The Cyberettes

By The Society of Women Writers WA

A Decade of Creativity:

Engaging short stories, intriguing poems and enlightening articles from the pens of the members of the Cyberette on-line magazine. This commemorative collection showcases some of the best writing contributions by women writers of The Society of Women Writers WA, celebrating ten years of creativity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linellen Press
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922343307

Book preview

Asha Rajan

Timothy and the Crocodile

Is this seat free, dear? The woman smiled and pointed at the seat beside me.

Why did the old ladies always make a bee-line for me? It didn’t seem to matter where I was – the bus, the train, the café, the movies – they always parked themselves beside me and started chatting. This one seemed to have made it her mission to befriend me despite a bus full of vacant seats.

Her silvery hair was mostly contained in a tightly drawn bun, though a few rambunctious locks had absconded to coil like tendrils around her neck and ears. Her olive-green skirt suit was old but tailored and well kept. It must have been expensive once. Despite the heat she wore stockings and tan close-toed brogues that matched her handbag. She had the air of having dressed purposefully, methodically, sensibly; there was no flash of colour or hidden surprise.

Yes, yes, I said clutching my open book and scooting closer to the window, mildly irritated in that way you get when you’re deep inside the world of a novel and are pulled back to reality. There weren’t many opportunities to read in my day and I relished the quietness and isolation of public transport. Maybe the woman would pull out a book of her own. Maybe I could dive back into my fictional world. Stevie Nicks wailed about white-winged doves in my left ear while a tinny, distant version of her squeaked from the earbud dangling on my right shoulder.

The woman fished in her stiff-leather handbag and drew out a handkerchief with a scalloped border and tiny blue cornflowers dotted all over. Nobody carried handkerchiefs anymore, but it seemed natural in her hands.

Carefully, fastidiously, she wiped down the hard, plastic edges of the bus seat and dusted off the padded cushion in the centre.

You can never be too careful, you know. I could tell you some stories about the things I’ve wiped off bus seats. Ice-cream and children’s muddy footprints. There was even blood once. I hope they never shine one of those crime scene lights on these seats. You know, like the ones you see the people on CSI using. It doesn’t bear thinking about what they’d find, she said folding the handkerchief into her bag.

I nodded in agreement and turned back to my open book. She settled herself into the seat, planting her feet flat on the floor in front of her, knees together, pressing any miscreant wrinkles out of her skirt and adjusting her handbag on her lap.

Would you like to see a photograph of my Timothy? She dove into her handbag again without waiting for a response. He saved my life, you know.

I braced myself for gloating stories of her son, or perhaps her grandson. No doubt the photograph would be one of those terrible studio portraits where the subject looked stunned, stiff, and uncomfortable in their best clothes. A package deal, sold in overly-lit, noisy, soulless shopping centres to unsuspecting passers-by who thought they were getting a bargain, but ended up with a mediocre photographer just starting out in the industry and trying to make ends meet. They always had the same generic speckled blue or grey backdrop, the exposure was always set too high and the contrast too low, with tilt shift photoshopped afterwards to give the edges a soft myopic glow.

I put my book away and turned off my music. She was a talker. There’d be no more reading on this bus trip.

She found what she was looking for and a little whelp of satisfaction escaped her. She drew out the photograph, holding it carefully by the edges. Then she presented it to me on the flat of her right palm, shifting a little closer, blocking me into my seat with her knees. I was trapped. I glanced down at the picture in her hand, prepared to see a young man, hair neatly brushed, wearing a forced smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. Instead I saw a Chihuahua. He was the same tan as her bag and shoes, with a slight underbite that made him look like he was grinning gormlessly, and a devilish glint in his eyes.

Oh, I said. Timothy’s a dog.

Well yes, dear. Not just a dog, though. He’s a hero. She smoothed her left hand over the face of the photograph and launched into her story.

Five years ago, she and her husband bought an island off the coast, to live out their retirement years. Not so unusual in the N.T. where buying a whole island was sometimes cheaper than buying a house in the northern suburbs of Darwin. They took their small motor boat and some camping equipment and started building their home. They planned to set it up as a bed and breakfast. Any income they made would allow them a few extravagances, like a bottle of single malt once in a while.

It was laborious and exhausting but brought them together in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Days of hard manual work melted into languid evenings, fishing and eating. They ferried materials from the mainland, built a jetty, and completed a home.

Eight months after they started, the day the last board was laid on their verandah, her husband kissed her hands and thanked her. There was something out of character about that. Nothing big, nothing she could put her finger on, he was just a little off. She ignored it. By the end of that week, he had his first psychotic episode and she locked him out of the house for her own safety.

I didn’t sleep that night. Her voice dropped to a whisper. Just sat on the kitchen floor, clutching a filleting knife, hoping he would sleep it off on the verandah.

