SPIRITS: A Collection of 15 Short Stories

By Dennis Hughes

Fifteen stories of fact and fiction including:

- BETTY’S WAR, a son’s telling of his mother’s struggle with love and life during the Second World War years and beyond.

- WORDS O’MALLEY, a ‘wish-it-were-true’ tale of a boy’s obsession with words that captures worldwide attention.

- DEFENDING GOD, Jake and Laura meet in Heaven. After a rough start, their friendship warms until an earthly intervention upsets their intention.

- LOSING LILLY, Phoebe Bromley, when it comes to her son, Will, fails to realise that sometimes, to make a horse do what you want it to, you have to get off its back.

- NELSON’S WISH, a war, missing parents, unwelcomed relocation, a kidnapping, explosions and death. What more could one wish for?

PLUS ten more enjoyable stories including SPIRITS, when master and dog meet in the Afterlife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463421390

Dennis Hughes

Dennis cannot recall a day that writing was not a part of. He wrote to earn a living and writes to enhance his life. He enjoyed a successful corporate career in sales and marketing and was the founding director of a Melbourne (Australia) based advertising agency prior to returning to his hometown, Brisbane, Queensland. His collection of fifteen short stories was inspired by experiences and imagination, and he hopes you enjoy them.

Book preview

Front Cover Photograph: The author, aged thirteen, with his mate, Ringer.

Dennis cannot recall a day that writing was not a part of. He wrote to earn a living and writes to enhance his life. He enjoyed a successful corporate career in sales and marketing and was the founding director of a Melbourne (Australia) based advertising agency prior to returning to his hometown, Brisbane, Queensland.

His collection of fifteen short stories was inspired by experiences and imagination, and he hopes you enjoy them.

To my wife, Marie, long-time friends Sue and Bryan, and neighbourly friend Ann for their encouragement, effort and support.

Dennis Hughes

SPIRITS – A Collection of 15 Short Stories

Copyright © Dennis Hughes (2018)

The right of Dennis Hughes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788480970 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788480963 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781788480987 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Defending God

To some, Heaven is one hell of a place.

We’re losing him.

We’ve lost him.

I’ll keep trying; you do your best to console his mother. I’ll phone the waiting room if there’s a change.

Yeah, tell me again, when did you perform your last miracle?

She said everything would shine, pink lips and pale skin, people more perfect than one could imagine and all things would glow.

‘Clean sheets and streets, citizens clothed in white Gucci gear and all souls would be Godlike,’ she and her Mother Teresa smile assured. Not once did I doubt my mother.

Never.

Until then.

I stood on the sidewalk of a seedy street in the centre of an aged and greying city. Soaked in self-pity, expectations trashed, it was too late to become the person my mother believed was somewhere lost inside me.

We noticed each other at the same time and looked at one another at length. Members of her group watched on and the guy beside her commented, prompting those unaware to stare directly at me. I faced them and the sun, squinting into its glassy orb. She turned to leave but the meanest-looking member of the group grasped her arm. She lacked the strength to wrench herself free but he was no match for her vocabulary. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped, her words hurt and humiliated him. She dumped his defences in a crumpled heap at his sandalled feet. Discreet she was not; this girl swore more intensely than any female I’d heard before. Her aggressor was emotionally thrashed when the tallest member of the group intervened and, between them, a solution was agreed. He calmed her and, although the sun smudged my vision, I felt his gaze. She listened half-heartedly and he laughed as she walked brazenly towards me.

Hi, I’m Laura, are you a mercenary? We’ve seen a few of them lately. You are a new arrival?

Despite my appearance, her assumption surprised me.

I am exactly that. I was processed this morning, if it is morning. I thought I’d arrived at night but it was more a twilight. Is it morning or night?

There are no nights, she rapidly replied, flicking her words as one would to fully open a handkerchief. Our brief meet left me yearning to learn more, but Laura intentionally turned away.

