of two boys. For the last few years I have focussed my writing interest on chronicling women and men’s experience of childbirth and promoting better support for pregnant women and their partners. Recently, for a change of pace, I am writing two Australian history books. In 2014 I was elected Chair of the ACT Writers Centre.In 2010 I established the Stringybark Short Story Awards to promote the short story as a literary form.

Book preview

Hitler Did It

Editor’s Choice Edition

Number 4

Edited by

David Vernon

Published by Stringybark Publishing,

PO Box 851, Jamison Centre, ACT 2614, Australia

http://www.stringybarkstories.net

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: This collection, David Vernon, 2013

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.

Discover other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

The Umbrella’s Shade and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Award

Our Name Wasn’t Written — A Malta Memoir 1936 - 1943

Between Heaven and Hell and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Flash Fiction Award

A Visit from the Duchess and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Speculative Fiction Award

The Bridge and other stories from the Stringybark Short Story Award

The Heat Wave of ’76 and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Erotic Fiction Award

Marngrook and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award

The Road Home and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Award

Into the Darkness — One Australian airman’s journey from Sydney to the deadly skies over Germany — 1939-1945

Between the Sheets and other stories from the Stringybark Erotic Fiction Award

Tainted Innocence and other award-winning stories from the Twisted Stringybark Award

The Seven Deadly Sins and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Seven Deadly Sins Award

Yellow Pearl and other stories from the Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award

Behind the Wattles — 77 award-winning short stories from the Stringybark Flash and Microfiction Awards

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book 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 the authors.

Contents

Introduction — David Vernon

Connecting Corridors — Jemma van de Nes

When Worlds Collide — Lorraine Hurst

Some Corner of a Distant Field — Christian Cook

The Miracle — Nan Doyle

Sticks and Stones and Freedom’s Bones — Andrew Shaw

Just a Glimpse — Jacqueline Winn

The Woman on the Pavement — Jamie Buchanan

A Change of Habit — Rosemary Perry

The Bridge — Julie Davies

Waiting for the Day — Michael Hunt

Just a Notch — John Poole

Brutal Skies — Christeen Kaluaat

Light then Dark — John Athol Henry

Fifteen Minutes — Rebecca Raisin

Lay of the Land — Charles E Brister

Paradise Found — Christeen Kaluaat

The Magnolia Tree – Reg James

Surprises — Pauline McLay

Bitches and Bastards — Jacqueline Winn

Dining by Moonlight — Stephen Atkinson

Reflections in Watercolour — Miriam Drori

Hitler Did It — Michael Wilkinson

About the Editor

Acknowledgements

Introduction

— David Vernon

This is the fourth Editor’s Choice collection of short stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards. It consists of some of my favourite short stories submitted to the Stringybark Short Story Award and the Twisted Stringybark Short Story Award. It has two companion volumes: The Road Home and other award-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards and Tainted Innocence and other award-winning stories from the Twisted Award which were published in 2012.

But not all of these stories come from competition entries. When you read as many short stories as I do, you get the occasional one that drifts into your in-tray and you read it and think, yep, that one deserves publishing. Some of those stories are found here too.

If you enjoy this little book then please visit www.stringybarkstories.net or any major e-book retailer and see what other tempting literary offerings we have awaiting you.

David Vernon

Editor

Stringybark

February 2013

Connecting Corridors

— Jemma van de Nes

I ran away five years ago. The tiny bundle cocooned in my arms is a reminder of what I left behind. It squirms in my grip, its sharp claws scratch at my face and my stomach churns with fear and hope, regret and longing. An easterly wind blusters around me and the peppermint trees whisper in my ears.

They welcome me home, but it’s more than I deserve.

Once I lived in a large weatherboard home with lace curtains and a verandah that wrapped itself around the house like a protective older brother. I had an idyllic childhood helping my parents run one of the largest caravan parks in town. I served ice creams from the small shop, picked oranges from our fruit trees to sell fresh juice to people relaxing by the pool, and toasted marshmallows with some of the regulars. When nobody was looking, I peered through the fence and pined for the boy next door.

It’s a shock to slink back into town and discover that my old home has become a construction site. Derelict vans are crammed in one corner. The gardens are overgrown. There is spiteful graffiti scrawled on the walls of the toilet block. The moon lights a flickering path through the trees, but I am unable to move. Beyond a chain link fence, the windows of the house glow like a series of miniature lighthouses; beacons that would normally guide people to safety instead lead me to heartbreak because when I see a person pass by the window, it’s not my mother or father.

