Flights Of Fancy

By FAW - Eurobodalla

These stories and poems by Eurobodalla writers, aspiring and published authors alike, cover a range of genres and styles – adventure and misadventure, memoir and nostalgia, humour and mystery, reality and fantasy.
Take a journey and immerse yourself in this wonderful world of story.

Eileen Backhus
Margaret Barlow
Jan Hanlon
Yvonne Holt
Barry Lake
Maxine McIlvenie
Gillian Macnamara
Robin Macpherson
Jennie Mairie
Tony Maynard
Vicki Mennie
Susan Pryke
Suzanne Newnham
Stafford Ray
Cat Sheely
Rosie Toth
Judy Turner
Cassandra Webb
Dianne Wiggins
Leanne. M. Williams
Anke Ziergiebel

• Language: English
• Publisher: FAW - Eurobodalla
• Release date: Mar 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310529771

FAW - Eurobodalla

Writers are explorers trying to make sense of their world. They share a love of language, a desire to entertain and an ability to plumb emotional depths to reveal truths we can all recognise. These stories and poems by Eurobodalla writers, aspiring and published authors alike, cover a range of genres and styles – adventure and misadventure, memoir and nostalgia, humour and mystery, reality and fantasy. Take a journey and immerse yourself in this wonderful world of story. Vicki Mennie Susan Pryke Suzanne Newnham Stafford Ray Cat Sheely Rosie Toth Judy Turner Cassandra Webb Dianne Wiggins Leanne. M. Williams Anke Ziergiebel Eileen Backhus Margaret Barlow Jan Hanlon Yvonne Holt Barry Lake Maxine McIlvenie Gillian Macnamara Robin Macpherson Jennie Mairie Tony Maynard

Book preview

Margaret Barlow

(With apologies to Hamlet and William Shakespeare)

To write, or not to write? That is the question!

Is it nobler in the mind to tell of our suffering and misfortunes

Or, take up the pen against injustice and, by so doing, defeat it?

To write … to write some more:

Release imaginings, share tales of evils we inherit.

ʼTis an outcome we passionately wish.

To write, to sleep, then write some more.

Aye, there’s a joy!

For in tales of death what thrills will come as we ruffle through each gripping page.

Praise for the gift of writing! For authorship is worth our while.

Ignore the scornful critics. Damn printing costs and insolence of publishers.

So let’s write … with skill and style to match those tomes of love triangles, war and outrage

Betrayal and cruel lies.

We’ve no wasted words … Verbs sharp as pangs of rejected love.

Let’s write to escape … To tell in fantasy, the dread of something after death;

That undiscovered country from which there’s no return.

To spin a yarn gives strength to bear our puzzling ills and endure the humdrum

Details of life.

Let’s fly! To tales we’ve not yet thought of

For thus, writing makes authors of us all.

It takes but a little resolution to capture adventures of great import and moment.

Bums on seats, is what dear Will declares bears fruit.

And so … with furrowed brow and pen in hand,

Let’s find ourselves in writing.

THE BIKE

Susan Pryke

At one time, you wore your bike like a suit of clothes. In those traffic-less days, you claimed the entire breadth of the road, standing up on your pedals, throwing the handlebars left and right as you went, working hard on the uphills, and whizzing down the other side, streamers fluttering from the handlebars like a party.

Jane and Jan, Wendy and Keith ― the bigger kids at the front of the vee, the young ones trailing behind on their little bikes, trying to keep up. How you sailed and dipped through the town, and clattered over the bush tracks on a bike with no hand brakes or gears. You back-pedalled to stop, stood up to get more oomph. If the hill was too steep you got off and walked. You could fix a dropped chain, or pump up a flat tyre without your Dad’s help.

You were a country kid, a ragtag adventurer who pined for the end of winter, when the snow melted and the bike came out of the garage. You were on the road again, braving the frost-tipped mornings on the way to school, with gloves on your hands and your lunchbox rattling in the carrier.

Then came the late days of spring, when the salamanders played on the dew-soaked road. You stopped to catch them, admiring the tiny, suctioned feet in your palm, the joyful speckles along their backs. After school you took a detour to the clearing where a house had burned down many years ago; a place where the grass had enveloped the broken foundations and the crickets chirped like rusty hinges. Jane and Jan. Wendy and Keith. You sat in the sun and drank the last bit of chocolate milk from your thermos, shared cookies left over from lunch.

And you remember that summer when the caterpillars marched across the land, stripping the leaves from every tree and crossing the road in hordes. So many. There was nothing you could do but ride over them. Oh, the squish of the bodies under the wheels, the pop, pop, pop ― the slather of green paste on asphalt.

In the days before mountain bikes, you championed the off-road trails. You rode over tree roots, your muscles cushioning the jolts, mud spinning from your tyres onto the back of your shirt. You wore the stripes like prize ribbons. Jane and Jan. Wendy and Keith. The zebra kids.