The next day, when he still ranted and railed against his demons, she dug out the satellite phone from the back of the cupboard and made a call to the regional hospital. Within a couple of hours, that felt both endless and fleeting, her husband was medevaced away.

Rounds of assessments followed from a stream of suited, officious looking doctors who never met her eye when they discussed his case. Soon after, her husband was admitted to the best mental health facility she could afford. The doctors were clear – there was no way he would return to their island. He needed round-the-clock care.

Unsettled after the ordeal of admitting him into care, she swung past the pet shop on her way home. She loved seeing the animals, so playful, so innocent, so new and unburdened in the world. That’s where she met Timothy. He was the only Chihuahua amongst the rollicking balls of fluff with vaguely expletive names. The Poodles and Shih Tzus yapped while small, hairless and shivering, Timothy locked his large dark eyes on hers and she fell irrevocably and steadfastly in love. Without a second thought, she bought him.

Timothy quickly adapted to island life and became both companion and protector.

He kept me sane in those early days. Gave me a reason to get up in the morning. Puppies don’t allow you to be sad. You have to feed them and play with them and train them – and focussing on something outside of myself, on keeping him alive – it helped me keep me alive too. She stroked the photo again.

He was made for that island, she said.

The island ran on routines, repeated actions that you could set your watch to. Every day at midday, the salt-water crocodiles emerged out of the water to reclaim their domain, as they had since the Triassic period. Every day at midday, Timothy charged at them, barking and feinting. Every day at midday, the salties heaved themselves onto the jetty and lumbered towards the house. As Timothy advanced, the crocs paused to assess him. As the crocs advanced, Timothy shuffled backwards, still barking his displeasure.

The standoff between Timothy and the salties carried on for half an hour till Timothy gave up and allowed the beasts to sunbathe. After exactly an hour, Timothy resumed his yapping and bounding and the crocs, re-charged by their time in the sun, scurried back down the jetty and into the water.

I’ve never seen something so big and languorous move so quickly. She punctuated her wonder with a soft snort, a barely audible exhalation of breath. The bus lurched first left, then right, and we both reached out a hand to steady ourselves as it took the corner a little too quickly. Flung like rag dolls into each other, we smiled awkwardly, the way strangers suddenly finding themselves intimately close do. We adjusted ourselves back into our socially mandated postures with the little grunts and snuffles politeness demanded – the acknowledgements of discomfort at human contact. She was quiet. I searched her face, hoping she’d go on. She inhaled deeply and launched back into her story.

The tableau of Timothy and the crocodiles played out every day for years, and they each grew accustomed to their roles. She even became a little complacent about the arrival of the crocs.

Timothy’d go off, and I’d know it was lunchtime, she said, tapping her imaginary watch. I wondered then how a woman so fastidiously dressed, with such attention to detail, wore no jewellery other than a simple gold wedding band. I wanted to ask her, but she had found the flow of her story now and I was too afraid to interrupt her in case she lost the thread.

A month ago, the crocs surfaced as usual and Timothy sounded his warning bark. The crocs advanced, as they always had, with Timothy charging and retreating in turns. This time, the crocs didn’t slow down, they didn’t back off. The ancient reptiles advanced up the jetty towards the verandah at an alarming speed.

The old woman ran up the porch stairs and into the house. There was no time to grab Timothy. The crocs moved too quickly. Timothy backed up, step by gangly step, till he butted against the porch stairs, barking, bearing his teeth, his hackles raised. She cracked the front door open and called him in, tried to convince him to come to her, bribed him with treats and yelled at him to obey, but Timothy stood his ground, snarling. She heard a low rumbling growl emanate from a croc – a monster the size of a small family car. She slammed the door shut and got to the window in time to see it tilt its head and drop open its bottom jaw.

Timothy was out of her eyeline, but she could still hear him barking. The pop as the croc snapped its jaws together sounded like someone clapped just behind her ears and she was convinced that that was the end of Timothy. Then she heard Timothy’s familiar high-pitched yap. She watched transfixed as again the croc prised open its jaws, tilted its head and lunged. This time she saw the croc fling its head back trying to get a better grip on something, she saw Timothy airborne, his body twisting and turning like his spine was a slinky. He made a perfect parabola, reached his peak and descended directly into the croc’s waiting maw. Once more, she heard the pop of air expelled from the croc’s mouth as its jaws clamped shut and she swore she saw the beast grin. Satisfied, the croc turned languidly and made its now unhurried way back down the jetty. The croc slipped into the water without a sound.

It was quiet then – unnaturally quiet. There were no insect noises, no water lapping against the jetty, and definitely no Timothy. I’ve never heard a silence like that before or since, she said.

