Fruitcake Frenzy

By David Vernon

Inside the house, George flexed his shoulders and prepared for battle. He looked around the study and nodded with satisfaction. The rug was rolled back against the wall, the chairs had been removed to the kitchen and the desk, on the top of which he had carefully lined up his armoury, sat in the corner. The arena was ready.
— From “Do It Yourself Shakespeare” by Jim Baker

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. Some days she suspects it may be so, but beauty is difficult to verify. Even if he is lying, his words feel like sunlight on her back. “Lie down,” he instructs. He kneels above her and slides a cushion underneath her head, another under each of his knees. “Sorry,” he grins, “the floor’s a bit hard, I really should get a rug.”
— From “Contrapuntal Motion” by Kerry Lyons

She stoked the fire, pulled the kettle onto the well blacked plate, and reached for the canister of rolled oats. The baby somersaulted inside her, pushing up under her lungs and making her gasp. She sat heavily on one a straight-backed wooden chair and supported her head in her hands. Hot tears welled. She brushed them away angrily. Where was Jack when she needed him?
— From “Borderline” by Leonie Huggins

Thirty-three engaging and imaginative short stories are showcased in this, the fortieth, short story anthology from Stringybark Stories. Selected from over 280 entries these winning and highly commended tales are marvellously clever, intriguing and a ripping read. From love stories and the joy of flat packs to escaped plants and smashed avocado, this collection is sure to amuse and entertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Vernon
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005786472

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

Fruitcake Frenzy — thirty-three award-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards

Edited by

David Vernon

Selected by Dr Mel Baker, Antoinette Merrillees, Dr Rick Williams and David Vernon

Published by Stringybark Publishing

PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

https://www.stringybarkstories.net

http://www.stringybarkpublishing.com.au

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: This collection, David Vernon, 2022

Copyright: Individual stories, the authors, various.

These stories are works of fiction and do not relate to anyone living or dead unless otherwise indicated.

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 editor, judges and the authors of these stories.

Contents

Introduction

The Ventriloquist — Stephen Knox

Karl or Not Karl — Joni Scott

Nowhere to Hide — Robert Padgett

Butterflies Dancing — Pauline Cleary

My Daughter has Gone — Victoria Mizen

Hung out to Dry — Penelope Jackson

A Sigh Beneath My Branches — Courtney Evans

Contrapuntal Motion — Kerry Lyons

New Year Island — Guy Salvidge

The Anniversary — Pamela Mosel

Some Things Don’t Turn Out Right — Judy O’Connor

Happy Chappie — Frances Underwood

Do It Yourself, Shakespeare — Jim Baker

Invasive Species — Gregory Ballinger

From the Darkroom — Archibald Hobbs

The Day Harry Left — Judy O'Connor

Fruitcake Frenzy — George Lancaster

Good Mourning — Stephen Knox

A Place at Your Table? — Carmel Lillis

The Dog — Graham Mitchell

Jessie’s Hair — Rita Willsher

Fighting Back – Rosemary Baldry

Borderline — Leonie Huggins

Who is She? — Helen Lyne

To Gather Dust and Lose Your Usefulness — Courtney Evans

Scar — Linda Brandon

The Big Thaw — Irene Sheehan

Return to Sender — Robert Padgett

Violet Town — Juliette Salom

How Much Can a Koala Bear? — Harry Colfer

Under a Galvanised Sky — Kay Spencer

Under the Statue of Colonel Light — Harry Huelin

Smashed Avo for Breakfast — Frances Underwood

The Stringybark Short Story Award 2022

About the Judges

Judges’ Report

Acknowledgements

Other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

Introduction

— David Vernon

This book is the fortieth short story anthology published by Stringybark Publishing. When I set out to establish this competition in 2010, I never imagined that it would become such a constant in the Australian short story competition calendar. While forty anthologies sound a lot, it is the statistics behind this number that I find truly astonishing. With this book, we* have now published 1167 stories representing 485 individual authors. Some of these authors have been published by us once only, while others many times. Some of these authors are hobbyists who dip their pen into the ink when they have a chance, while others are professional writers. We have also paid out nearly $32,000 in prize money and books. To achieve this, we have utilised the wonderful volunteer services of 137 judges who have read 6162 entries! These are big numbers, and we are proud of what we have achieved and how firmly we are ensconced in the Australian literary calendar.

This collection of thirty-three stories is from our open-themed award and thus between these pages you are treated to a plethora of different plots, different settings and different themes and characters. I think you will find this anthology a joy to read.

Thank you to the writers across Australia and around the world who submitted 287 entries that kept the four judges — Dr Mel Baker, Antoinette Merrillees, Dr Rick Williams and David Vernon very busy indeed.

Happy reading!