Up out of the forest you rode, past foxes skulking in brambles, to the tall escarpment. The pink granite shimmered with heat. Along the ridge, cushions of moss baked in the sun. You knew every hazard, every pointed rock that could puncture a tyre. You rode to the secret lake and looked out over the water, until the flies drove you back. Cocky, you returned, riding hands-free like an acrobat.

There were falls, of course; skids on gravel that left bruises and scabs on your knees and elbows. And once, when you landed on the upturned edge of your fender, you fainted. The metal cut like a sickle, leaving a jagged wound that should have been stitched. Eventually it healed, but left an ugly crescent-shaped scar

And so, at sixty years of age, you remember what a fall from a bicycle can do; at sixty without the supple limbs you once had. Are you mad to start riding again?

You have a new second-hand bike, formerly your husband’s. He has lowered the saddle so you can reach the pedals. You hold the bike tentatively, rolling it back and forth, as if it could be booby-trapped. It has to be handled correctly. It is more bike than you have ever had. It has ten gears, a racing saddle, a derailleur. There are too many levers and dials, a back brake and a front brake ― a front brake that could launch you over the handlebars if you squeezed it at the wrong time.

For a week you have taken the bike out and inspected it. You’ve held it and put it away. And once you almost tried riding, but a big truck rumbled by and you thought it was too busy on the road.

But today you are going to ride. You feel like a five-year-old who needs her Dad to hold the bike still and give her a little push. You swing your leg up, and over the saddle. You go down the street, wobbling a bit, like a reveller pretending she is not drunk; like a first-time rider afraid her horse will gallop. You ride with the handbrake mostly on, with your plastic helmet firmly on your head. Your brain ticks ’til it is sore; there are so many things you must remember. Then, finally, you feel confident enough to lift one hand from the handlebar and adjust the rear-view mirror. You try gearing up to second, then third, then back down to second, where it’s safer. Slower.

Your feet feel clunky on the pedals. The bike is a new pair of shoes, a skinny dress on a curvy body. You feel exposed, observed. The real bike riders race by, sleek in their Lycra shorts, leaning out over their handlebars. You are straight-backed and fashion-less, pedalling along in second gear.

But the sea is sparkling beside you. The waves wink and cheer you on. You feel the breeze on your face and your bare arms, where the scar still cuts a gash on your skin. And you let your body find its balance point, its old self that ran with the foxes in the country town so many years ago.

You gear up to third again. You are on a roll – past the waterfront café, past the raised gardens on the foreshore, past the dog-walkers and the mums with strollers. You push your feet into the pedals and they feel just right. Ahead there is no one but you and the sunshine. Jane and Jan. Wendy and Keith. They are with you in spirit as you stretch out over the handlebars and sprint home.

BLISSFUL SYMBIOSIS

Cat Sheely

The rooms in Harley Street are well appointed and quiet. On this, my seventh visit, Mother waits beside me, worrying the lace on her expensive French handkerchief. Her anxiety no longer affects me as it once did. Nor am I sure whether we are here for my benefit or hers. It matters not; I am content.

All tension drains from me as I caress Tilly’s silky russet fur. I adore the tufts of tan and white that course down her twisted spine and tug gently at the ones that rise majestically to form her eyebrows. The little daemon whispers sweet notions in my right ear while she perches on my shoulder. Ecstatic goosebumps erupt down my torso every time I feel her needle sharp toenails pierce the skin under my clothes.

Today I am not the only one that can see her. At this moment my psychiatrist, whom I see twice a week, is becoming acquainted with her. He attempted to have me deny her existence, assuring me that it was simply my psychosis that brought Tilly to life. That may, or may not, be true. Yet whatever the reason, she’s here with me now, and here she will stay.

He’s a weak old man. I don’t have to struggle to maintain my hold on his throat, impatiently anticipating the moment his eyes flick to my shoulder.

Yes, there is the reflection of my Tilly as she giggles in delight. The two of us sigh in complete fulfilment as the man’s pupils dilate and become fixed.

So what excuse can I give Mother? I do wonder if her lawyers can assist this time.

Mother? Hmmm….

But Tilly has some excellent thoughts on what should happen next.

BEWARE THE POWER OF WORDS

Leanne Williams

How to speak succinctly

of an echo?

How to capture that

receding

travelling

softening

of sound?

How to hold in words

that which reflects

away?

Thrown to the wall

it bounces

back,

behind,

beyond,

heard now

more clearly at a distance.

The product of hard

initial

resistance.

How to articulate that which,

while strong,

inevitably

fades

away?

Don’t think a straight trajectory,

words echo

round,

surround,

bind the source,

wrap the beginning

in endless

reflection.

Beat relentlessly

on the intended.

Traces remain.

Be aware

where you stand

when promulgating

an echo.

