Like Clockwork

By David Vernon

Thirty-two twisted and entertaining tales are featured in this, the forty-first, short story anthology from Stringybark Stories. Selected from over 150 entries these winning and highly commended tales are an intriguing read. From late night burials to art heists, dotty mothers to mischievous magpies, Stringybark Stories’ fourth collection of tales with a twist is certain to be a treat.

On the third trip she sat on a stool. Lifted a jar to her lips. Let the juice trickle down her chin. She scooped out a fat juicy plum, bit into the sweet fruit, pictured the boy-man. His black eyes, honey-coloured skin. She took another bite and remembered his tongue in her mouth.
— From 'Heat' by Margo Daly

The hole was finished. It had taken three nights of digging and three nights of watching. Billy had dug. Lyle had watched from the safety of his side of the fence. Now it was done. A shiver ran down Lyle’s spine as he watched the big man mop his brow and stand back to admire his handiwork.
— From 'Death in Whipstick' by Robin Murdoch

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Vernon
• Release date: Nov 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005072841

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

Like Clockwork — thirty-two award-winning stories from the Twisted Stringybark Short Story Awards

Edited by

David Vernon

Selected by Nicole Falconer, Stephen Senise 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 Theft of George ‘Tassie’ Tasman – J.W. Wynstanley

Funny Stuff – Richard Gaynor

The Two Friends – Bob Vinnicombe

Would You Like a Cup of Tea? – Reg James

Curtain Call – Megan Anderson

Crazy Witch Woman – Judd Exley

Tick Box to Remain Anonymous – Varda Tully

The Sweep – John Toohey

Heat – Margo Daly

Alex – Chris Baker

Friendly Fire – Judith O’Connor

Ride of Her Life – Elaine Henderson

The Long, Long Night – Alexandra Vanags

A Life Extended – George Lancaster

Try to Tiptoe in Hiking Boots – Rosemary Baldry

Death in Whipstick – Robin Murdoch

The Man in White Overalls – John Toohey

Entrapped – Greg Bartlett

Birthday Heroes – John Scholz

Molly and Marwa – Afrida Imrose

Mick – Peter Long

No Place of Honour – H.L. Moore

Tangled Tulle – Tanya Allen

Sausage – Tom Walters

Karma Climbs Aboard – Michael Woodhouse

Like Clockwork – Peter Court

The Bay Leaf Phenomenon – Hayley Young

Bob’s Pride – David Christensen

Morning in the Park – Scott Hoffman

The Gumdale General Store (in Charcoal) – Tom Penrose

The Pearl Choker – Alyssa Mackay

Nature's Final Imitation – Indiana Saunders

The Twisted Stringybark Short Story Award 2022

About the Judges

Judges’ Report

Acknowledgements

Other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

Introduction

— David Vernon

It is exactly ten years ago that I published Stringybark Stories’ first collection of twisted tales, Tainted Innocence. The anthology quickly sold out as everyone enjoys a tale with a twist. My love of short stories arose through reading, during my teenage years, the several anthologies of tales that Roald Dahl wrote for adults — Kiss, Kiss, Over to You, Someone Like You and Switch Bitch. While now dated, often misogynistic and sometimes racist, these anthologies did, at the time, cement my enjoyment for the unexpected ending.

It's therefore with much delight that I publish this collection of twisted tales. They are contemporary stories and any passing misogyny and racism that may be included, is present not because the writer considers it the norm but as a mirror to our current society.

This collection showcases thirty-one tales written by all ages and from all walks of life. Some stories are written by professional writers and others by people just beginning their literary careers. Regardless of the experience of the writer, the judges have created this collection through choosing stories that were intriguing, perplexing, thought-provoking or just unashamedly entertaining and fun to read. The one link binding all the stories is the twist they have in their construction. But, and here I wave a warning finger, the twists are not necessarily at the end. Some are at the beginning or even in the middle of the story. Some don’t seem to have a twist at all but just a gentle meander to a thoughtful conclusion. Regardless of the position or tightness of the twist, I am certain you will find many stories within this anthology giving you that extra thought or simply creating a satisfied smile.

On behalf of the judges, I wish to thank the authors who gave us 152 entries to read and from which to select this marvellous anthology, Like Clockwork. It is Stringybark Stories forty-first anthology, and we hope to publish many more over the next ten years.

Happy reading!