Halfway through yesterday, my day was as bad as any other I’d survived. One minute I was into my usual thing, the next I was catapulted, somersaulted through space, twisting like shredded toilet tissue in a wind tunnel. My landing, I feared, would break every bone and strip them bare of flesh. It was then I realised I was not alone and we floated like smoke to the ground. I touched down without making a sound. No pain, no pressure, no sweat.

That’s about as good as it gets. I didn’t feel a thing! I gloated, flexing my limbs and counting my fingers and toes.

They never do and you never will because you’re fucking dead.

Be gentle, George! Break it to them gently, remember what He said!

The ‘arrivals attendant’ sneered towards the speakers from whence his directives came. He ignored the order, he was in-charge; a nameless voice meant nothing.

This one wouldn’t understand ‘gently,’ he’s under scrutiny, he’s a ‘maybe’! Make your way to gate number three, kid! George grumbled angrily, and I wondered if his angst was aimed at the voice behind the speaker, or the ‘maybe’ he referred to as me.

A welcoming committee they were not, but they were fair. The interview went well; I swore to obey, received permission to stay, and they directed me to the city square, where I found Laura.

She focused on those from whom she strayed. Her eyes followed the tall one. He held sway and demanded their devoted attention. The gathering grew, something was on and somehow I knew that I would play a part. But fear of my fate meant little or less to Laura. She strutted model-like, posing and pouting and, while some encouraged, others were not so pleased with her boardwalk antics. She was in the thick of it, surrounded by a hundred guys ready and willing to play. Eyes devoured her body and hands reached out to touch, but Laura swerved, angled her curves to make sure they missed, but never by much.

My concern was, selfishly, me. Laura was out there carefree, totally oblivious to everything other than their response to her vaudeville-like frivolity. Her ‘hey look at me’ stuff wound up a few and angered others. I watched her too, but failed to see the tall guy when he signalled to her ‘enough’, and the tough little teaser swore, grabbed my hand and ran! Laura raced to I knew not where and I stumbled in tow behind her. I heard laughter, screams and more swearing, but none worse than those that Laura versed, or others I’d heard before. That nobody gave chase confused me initially. If that was Laura at her worst, I could tell it wasn’t her first outburst. She’d rehearsed those moves before. It was, for me, a long time between physical activity, and my fitness found me wanting. My breath left me entirely and my face and tongue numbed. I tried desperately to yell and almost fell. My stumbles and mumbles rescued me. When Laura realised my discomfort, she reluctantly slowed down.

She stopped to open a white double gate that led us to a blue slate path, through a single door, across a parquetry floor and into a field of flowers. The palette of colours overwhelmed the greys worn by the city façades. We flopped onto velvet grass so deeply green in the sunlight, but where shaded, the colour merged with a royal blue.

I, too, wore a similar hue until my breath was caught, my speech found and the feeling that blood, or something similar, again flowed through my veins. My face and tongue responded to touch but my muscles as such were never before so sore. They painfully rejected my attempts to massage them, to soothe them with my fingertips. I sat quietly, no quips or complaint, like a jilted lover; I awaited her recovery to enlighten me as to what-for-and-why it happened. But my surrounds distracted me, they were exquisitely wondrous, no less than my Heaven deserved to be. I knew it were true! There had to be a better Heaven than the one I was subjected to.

This is my perception of how Heaven should be! I sang unheard.

Laura’s sigh her only reply, I tried another approach. Why did you run? What were they waiting for, Laura?

Her surprise, visible for a split second, was soon sneered away.

Nothing sinister. I bucked the system, that’s all. She struggled to appear nonchalant.

I waited, she stared and won, as I was first to blink. Well, what did they want, Laura?

I was to introduce you and you were to share your story. It’s not a rule, I think it’s foolish, a ‘show-and-tell’ thing, she quipped and I wondered why she winked. We are souls but we are not obliged to bare them!