David Vernon

Editor and founder of Stringybark Stories

* Stringybark Stories only exists because of the many volunteers who have put thousands of hours into judging and administrating these competitions, including the hours involved in proof-reading the successful stories and in designing the books for publication.

The Ventriloquist

— Stephen Knox

Reg hitched a ride with a stock and station agent in his Model T Ford.

Thing is mate, the agent said, I’ve gotta head north on the Jillandra road about five mile shy of your destination. You’ll have to pick up another ride or hoof it from there.

Thanks mate. Anything’s a help.

Saw your show last night, but I’ve seen it before, the driver said. You don’t recognise me, do you? I was a stagehand at the Tivoli when you first appeared. The name’s Charlie.Charlie Osborne. You were bloody good back then. Still are of course.

Reg couldn’t place him, but there were lots of staff who came and went in the good old days.

I left soon after and got this job. I usually work in Head Office in Sydney. Out here just temporary. Due back in Sydney next week. Can’t wait. Got a girl back home. Haven’t seen her for two months.

Talk of romance speared Reg’s heart and the image of his beautiful wife rose in his mind like a blossoming flower. He’d been doing a circular trek of Western New South Wales. He’d be back home in two months.

From the road junction where he left his lift, Reg started walking. The road was featureless and the sun unrelenting. The weight of his suitcase, bed roll and tucker bag drained his energy. No cars came along. At last, the town shimmered into view. Reg had been fooled by mirages before, but as he drew nearer, the floating image settled, and the town was solid, real, anchored. He collapsed on the first horizontal surface he came to, a seat outside the pub. His head was spinning, his vision blurred. Someone, an angel, handed him a glass of water, not cold but wonderfully wet and the world began to slow down.

Once he had gathered his senses, he approached the publican for work, explaining that he was a ventriloquist and offering to put on a show in return for a feed and a bed.

All right, but yer can fill in until teatime by cleaning the dunnies. There’s scrubbin’ brushes over there and yer room in the shed is out the back. There’s no key cause there’s no lock."

Reg recoiled at the stale smell of tobacco and old oil as he opened the door of the windowless shed. In the darkness he struck a match and spied the remains of a candle in a jam jar coated in lampblack. Finding a stunted wick he lit the candle and lifted it to face height. The shed was packed with broken chairs and tables from the pub. Behind a motorised lawn mower that stood in a puddle of its own oil, was an iron bed with a sagging wire mattress, a stained blanket and filthy pillow.

Reg couldn’t have been more appreciative of the shelter if it had been the Ritz. Competition was tough for itinerant workers during the Depression. He was just one of thousands "on the wallaby’.

His stage dummy, "Reggie’, was very precious. He was made in the late 1890s, carved from wood. Over the years he had suffered the slings and arrows of months on the road and repairs had been roughly fashioned in plaster of paris.

His life now was a far cry from the heady days of vaudeville when Reg and Reggie’ was a headline act at the Tivoli in Sydney and the Apollo in Melbourne. He was on first name basis with stars like Gladys Moncrieff and the great Roy Rene Mo’. Now his very existence depended on hard, monotonous manual labour during the day and performing to rowdy groups of abusive drunks in return for handouts. A bed, even one in a dark, smelly airless shed was a luxury.

It was in the days of 6 o’clock closing but there were loopholes, mainly being able to serve drinks with meals after hours. A local copper with convenient monocular vision and who enjoyed the free beer on offer helped too.

Reg was always amazed at how men, down on their uppers, going hungry with no prospects, could find the money to buy excessive quantities of grog. Some of the punters were attentive, even mesmerised by Reg’s amazing ability to talk and sing without moving his lips. They’d listen and watch with rapt attention. But there were always some in the audience who pelted him with whatever they could lay their hands on. Noise and abuse rose in direct proportion to the amount of grog consumed. He feared for Reggie.

Last night was a bad one. The publican was called to disperse a crush around the stage and Reg took the opportunity to escape, shielding Reggie under his coat.

Back in his filthy bolt-hole, he checked Reggie by candlelight for damage. The dry weather was causing a crack on his forehead to open again and would need attention before long. Earlier repairs that Reg had carried out were hard to disguise and his right eye sometimes stuck open, although he had developed a place for this in his show.

Keep an eye open for me at the next town you visit, he’d say.

Satisfied that the doll was not badly hurt, Reg carefully folded it up, wrapped it in the blanket he kept for the purpose and lovingly packed him away in his battered suitcase.

Before retiring and before the candlelight died, Reg reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph that was creased and dog-eared. In the flickering flame he looked at the beautiful face of Dawn, his wife. Dawn had been a dancer at the Tiv and she and Reg fell hopelessly in love. They had only been married for six months when they lost their jobs. Work was scarce and Reg saw the only answer was to go on the road. Dawn was totally against it, but as Reg said, what else can we do?

