Short Story Collection: Life Is a Journey

By Barbara Hartmann King

A collection of short stories, featuring both truth and fiction; some are a mixture of both. There are five-minute stories, ten-minute stories and much longer ones too. The author gives a glimpse into her own life in the first and last entries in the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984500434

Barbara Hartmann King

An essential Australian novel, peppered lovingly with "Gone With the Wind" flavors where loyal servants are devoted to the family, containing frontier adventure, dauntless and enterprising on many levels.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Hartmann King. 663356

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 07/13/2018

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.xlibris.com.au

CONTENTS

Preface

Finding Me (Fact)

The Old Bath Tub (Fiction)

The House in the Country (Fiction)

Hidden Agenda (Fiction)

What was That (Fiction)

Harry’s Demise (Fiction)

Yellow Candles (Fiction)

Thump (Fiction)

Token of Love (Fiction)

He had The Viking Genes (Fiction)

That Dog Won’t Bite (Fiction)

Three Christmas Stories (Story 1 Fact - Story 2 & 3 Fiction)

The Secret Garden (Fiction)

The Cracked Door (Fiction)

I Don’t Believe – my brother Bluey (Fiction)

Prelude to a New Life (Fiction)

The Story of the Dead Cat (Fact)

When I Was Your Age (Based On Fact)

The Chiming Clock (Based on Fact)

Had it been a Fairy Tale There would have been Snow (Fiction)

I Closed My Eyes Destiny Cat (Fact)

Scapehorse (Fiction)

Island Magic (Fiction)

School Days (Fact)

For My Family

With Love

PREFACE

This book of twenty-four short stories is a diverse collection of fiction and fact and some are based on fact. The others are the result of imagination; but who can say imagination is pure fiction. In my tale of School Days in this book, I have related how a true tale can remain in the subconscious and be transformed into a fictional character forty years later. I did not realize that this had taken place until the completion of the work. We never truly forget anything. Little bits and pieces of people and events remain to make us who we are, to give us our stories. We all have an immeasurable number of stories stored away. They are the essence of us, they are the essence of life itself, they are the Spiritual Beings having a Physical Experience. They are Us.

The first story in this collection is autobiographical. As the story indicates I have walked many roads. Is one ever truly satisfied and content, to never yearn for a new experience? I think not because the journey continues to the end. We never stop learning. The sum of our experience is what life is all about and that is our journey, that is the reason we are born. The journey is everything. Live your stories to the full, with love in your hearts. Write your stories down so the loved ones you leave behind might know who you really were. Everyone is unique and special. We are our stories.

Barbara Hartmann King

663356IS02.jpg

FINDING ME

one moment when time stood still

a true story

I have written many stories about my early married life in the Australian Bush and this tale also stems from that time; but with a slightly different theme. It is not fodder for my period dramas set in Central Queensland; but it is fodder for my own belief that we are never alone.

When my youngest (of four boys) started primary school, I applied for the teachers’ aide job at the four-teacher bush school, to be the first teacher aide ever for that school. I’m going back many years. My application was successful and I was travelling a forty kilometre round trip on a gravel road for the part-time job. My first-grader travelled with me, and the older children chose to ride in the dusty school bus with their companions from the Mt Binga forestry barracks. Travelling with mum was not considered cool to them.

I told myself I needed to do something different. It could have been the perfect time to begin writing the stories and novels I had promised myself I would do one-day. I had been a proficient child writer; but no, I had a need to join the local community for a time after all the isolation on the property and the baby rearing. I knew the meagre wage would probably only cover car expenses. In truth, I hated the thought of not having a child at home and the recent death of my husband’s mum who was my dearest friend had not helped. We had a cattle and grain property at the time and it was run by my husband and his father. My mother-in-law had been a second mother to the boys since babyhood and we all missed her like crazy.

Thinking back now, it was quite an impetuous thing to do at the time. I was travelling on a road where wallabies and scrub turkeys had right away and wedge-tailed eagles swooped in for the ones who didn’t make it; where pythons found the sunny spots on the side of the road and imported red deer (gone wild) made a dash from forest land to the farmer’s crops.

I didn’t really mind the travelling. I loved the wildlife along the way with my youngest who was a great companion, cheerily chatting the whole time, not that we could hear each other very well on the rough corrugated road.

The day my little boy was tossed off the seat into the red dust under the dash, without warning or pre-emption, had him yelling angrily at me: "Mum! Mum! You are a rough driver! You are an awful rough driver Mum!" It was before the time of seatbelts. This is what happened:

I left home at the usual time, a little after seven-thirty. I had to be at school in time to duplicate the lesson sheets for the first graders and explain the basics to the exchange teacher from the United States who was nervous about her new job; but the children absolutely adored her. She was at her best while playing the guitar and singing to the children and had them singing with her; which she did every single day.

This morning there had been no sign of rain when I bounced over the last bush-timber grid to leave our property, flying along as I usually did, knowing the road like the back of my hand by this time and there was seldom any traffic.

I was nearing the Googa Forestry Barracks, (10 kilometres into the ride) and became aware in one split second that the road surface had changed suddenly from corrugated dust to glassy-wet and slippery from a drenching shower minutes before; but it was too late. I lost control and I could not hold the station wagon on the road.

Panic stricken, I gasped wide-eyed as the car lunged at the huge stringy bark trees directly across the road from the barracks. No conscious thought followed. I knew nothing of what happened until I felt the convulsive shuddering of the vehicle. The entire car was shaking violently like it was in the throes of a gigantic seizure and I was not facing massive tree trunks anymore. The car in its tumultuous shaking frenzy was squarely on the road again. I had no memory of how that happened. My hands grasped the wheel with knuckles turned white. Seconds later, the shaking lessened. My head was swimming, my heart was thumping like a crazy thing in my chest, and my little boy was yelling from under the dash.

I placed my angry small child on the seat once more and continued slowly, my face ashen, my stomach churning.

Ten kilometres further on, I arrived at school and I was still shaken and trembling. I took my little boy in my arms to the teachers’ room and filled the small sink with water to wash the red dust off him.

One of the older teachers came into the room, the hostile one, whom I’d had words with over a boy sitting alone on the verandah floor with his books tossed around him, because he had learning problems. She asked me what I was doing but I couldn’t answer.

Her very presence had me remembering why I was given the task of helping the children who sat at the back of the class, the children who were literally tossed out of their class; and she had told me in no uncertain manner: "If you don’t like it, then you teach them." The teacher’s impatience had given me a new purpose. I had a word with the Head Master and was given the job of helping the slow learners from the younger grades for an hour every day; and