Did they dare you to tell your story, Laura?

Yes, and I told, as does everybody.

Then, why did I feel that I was the recipient of a ‘first-time’ event?

They think you’re something special.

That’s a dumb thing, why would they think that of me? Unless you told them I was a mercenary!

Perhaps your shaved head, camouflage jeans and storm-trooper boots influenced their opinion. Your pink leather jacket alone swayed a few, they were keen to know your story and, more so, to interview you. They also sensed your uneasiness that you were displeased with your lodgings. Are you ill at ease with your surroundings? Tell me what you think of our Heaven.

The truth, I assume you want me to tell the truth?

Unless you’re immune to lightning strikes, she smirked.

It’s the same. I can only describe its sameness as being similar to that I’ve seen elsewhere, everywhere.

To us, it’s Home, she warmly replied.

Laura, the tall guy, you spoke to, do I report to him?

He’s God.

She afforded me time to respond. What could I say? My childhood images were dashed, completely blown away. This God wasn’t mine; He didn’t have an aura, Laura’s God did not shine.

He’s not as I expected. My reply raised her brow then narrowed her eyes.

What did you expect? One hand hugged her hip and the other found her pants pocket. Her pose, one of disrespect, left me without option. I replied deliberately and directly.

I thought He would glow. In the picture on my mother’s bedroom wall, His heart is exposed. It’s blood-red and shines in the dark. In the one she cherishes, a halo shimmers above His head. It glowed, as did both my mother’s Gods, they sparkled.

Only the white light glows as it guides. God has many forms but your mother’s images are of Jesus.

She told me when I was three-years-old they were images of God.

That’s what mothers do. Explaining the existence of God to an infant is easier than confusing them with the concept of Jesus. That’s why they are mothers.

You say God has many forms: who was He today?

Whoever He pleases but, at all times, He is Himself, and He desires everybody to be comfortable within their lodgings. Our Heaven represents an average city; it caters to those who lived a city life.

Do those from ancient times live here? I keenly enquired.

No. Everybody resides in their own perception of Heaven, the one they know.

How can that be? The concept intrigued me.

You’re asking the wrong person. Laura’s distaste left little doubt that she deemed my question dumb.

Are you saying…that Michelangelo lives in a Heaven that abounds with naked cherubs and nymphs?

I’ve not seen it but that’s my understanding, although I doubt they’d be naked.

Do Adam and Eve live in their Biblical state?

I heard he loves gardening. She smiled and eagerly awaited my reply.

I assumed she’d told that story before and properly prepared her response. I deemed her telling to be less than a lie, I gently labelled it fable. But Laura most unforgivingly, as only she could be, berated me.

Come on, Laura, you’re kidding me. I suppose Eve is a designer with her own fashion label.

You’re being silly! Are you able to explain why this is not the Heaven you perceived for yourself?

You call it ‘Home’. Maybe I need more time? Do others feel that way? Did God see that in me? He spoke to you and looked at me, simultaneously. Did He say anything about me, Laura?

"He told me to have a nice day!" she snapped.

"What did He say about me?"

I waited but Laura was distracted. She watched herself shuffle her feet. Was she afraid or embarrassed to repeat God’s words? I allowed my eyes to offer their point-of-view. Her clothes were not new; she wore a casual, multi-coloured, buttoned blouse over knee-length khaki shorts. Her feet were bare and nobody cared. Everybody dressed down, even God wore jeans. And I, wearing thinner by the minute, exposed her to a glimpse of a much meaner me.

You say He told you to have a nice day? She nodded. Laura, He creates days! God already knows what this day will bring!

He was being polite! Are you familiar with the term? she spat, her attitude more that of an older sibling than a new acquaintance. I pretended not to notice but my words unhinged her and she challenged my assessment of His comment. Did she feel the need to defend Him? The concept of defending God was inconceivable, but Laura, in her self-anointed role of ‘Lord Protector’, felt duty-bound. To her mind, I’d crossed the line.

