Leaving Home and Other Stories

By Sean Q Lee

A collection of short stories and poems selected from the 2023 Short Stories Unlimited open themed writing competition. Features 33 stories and 15 poems from both new and established writers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Q Lee
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215052549

Sean Q Lee

Sean Lee is the editor of Short Stories Unlimited, a webpage dedicated to encouraging creative writing through short story and poetry competitions.He has spent many years writing about Australian Rules football and pro-cycling, providing colour pieces and expert opinion to various websites and publications including Conquista cycling magazine and Australian sports website ‘The Roar’.In 2011 he won the Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award for his depiction of the indigenous Australian game of Marngrook.

Book preview

Leaving Home and other stories

- a short stories unlimited collection -

Edited by Sean Q Lee

Published by Short Stories Unlimited

http://www.shortstoriesunlimited.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: This collection, Sean Q Lee, 2023

Copyright of individual stories and poems remains with the authors

Cover design by Sean Q Lee and based on the short story Leaving Home by Sanchana Venkatesh

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 these authors.

Proudly compiled on the lands of the Wadawurrung people

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Leaving Home by Sanchana Venkatesh

She's a Lady by Alan Bryant

My Delight by Colleen Russell

The Ship and His Anchor by Elliot Lloyd

Korad's Dilemma by Daan Spijer

Sweet Breeze by Norman Stevens

Todo Cambia by Geraldine Dark

Until We Are No Longer by Matty Chard

Of Mortals and Monsters by Paris Rosemont

Flip by Bronwyn Boehm

Rekindling by Georgie Waters

Sonnet to a Homeless Child by Claire O'Brien

Note Found Inside a Guitar Case at a Garage Sale by Jason Spongberg

Daughterly Care by Yarrow Sheehan

The Poet by Agi Dobson

TV or not TV by Peter Lingard

Margie by Margo Daly

Wind by Diana Davison

Your Tinder Guardian Angel is Drunk by Geraldine Dark

These Days I Listen to my Heart by Jo Curtain

Small Doses by Sasanki Tennakoon

Dispose of Thoughtfully by Janeen Samuel

Anything for the Team by Sev Romero

Road Trip by Diana Davison

There's a Traffic Jam on the Highway to Hell by Geraldine Dark

In the Blink of an Eye by Lezah Holt

Middle Watch Musings by Norman Stevens

The Forgotten by Carole Hardingham

The Talisman by Sharmayne Riseley

Bandaid by Paris Rosemont

Elvis and the Tiger by Janeen Samuel

Toeholds by Sean Crawley

In Search of Stellar Whirls by Daniel Moreschi

Food is Love by Carole Kelly

Pica by t.m. PEIRIS

Fox by Jonny B

A Soldier by Norman Stevens

Torment by David Boni

Portrait of a Lady by Barbara Smith

Artist on the Esplanade by Andrew Thomas Nest

Two for One by J.E.Gaulton

When a Narcissist Dies (or I'm Sexy and I Poet) by Jonny B

Aokigahara for Baseball Players by Jelena Curic

A Feral Place by Bob Topping

Seedless Seasons by Daniel Moreschi

Junior Writers

War Didn't Come to Play by Lillian Fuller (Year 7 student)

One Disastrous Flick by Mia Chen (Year 5 student)

In the Middle of the Night by Chathri Sanathana (Year 5 student)

Other information

About the Authors

About Short Stories Unlimited

Introduction

The following stories and poems were selected from our 2023 open themed short story and poetry competitions. Unlike our previous competitions, this one took place in a world largely free of pandemic lock-downs and restrictions, and we think it shows. Overall, the pieces submitted were lighter and more humourous. We still received darker stories of course, but even they seemed to end with a glimmer of hope. During the covid years it was all doom and gloom and no light at all!

For me, the highlight of this collection is the wonderful array of characters depicted. From the woman in the graveyard in Alan Bryant's She's a Lady to the football club mascot in Sev Romero's Anything for the Team, they'll have you laughing, crying, scratching your head or maybe even shaking it in disbelief. Enjoy.

Sean Lee (editor - Short Stories Unlimited)

Warning: Some of the stories in this book contain adult language and themes.

Leaving Home

by Sanchana Venkatesh

Dad encouraged her to attend uni for undergraduate studies once my brother and I were both at school. Amma had looked at him like he’d lost his mind. Why would an old woman like me go back to college?

‘I don’t understand,’ says Amma. The worry line between her eyebrows deepens. She sits across me at our six-seater dining table, her hands on autopilot, expertly plucking and sifting coriander leaves from an enormous bunch in front of her. ‘Why do you need to move out? Do we not provide a good home for you?’

I sigh, take a sip of coffee from the cup I am nursing. I had known this would happen. I had imagined all the debates and arguments, had practised my responses to quell Amma’s concerns. Her distraught face looks like I’ve told her I’m leaving the country instead of just moving to a suburb twenty-five minutes away. The thirty-one Ganesh idols of varied sizes and postures displayed on the mantelpiece behind Amma wait for me to respond. I glance at them, say a silent prayer more for my mother’s sake than mine.

‘Amma, I want to try living somewhere different. Someplace closer to work.’

‘Why waste money on rent? You stay home, you can save for a deposit and then buy your own place.’

Fair point but, I don’t know how to tell Amma that even by living at home, I wouldn’t be able to save enough to afford a place in an area of Sydney I’d love to live. Although she follows the news about the housing crisis, I doubt she fully understands just how hard it is. The only way I can live close to the city with harbour views is if I rent. And that too, with someone else.