Be careful

what you say.

A BOOKISH MIND

Robin Macpherson

Preface

Of the many things my mother told me, none have proved more significant than that of her favourite slogan:

Never become a mental loafer, Son. Always try to read something that requires mental exercise; it will pay dividends in time to come, you’ll see. The person who doesn’t read is worse off than the person who cannot read, for only the reader would suffer if books were banned.

She would remind me of this often. It has remained throughout my life at times to irritate, and at times to inspire. It typifies so many of her often-quoted sayings taken from solid and well-proven advice. She called it her ‘Collage of Knowledge.’ I suspect the same instruction had been handed down from her mother, and she in turn from hers. Strange it is, when one gets older, the hum-drum sayings of youth take on a fuller, deeper meaning.

The following tale is evidence of That truth found out.

‘You know, Dad, it’s the first Saturday of the month and it’s my turn to choose our Dad & Daughter’s day out, and I’ve decided we’re going on a mystery tour of sorts.’

‘A tour of sorts, eh! Where are they to be found?’ I enquired cheekily. She raised her hazel eyes skywards, and not for the first time.

‘Honestly, Dad, all you have to do is go and get yourself ready. Don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed, you’ll be right in your element. So come on, we’ve got a full day ahead of us.’

And with a slow exaggerated wink, she began putting on her thick, red winter coat and headed for the door.

‘Come on, Fossil. Coat, hat, gloves on. At this rate it won’t be long before I’ll be visiting you in the home for the terminally bewildered,’ she threatened with a giggle.

‘I didn’t come here to be insulted,’ I quipped.

‘Oh,’ came the quick reply. ‘Where do you normally go?’

The short train journey to the city followed without her giving a single clue. I knew better than to extract an answer. She was in total control of our movements and enjoying every second.

Once out of the station, we headed south – along old cobbled streets still covered with traffic-dirtied snow, now turning to slush in readiness for the late afternoon’s steady freeze to capture in detail all the pushed-up little alpine regions left by so many slipping tyres.

‘Give me your arm, Dad. If one of us falls, then we’ll go down together.’ Our arms locked as we carefully made our way, following in the tracks of those gone before. We’re here Dad! she proudly exclaimed. Over here, look.

We were standing outside a weather-beaten antiquarian bookshop with its faded blue sign proclaiming: Hands On Books. What a fantastic name, I thought. My wee girl was, as ever, right again. I was not to be disappointed. It had been a long time since we had allowed ourselves some fun. The heart has no sorrow that love cannot heal; the saddest self, you may now reveal. As I stood admiring its naturally-aged patina, she reached across and opened the beautiful leadlight-panelled door to an inviting ‘tingle’ of its little brass bell.

Hands On Books was owned by Henry Hanson Senior, an anachronistic Dickensian bookend who fitted this shop so well ― this his own dusty book emporium. Was he the local secretary of The Corresponding Pickwickians Society in London? He could be, and indeed should be. We were greeted with a slight angled nod of his head together with an almost inaudible grunt.

He sat at his unkempt desk littered with eclectic items. Dark ink stains had saturated the depth of the timber and the green leather panel, with its gold-leafed floral border, had been worn away at various intervals by earnest and diligent attention. It had both a physical and emotional attitude that confirmed its willing servitude to literature over many years.

Hands On Books was not without its share of dead flies and the ever present university student, easily categorized by their scarf’s house colours, eager to stretch a meagre bursary allowance in search of a bargain. Awkward, ill-placed shelving challenged the horizon; books being set at opposing angles in an attempt to balance their leanings. Row upon row of antiquarian books with their unmistakable odour, serving only to delight my eager will. Old books, old stability, old morality.

Here indeed was one of the few places of evidence we have, that people are still thinking, still fighting against the poverty of aspiration and fantasy: this, the laboratory for ideas, wishful thinking, memories of tall tales and true that never stale, thanks to its ever-lit Bunsen Burner fanning the flames.

Books are not lifeless blocks of paper; they are people’s minds that live on shelves. I don’t really care how far-fetched they are; good literature always makes my mind suspend disbelief. Like friends, my books are well chosen and relatively few, always cherished and visited regularly. However, new and more important friendships can be a bit like paperbacks: some temporary, some rough handled and some special. Occasionally a few die from over-use; their spines giving way, their pages seeking refuge in nearby volumes, to add their own storyline or comment. Others would complain when taken down from their roost, objecting to being prised open and forced into action. Too many of my paperbacks have passed on in this way.

Now, my older books, especially volumes 1 and 2 of Webster’s Dictionary, published in 1870, still remain ravishing at the age of 143, their bindings still firm in their grey and gold-leafed, leather-bound covers. Albeit slightly faded, they sit alongside my oak desk in well-deserved dignity, beckoning me to wear them out. Many such books fit my hand-fondlings perfectly, needing to be held and caressed