David Vernon

Editor and founder of Stringybark Stories on behalf of the other two hard-working judges, Nicole Falconer and Stephen Senise.

The Theft of George ‘Tassie’ Tasman

— J.W. Wynstanley

Clarence Feeney sat in the back-most stall of the nave, allowing for what breeze there was to circulate about him through the open door. Funereal draped women sat fanning themselves while the men toyed with their collars, desperate to be out of their suits. All about people fidgeted, eager for the service to begin.

Strewth ‘arry, wot you doin’ ‘ere?

Same as you, mate – paying my respects. Harry Searle dropped his wiry frame onto the pew besides Clarence and looked around. Suitable turn out for the town publican, I suppose.

Clarence’s heart sank with the realization that with one, simple action, his ex-business partner had destroyed any credibility he’d managed to salvage from the township. Four months of evading Harry in a town of one thousand had proved extremely challenging – and now it was all for naught.

Passing mourners glanced sideways at the empty seats around the pair, hesitated, then continued further into the church. Most people chose to give the likes of Harry Searle a wide berth although the good folk of Acacia Creek had few qualms in accepting his money when payment was due.

Pay respects? You didn’t like Tassie. You said you’d be ‘appy to piss on his grave after he kicked you out last time, Clarence reminded him.

Harry ignored the jibe and continued, I have a business proposal…

No, I told you. The last time was exactly that – the last time.

Calm down… Harry glanced around but detecting no interest in their hushed conversation persisted. This is an offer too good to refuse. I know all about your plans to head bush. You’re going to need money for that.

I ‘ave money.

Thanks to me, you do. But not enough for a young man with a new wife and a nipper on the way. Listen my friend, there’s twenty pounds each in this for us.

Twenty pounds? Each?

I see I have your attention. Yes, you heard me right – twenty pounds each, Harry emphasized. One last job and then our partnership is over. We’ll cut all ties. You go your way and I’ll go mine. Me, I’m off to Melbourne. Things are getting a little too – familiar – around here. Finish up a bit of outstanding business and then I’m gone.

Hearing no further objections, he continued. My buyer is in the market for a grown man. In good condition and he must be fresh – well reasonably, Harry finished and looked straight ahead.

Clarence followed Harry’s gaze. You ain’t serious? You knew ‘im!

Shss, shss, shss …it’s business Clarey, nothing personal…and there’s no digging this time, enticed Harry. Granted, Tassie was holding a little too much condition around his waist, but he was as strong as an ox and of no great age. And his unfortunate accident with the barrel is of no concern to the purchaser. It’s either us or let the worms have their way with him.

Bloody ‘ell’, ‘arry, tell me you didn’t…

The conversation ceased abruptly as a group of the bereaved made their way down the aisle.

We move straight after the service. Harry continued, refusing Clarence time for further protest. Speed is of the essence. I happen to know that the hearse has a broken axle and two of the horses are roaming free. This will take time to remedy. Meanwhile, Tassie will be cooling his heels in the cellar and everyone will be waiting at the graveside, or preparing for the wake. Payment upon delivery as usual.

Clarence leaned forward and rested his forearms on the back of an empty bench. Clasping his hands, he bent his head downwards as if in silent prayer.

We’ll be needin’ transport and ta’ make good the missin’ weight, Clarence meekly challenged.

Taken care of, my friend. My wagon is laden and nearby.

Clarence sat back as the pallbearers entered and took up their places. It’ll be the drop for us one day, ‘arry.

Don’t be daft. They’ve just bought in that new law to cover circumstances such as ours.

Wot?

Anatomy Act of 1862. Perfect for gentlemen in our line of work. It allows for – and this is a direct quote – ‘for the collection and dissection of human cadavers in Victoria’, Harry announced.

"Na, there’s gotta be more to it than that, ‘arry. Wot’s a c’diver?

It’s the proper name for the ‘dearly departed’, Clarey. Certainly, there’s more but it’s just legal gibberish and a waste of bloody good ink.

Then why we whisperin’?

Luckily for Harry, the minister chose that moment to make his entrance. Everyone stood and silence fell. Clarence may not have been the sharpest tool in the shed but neither was he the dumb brute Harry had thought – and hoped – he was.

The service for George ‘Tassie’ Tasman commenced and concluded in short order thanks to the heat steadily rising within the bricks and mortar. Mourners and clergy alike soon left, falling victim to the allure of fresh air, cooling ales and home cooked food.