Another family is inside, living my old life.

I have come home to nothing. To no one. I was the one who ran, but it seems that my past has packed up and left because I wasn’t worth the wait.

I think of all the postcards I penned to my parents to let them know I was still alive, that I wasn’t in a gutter somewhere, that I was making my way back to them. Did they ever receive them? Or did they leave their mail behind to blow away in the sea breeze?

I scurry through the shadows like a creature of the night. Weak and trembling, I fall against a peppermint tree. The smell of seaweed tickles my nose. A warm breeze flutters over my skin. Crickets and cicadas sing in the balmy night.

It’s almost peaceful.

Alex?

I know that voice. I wonder if he still lives next door.

When my eyes adjust, I am staring at a pair of steel-capped boots. Sunlight dances through the weeping branches of the peppermint tree. The heat sears my skin and my clothes are damp with sweat. I think of bolting for the ocean and not coming back.

You haven’t changed a bit, Daniel says, squatting to my level.

I actually snort, because back when I was seventeen and sure he was the love of my life, I’d had clear skin, nails painted in candy colours and shiny hair that reached my hips. Youthful, citrus perfume oozed from my pores and I had been worthy of his attention.

You’re kidding right? I pick the dry skin from my lips.

No. No, I’m not. It’s… it’s your eyes.

My parents nicknamed me Possum because of my eyes — wide, dark pools of blue that are always on high alert.

Daniel is smiling and we burst into laughter like we’re teenagers again. This is the familiarity that comes with living in a small town and knowing someone since the day you were born. This is an intimacy I had forgotten; one that doesn’t require the removal of clothing or the exposure of one’s veins.

When did…? Did you sleep out here?

I look at him and see the face of the eighteen-year-old boy I betrayed.

Why are you here? I whisper.

I’m uh, I’m working. Town planning. I look behind him to a group of men who are pointing at the trees and gesturing with their hands. I mostly do environmental stuff. The possums… He bangs a clipboard against his leg. Well, the possums need connecting corridors of bush but some developers want to clear this site and …it’s a bit of a mess really. Your folks moved to the —

Suddenly there is a blur of movement and something hits the ground beside me.

I jump to my feet, edgy after years of sleeping in group accommodation. I reach for the screwdriver in the pocket of my cargo pants, but when I look to my left my hand drops to my side.

Curled on the grass is a possum. A Western Ring-tailed Possum to be exact. I know this because I used to be an active citizen. I was a Girl Guide. I volunteered. I was on the local youth environmental committee.

But now now I am taking shallow breaths and can’t bring myself to blink because the possum is me.

It fell out of the tree. I fell out of life.

It lies helpless before me. I stand helpless before it.

I reach out and the heat-stricken possum doesn’t even resist. Its white chest rises and falls rapidly. Its eyes are giant saucers. As I stroke its fur, I am reminded that I know love. I have felt it before. It was in every corner of my childhood. I need to find a way to get back there; to that point in time before everything changed.

Poor little bugger, Daniel says. It’s the heat. Five days over forty and it’s like the world’s ending. Power blackouts every day. Joe’s Deli’s out of ice. Possums falling out of trees.

I scoop up the possum. Its tail curls around my wrist and I think back to when my father used to say I had him wrapped around my little finger. The possum looks at me and in its eyes I see that I am its only chance. For the first time in a long time I have a purpose other than to get high and turn my back on the world.

We need to find a wildlife shelter.

I know just the place, he says.

Daniel knocks twice and holds open the front door of a square fibro home. The possum is now motionless in my arms. I step forward, panicking that we are too late, but then I stop, frozen in the doorway, hovering between two worlds.

Scattered on the hallway table are some postcards.

My postcards.

I recognise my writing, smudged and bleeding on the back of each tear-stained card.

I hear footsteps and then my mother is standing before me in a green collared shirt with a badge that says ‘Louise McMahon, Animal Carer’.

I haven’t seen her in five years and the first thing I say is, But you never liked animals.

Her reply is simple. Charlie loves them.

These three words tell a story I long to read. So far, it’s a story that has been written without me. It’s a story I see on my mother’s face as her eyes scan my skinny frame. A story I hear when the words ‘my possum’ escape from her lips. A story I feel when, suddenly business-like, she reaches over to take the possum from my arms and I notice that her hands are shaking.

Where did you find her?

I go to answer, but she is looking at Daniel.

The big peppy tree. Past the toilet block, he