I reckon I’ll only be gone a few months. With Reggie’s help I’ll make enough money to tide us over till the theatres reopen. I’ll write every week. Promise. Time will fly, you see, he’d said.

True to his word, Reg wrote every few days, but nothing ever came from Dawn. In every town he’d call at the post office, usually just a counter in a general store.

Anything for Reginald Wright?

Sorry Mr Wright. Nothing today, was the constant reply.

Still, he kissed the photo, tucked it safely back in his pocket and climbed onto the squeaking bed. He slept fitfully.

The next morning he was up with the screeching cockatoos. He would have loved to have a bath but the bathroom didn’t open until 7am. He’d arranged a lift in a truck that was heading the way he wanted to go. The driver said to be at the truck at six. Late and you miss out, he added.

At daybreak Reg found a hose out the back and managed to freshen up in time to be at the truck with minutes to spare. The driver, who’d had a big night on the grog turned up at half past nine.

There wasn’t much room in the cab and the driver told Reg he’d have to sling his old suitcase in the back, amongst the load of forty-four-gallon drums. Reg said he couldn’t do that because the contents were fragile.

It’s your problem mate. Put it in the back or yer walk.

With little choice he climbed into the back, found a space and a length of rope, securing the precious cargo away from the drums. He returned to the cab and its smell of diesel and fags.

The old Chev truck had seen better days and the journey of sixty miles over rutted sections of bull dust to the next town took four hours.

This town looked just like the one they’d left – they all did. Reg approached the publican seeking work for food and lodgings, but he was turned down. He tried two other pubs before scoring a meal in return for cleaning and putting on a show.

Haven’t got a room, mate, but you can roll out your swag in the storeroom, he said, handing Reg a mop and bucket.

Appreciate it, Reg replied, genuinely grateful.

Three weeks previously, Reg had written to an old mate from the vaudeville days. He knew Dawn and Reg asked him to check on her. Was she alright? What was she doing? Why didn’t she answer his letters?

The reply was waiting for him in this town. He opened it with trembling fingers.

Dear Reg,

I’m sorry to have to be the one who tells you but Dawn has left you. Soon after you took off she moved in with a bloke she’d met at the Tiv. Works for Dalgety’s now. Apparently, he’s away at the moment, due back next week. Name’s Charlie Osborne. He’s a stock and station agent.

Stephen Knox OAM retired from a busy career and is busier than ever. He lives in Chatswood, Sydney with his wife Jill in a lovely old house they restored fifteen years ago. Prior to that he was a retailer of hardware and motor books, a magazine publisher, a builder, and a fund-raiser for the Royal Flying Doctor Service, for which he was awarded an Order of Australia. His stories have appeared in seven previous Stringybark anthologies, the last two being Just Alice (2020) and Golah Sing (2020).

Karl or Not Karl

— Joni Scott

After the whispered vows, the exchange of rings, we sealed our commitment with a kiss. Our wedding was the ultimate realisation of my fairy tale dream. It felt perfect, looked perfect in all its expensive detail from the meringue puff dress, the gold-edged place cards to the tango we danced expertly before the gathering of guests. That afternoon, I had it all plus my gorgeous Karl.

But it takes two to tango. By the end of that night, our wedding night, there would be just one, not two.

All the best!

We love you!

The well-wishers gathered around the stretched limousine as we left for our honeymoon. Such a sweet word suggesting a holiday filled with love, romantic candle-lit dinners, and starry nights.

The hotel, as lavish and elegant as our wedding venue overlooked the Eiffel Tower and the arrondissements of Paris. The national symbol lit the night sky like a golden jewel, reminding me of the tiny gilt replica attached to my key chain. How I loved Paris! I stood at the window in wonder as Karl popped the champagne bottle, turning at the sound to smile at my handsome husband.

Feeling like a movie star, I purred, I’ll slip into something more comfortable.

Leaving Karl by the sofa, I entered the luxurious bathroom to shower and change into the black, silky negligee. Despite our ten-year relationship, thoughts of the night ahead excited me. It was, after all, our wedding night, a consummation of our forever love. But when I returned to the bedroom Karl was nowhere in sight.

Darling? Karl? Where are you?

The champagne bottle sat on the coffee table where Karl had placed it, seemingly moments before. Positioned next to the chilled bottle two glasses and a bowl of strawberries waited expectedly. Everything was in place but the groom. Where could he be?

A hotel room no matter how unfamiliar has few hiding places and why would Karl hide? Was it a prank? I searched the cupboard spaces, the small balcony, behind the curtains, even in a moment of desperation, peered under the bed. His puzzling absence led me to assume Karl had left for