Harry carefully removed the coffin lid with practiced ease. Clarence lifted the publican out and carried him to the back of the wagon while Harry made room for his passenger.

Laying Tassie down with due reverence, Clarence crossed himself.

Nice one, Clarey. Now go and see if anything got left behind – waste not; want not.

Reluctantly, Clarence returned to the vacant coffin and leaning forward, peered inside, All clear, ‘arry.

Shovel in hand, Harry gave one hefty blow to the back of Clarence’s head; a second strike made sure of the result. Once the casket lid was refastened, Harry was off to the asylum.

Pleasure doing business, Doc. Harry stashed the money away and climbed aboard his buggy.

Mr. Searle, before you go, I find I have further need of your services. Are you able to supply me another of a similar calibre? Fresher, mind you, and younger. Male. The matter is quite urgent.

Urgent, you say? Umm, let me think… that’s quite a list of demands on such short notice, Doc. Harry scratched his chin and contemplated the request from his lofty position, while casting sidelong glances at his client.

Very well, Mr. Searle, the Doctor conceded, Would a five-pound bonus assist you in your endeavours?

It surely would and as chance would have it, I can accommodate your good self this very night. Consider it done, Sir.

I was never very good at this physical stuff – need to find a new partner, Harry complained to the darkened cemetery. He was finding the digging hard going even though the ground was freshly turned and the night had a chill. Then came the unmistakable ‘thud’ as the spade hit something solid at an indecently shallow depth.

Bloody Hell, they must have been in a hurry.

Harry jemmied open to lid to inspect his merchandise.

Two strong and bloodied hands reached up and seized him around the throat as the jagged remnants of fingernails dug into his flesh. The gasping, raspy voice was both strange and familiar; the face contorted and covered in congealed blood.

Allo, ‘arry...surprised? …thought I was a gonna when I came-too in this ‘ere box… been callin’ an’ callin’ but no-one came … ‘til now.

Shock, recognition and pure terror registered in unison as Harry made pitiful attempts to claw away the vice like grip robbing him of life.

Driftin’ in an’ out of darkness I was…then I ‘eard the diggin’… an’ I knew… me ol’ mate ‘arry ‘as come f’me. Your doctor friend in need of anover, is ‘e? …best not disappoint, eh?

J. W. Wynstanley is a retired Police Officer who lives in South Australia and likes nothing more than to weave a good yarn around characters and events from history. She is a member of the South Australian Crime Writers Group from which she obtains immense support and inspiration. She has a keen interest in anything that ‘goes bump in the night’ and is currently working on her first novella.

Funny Stuff

— Richard Gaynor

I once tried to bribe a kookaburra with iced biscuits, and it laughed at me. They taste like chalk! it yelled to the heavens. It’s sausages or you cannot pass!

But I had to pass. Sausages or not, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I’d spent years trudging the sands, living on the cracked earth with silence in every direction. I wasn’t going to let some podgy kookaburra poop on my plans.

I stormed past it, and it laughed some more. You won’t get far! The winds will bring you back, mark my words.

The wind did bite as I walked, and the sun beat down like a fist. There was no escaping it, for the road was vacant of shade, trees to the sides devoid of leaves and choked without water. All that existed was the parched road, as it had always been.

I struggled against the elements, lashing out in frustration as the air clung to me, rubbing across my face like sandpaper. The kookaburra’s chugging laughter swallowed the silence, grating at my ears. I wanted to tell it to shut up, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. My throat puffed into sand and I fell backwards, sinking into the earth like water. It engulfed me, and for a second, everything was as black as ink, all smothering like a monstrous abyss falling down, down, down…

Ah, back again, exactly as predicted.

The kookaburra looked down on me from a stop sign as I trudged back. My mouth was dry and tasted of dirt, and I rubbed my tongue against my upper teeth.

Have you found some sausages?

I looked up with a foul stare at the chubby bird, a constant smile stuck to its beak.

No, I haven’t found any sausages.

Well, you need sausages, or you cannot pass!

I stared down the road before me, exactly as it was before. Hot, dry, sandy, shimmering from the heat. An inhospitable wasteland. I’d completely forgotten why I wanted to cross, but something deep in my soul was desperate to. So, I relinquished my pride and locked eyes with the kookaburra.

How do I find sausages?

The kookaburra ruffled its feathers. Don’t you know? They grow on trees!

I doubted that,