She waited, then counted to a hundred slowly. And then counted to a hundred again. Finally, she felt brave enough to crack open the front door and peek outside. Everything looked perfectly normal, as if there’d never been any commotion at all. The jetty baked in the sun, drying any evidence of the reptilian visitors. Her small motor boat was still tied firmly to the mooring post. Then, heralding a return to the status quo, the cicadas took up their song with vigour.

She called for Timothy – quietly at first and then increasingly frantically. She ventured onto the porch and scoured it for any sign of him. There was nothing. She ran to the end of the jetty, held the mooring post with one hand and leaned as far out over the water as she dared, straining her eyes for any sign of his mangled body. The water was still and clear.

A week passed with no sign of Timothy or the crocs. The island routine had been disrupted. She felt out of sorts, like she just couldn’t settle. Every time she started a task, she’d get distracted by something else and forget what she was doing. Without the regular breaks in her day afforded by the visiting salties, she lost track of time. At the end of that week, with still no Timothy, and no crocs either, she decided to sell the property and return to the mainland – without her husband or Timothy, she didn’t want to stay.

She could buy a small cottage far from the water, and perhaps a new puppy. There’d be enough money from the sale to live out the rest of her days comfortably. She booked a hotel room in town, made an appointment with a real estate agent, and packed her case. She closed the front door behind her.

I never lock it. The only way onto the island is by boat and I don’t have anything worth stealing anymore, she said, giving Timothy’s photo one last gentle pat and tucking him back into her handbag.

She wheeled her case down the jetty and loaded it into her boat. Just as she was untying the mooring rope, she saw movement in the water. She raised her hand to her forehead to block out the sun’s glare and peered into the distance with knotted brows. Whatever it was, it was moving quickly and towards her. Her chest tightened and her heart raced. Had the croc come back for her? Was she to be the delayed main course? She couldn’t move.

The strangely shaped thing in the water was chewing up the distance between them rapidly. It moved like a crocodile, sleek and speedy, but it looked like it was wearing a top hat. In spite of her fear, she began to laugh at the thought of a well turned out crocodile. If she had to die, there was something charming about dying at the jaws of a dapper reptile. As the croc came ever closer, she saw that what she’d thought was a top hat, was actually Timothy. He’d survived.

She grabbed my arm and let out a whoop of delight.

Her little Chihuahua hadn’t just saved her life, and survived becoming a crocodilian appetiser, he’d apparently been crowned king of the crocs.

Timothy surfed towards the jetty on the head of the biggest croc – the one who’d flung him into the air. They reached the jetty, and the crocs hovered in the water as Timothy hopped gracefully onto the boards. He trotted up to her, yapping all the way. She scooped him up, checked him all over for injuries and let him lick her face. When she was certain he wasn’t injured and he wriggled his impatience, she put him back down on the jetty. Without a backward glance he trotted back to the crocodiles. Just before he jumped back onto the croc’s head, he turned and looked at her. She swore he gave her a little nod, as if reassuring her that they were both going to be alright. Then he turned back to the croc, leapt onto its head, and the croc and Timothy swam majestically off into the distance.

Her story done, she ran a guiding hand over her skirt again, pressing out the wrinkles only she could see. Questions crowded in my throat, jostling to burst forth.

But what will you do about the sale of your house? I said.

Oh, I can’t sell it now. Timothy’s still out there and he might want company, she said.

Since the hotel room was already booked, she decided to come into town on the mainland anyway, stock up on supplies, and make a holiday of it. It was a nice excuse to spend some time with her husband and tell him all about Timothy, even though he wouldn’t know what she was talking about. He liked it when she told him stories. He was at peace then. Maybe she’d even get her watch out of hock, now that she wasn’t selling the island. I studied my nails, keenly aware she’d seen me looking at her wrist.

Oh, this is my stop. Thank for listening so attentively to my story, dear, she said as she pressed the bell and pulled herself upright. The angry hiss of air brakes rang out.

"No, no. Thank you, I said. That’s the most amazing story I’ve ever heard."

And it’s all true, she said. She tugged the bottom of her jacket yanking out any lingering creases. She looked different for the telling of her tale, lighter somehow, more at ease. Unasked questions clamoured behind my lips. With a wink to me and a cheery thank you to the driver, she alighted the bus and walked briskly away.

The Eulogy

I stood at the podium looking out at the faces of the gathered mourners, unfamiliar and familiar. The funeral director’s words still rang in my ears. It’s okay to be raw and honest. There’s no right way to grieve. They’re just looking for the comfort of a shared experience from you.