Despite her anger and earthy attire, she was attractive. Laura was conscious of her looks but for reasons known only to her, and to God of course, she appeared to conceal her femininity. Rather than yield, I revealed a much darker side of me.

He said something about me! What did He say, Laura? I have a fucking right to know! Oh, I erred, I used her favourite word and she was so very unimpressed. Her look threatened me temporarily but she appeared to search somewhere else. Perhaps she turned to Him for guidance or maybe she looked to her inner self.

Laura and her thoughts wandered back to our beginnings. Her primal instinct to defend God gradually waned and I felt in myself that I was being forgiven. She sat with legs bent, her arms wrapped around her knees, her gripped hands tucking them to her chest.

I’m not a soldier, does that matter? I confessed. Her expression confirmed that she’d forgotten her ‘mercenary assumption’. She shrugged and turned away. How long have you been here? My question totally irrelevant as I readily knew the answer. Shortly after my arrival, I asked a woman for the time of day.

‘There’s no clocks ’ere, luv, no seconds, no minutes, no hours, you have all the time one needs to plant your own field of flowers.’ She laughed, as did others who heard her reply and Laura confirmed the woman’s words.

Time, in this place, has no meaning.

How do you sleep, Laura?

Alone…and that’s the way I like it.

I mean in daylight, without the night?

Oh, you get used to it, pull the blankets over your head or place a pillow over your face. You’ll think of something, maybe you’ll find a creative someone who will ensure the ambience abides your taste.

When are you going to tell me what God said about me?

Rather than lie, as intended, I’ll tell you the truth… God noticed us looking at one another. He asked if I knew the weird guy.

Me! He meant me? Why would He say that?

Look at yourself, you’re bloody scary!

My claim to Heavenly fame is that God labelled me weird!

At least He noticed you; that’s something, Laura compromised.

He laughed, too! Was that about me as well?

It was; I said you were cute.

Great, I’m cute to boot; I’m a cute, weird guy! My voice so high-pitched, it cracked. Is that it? Any more shitty insults, Laura?

I didn’t insult you! God said you were weird!

Yeah, the woman who enlightened me about ‘time’ loved my jacket but she was wary of its wearer.

Souls arrive as they were when they departed their body. Sometimes it’s embarrassing for them and at other times, for us. Her effort to appear detached dissolved into a smile. I assumed her mind downloaded an image, one she enjoyed reflecting upon once or twice in a while.

I don’t know what the fuss is about. I was wearing this when it happened.

Well, for a start, what’s the story behind that? She pointed an unpolished fingernail at my face. I thought legitimate tattooists refused to do facial stuff? Some would argue that they left too much un-inked.

I cut short her sarcastic snigger.

It washes off. My reveal dulled her edge.

It looks real, I…I thought it was. She looked as she felt…foolish.

It’s fake. A transfer. I enjoyed watching her squirm but, as does the worm, she quickly turned.

Really? So, you are a phoney, whatever you’re supposed to be!

This is my undercover gear, I…

You’re the police? You look more like someone wanted by them. Laura forced herself to laugh.

‘Undercover’ was the title of the play! My role was that of an undercover, gay cop! I lowered my tone. I was on stage when it happened. Embarrassment slapped her. She blushed and I hoped my explanation would end her rush to agree that I was the weirdo He made me out to be.

Your costume is cool, it’s a bit ‘out-there’, but actors need to overdress, I guess. Her frown looked me up and down.

I also played parts in which my undressing distressed my mother.

Is she a believer?

Sinfully so. I coloured my reply with a splash of sarcasm.

What do you mean?

My mother is the ‘Supreme Believer’, ‘all things church’ lurched in our house, Laura, except me. I was out there trying to make it, to see how far I could take it, that’s all. I’ve never set foot in a church and I didn’t think about it much; never, really.

She was unmoved