Ah, there’s the rub. How could I be raw and honest, and still give them comfort? These people, good people, did not know my father like I knew him. They hadn’t been there when I was eight, running late for school, running behind the car as my father – fed up with yelling for me to get a move on, fed up of punching the horn like it was my mother’s face –  drove down the driveway, just a little too fast for me to catch. They hadn’t been there when my father inevitably stopped near the letterbox at the end of the drive, refused to unlock any of the doors, let the engine idle, lit his pipe, and ignored my pleas.

They hadn’t been in the car with me on those long silent drives to the exclusive boys’ high school my father insisted on enrolling me at, even though all my friends were at the local public school, even though I’d begged him to let me go with my friends, even though I was bullied and ostracised at this posh school filled with people who knew the cost of everything and the value of nothing. They hadn’t been there for the daily guilt of never measuring up to his absurdly high standards, of feeling beholden for the sacrifices he made for my education.

They hadn’t been there for the belittling of my dreams of playing cricket for Australia – or India. I had the choice after all. They hadn’t been there for the daily lessons in how to demean and gaslight women. How many times had I heard the story of how imprecise women were with directions?

I ask your mother where the towels are, and she waves vaguely at the linen cupboard and says they’re on that shelf. How am I supposed to know which shelf? So imprecise! I never responded, never told him that the towels inhabited the same space on the same shelf for at least twenty years.

No, these people – good people, who supported my father as cancer ravaged his organs, who supported my mother with meals and relief and company – did not know him like I knew him. They had known him as jovial and benevolent, tutoring their children through final exams, opening his house for all visitors, running the local community association. They knew him as gregarious and generous, giving freely of his time, his food, his expertise. And he was all of those things. To them.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Thank you all for coming out today. My father would have been delighted to see so many of you here, remembering him, supporting my mother and me, I began.

Cheryl Workman-Davies

Both of these pieces are inspired by this photo –

by Alexander Ant from Unsplash instagram.com/_alexander_ant_

The Floating Rose

Suspended delicately

Invisible forces

Cushioning reality

Creating illusion

Encapsulating beauty

Breath of life

Stillness acquired

The Forbidden Rose

Tessa skipped down the path of her beloved grandmother's house. She had marvellous adventures with her, and this time was to be no different. Secateurs in hand under the watchful gaze of her grandma, she was instructed on the finer points of how to trim the unruly garden hedge. One rogue stalk at a time, the secateurs snipped and snapped the hardened brown exterior of the stalks. After following grandmas instructions, the pair cleaned up the cuttings stowing their treasures inside a bright blue bucket. As grandma emptied the bucket into the bin Tessa's gaze wandered over to the rose bush where a beautiful peach coloured blossom had burst from its wonderful green bud. Grandma dusted her hands on her pants and noticed Tessa's quiet demeanour.

Ah, my dear, I just remembered, we're not quite ready for cookies and milk just yet. We have one more very important job.

Tessa tore her gaze from the rose and looked up at her grandmother, What is it?

Grandmother gestured to the rose bush, I think we ought to bring that beauty with us.

Tessa's eyes widened, and she looked from her grandma to the rose and back again.

Really? Can we?

Grandmother nodded, Of course, my dear, and you shall take it home with you.

Tessa helped her grandmother with cutting the rose and held the tender blossom in her hands, mesmerised. A glorious yet delicate treasure, what a wonder to behold.

Broad Arrow

Ghost town

Last frontier of another era

Hold on or it’ll be gone

Ghost town with no walls

Like all the rest - Vanished

Stories left

Graves rotten

The legend is left

How long until forgotten?

Happily Ever After?

Today is the day I finally end my days as a lonely bachelor. It wasn’t that long ago I began dating twenty-five women at once on this reality TV show. Back then, when I applied to be on the show, it was just on the off chance that I might get a glimpse at love. Then I was swept up into the madness and the whirlwind of being one guy surrounded by so many possibilities. And during this process, I’ve been forced to find a way to focus on what I actually wanted for my future.

I’ve had to learn to listen to my heart – not something a trained lawyer is encouraged to do. And now we’ve become acquainted, I don’t want to go back because this process has allowed me to meet my future, and she is incredible.

My heart is in my chest as I stand surrounded by cameras and the idealistic island paradise of the Maldives. Natasha has been on my mind right from the moment I met her two months ago. Every day I have spent with her has only served to solidify that she is the right woman for me and the one I want by my side when this TV show ends.

And now, finally, the day is upon us. I finally get the chance to tell this beautiful woman how I feel about her. No pretence, and no secrets. I can’t wait to have all the walls between us come down.

As I see her approach, my heart pounds in my ears and I fight to contain my composure. After all, we’re still being filmed for international television, so I need to get this right. I take her into my arms and hug her tightly, and I feel her fit into my grasp so perfectly. It hurts to have to let her go but I do, and