‘I want to be independent before buying my place,’ I say. ‘It’ll be good for me.’

‘Acchha, now you want independence! When I suggested getting married, you don’t want that,’ she grumbles.

I bite back my retorts about arranged marriages being the exact opposite of independence; I need her to support my decision, so she doesn’t hold it against me in future. ‘I lived at home even during my uni days,’ I say. ‘I want to have some f--, some experience living with other people my age.’

Amma glares at me. ‘Freedom, huh?’

Damn. I thought I was being careful with my words. ‘That’s not what I was going to say.’

‘We don’t give you freedom? We don’t let you go out whenever you want and come home late? We didn’t get you a car when you were seventeen? What more freedom do you want?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer and continues, ‘When I was your age, I’d been married for six years and had both your brother and you, and set up home in a new country. I was also looking after your grandmother. And you want freedom?’ She gathers the bowl with the clean coriander leaves in one arm, tucking the newspaper with the stalks under the other, leaving a pungent trail of coriander scent. I hear the slamming of kitchen cupboards before the whirring of the blender drowns out every other sound.

My mother has told me her story of leaving home several times. When I was younger, it was a charming bedtime story about the beauty of an arranged marriage. Dad never asked for a dowry, but Amma’s mother sent her off with some jewellery, saris, and a gold Ganesh idol to keep watch. As I got older, the story was a lesson to be grateful for everything I had because Amma had sacrificed a great deal for us.

Amma would describe the awe she experienced at seeing blinding blue Sydney skies as she left the airport on a wintry June day. She had thought bright blue skies were only in movies and paintings. In the same breath, she would tell me about missing Bombay's familiar streets and sounds and having to adjust to suburban Sydney with its clean air and sparse population. Amma was used to random buildings being erected, flyovers being built, or shacks taking up space next to railway lines. But here, in Sydney, everything seemed proper, like there was a place chosen for it. She had no idea what to make of all the space.

‘We have a good life here,’ was her mantra to my brother and me while we were growing up. ‘When I was your age, I went to school, came home, and helped my mother around the house if I didn’t have homework. You children just have to focus on your studies.’ It also meant we had no excuses for performing poorly in exams. We learnt not to complain, or at least not to Amma. Having had a much harder life in Bombay, she was quick to remind us that not being invited to a birthday party or not wearing the trendiest shoes was not the end of the world as we saw it.

Dad encouraged her to attend uni for undergraduate studies once my brother and I were both at school. Amma had looked at him like he’d lost his mind. ‘Why would an old woman like me go back to college? As if! And who will cook and clean the house for all of you? Who will look after your mother?’ Amma was in her late twenties then. I sometimes wonder if she regrets not studying further. Maybe it’s made her bitter to see us pursue what we want.

‘You’re still going to do this right? You know I can’t do this without you!’ Suzy’s eyebrows are knitted with worry. It reminds me of when we would sit in the uni library studying for exams.

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘She just needs some more time, but we can still start moving our things this week.’ I chew my bottom lip; the metallic taste is soothing. Amma will adjust eventually. She did when my brother and his wife moved to Canberra two years ago. Why anyone would want to live there permanently is beyond me, but despite these arguments, Amma adapted after a month of mourning. For a woman who left her entire family and moved countries, Amma has a surprisingly hard time letting go.

Suzy and I stand in front of the dark grey terrace house with a yellow door, squeezed in between a row of three others. The only distinguishing factor between each of the houses – other than the number – is the door. Red, blue, yellow and green. Amma would probably roll her eyes and say it looks tacky. Like it was trying too hard to stand out on a street with art deco buildings and proper wooden doors. Still, the yellow door makes me happy.

When we arrived for the open inspection, the door stole my heart. It shouted warmly, Welcome home! For Suzy, it was the views of the bridge (‘We can host New Year parties!’), the two-minute walk down to The Commodore Hotel, and the proximity to the city. It made sense to live here; it was close to our work, and to everything else in our lives. Sure, it was small, but I preferred to think of it as cosy. Or maybe that was the real estate’s selling point. In any case, it was one of the few places that seemed to tick all our boxes and more importantly, one we both agreed on. We were hoping to fill the third room with another housemate, fully aware the numbers were stacked in our favour.

‘Can I unlock the door?’

It is a momentous occasion for me, and I want to be the first one unlocking the door to our new home. Suzy couldn’t care less having shared houses for a few years. A musty smell greets us when the yellow door swings open. I don’t remember that from the inspection; there must have been an air-freshener. It seems smaller than I remember from three weeks ago. My sneakers squeak against the wooden floorboards as I head towards one of the windows. The stairs creak as Suzy jogs upstairs. ‘Should we pick our rooms?’ she calls out.

I wrestle open one of the windows; unlike the ones at home, this one requires some amount of muscle strength to push upwards. I can hear Amma’s voice. Why would you spend $900 for an old house like this when you can live in a nice big house with a backyard? Is that not good enough for you? The fresh air is a relief and I breathe in to calm my nerves. I can see glimpses of the famous bridge; it makes me smile. It’s hard to believe some people grow up with the harbour practically in their backyard. The twinge of envy quickly gives way to guilt for seeming ungrateful. Despite growing up in suburbia, we lived in a beautiful house with the bush not too far away. Space was important for both Amma and Dad after growing up in cramped quarters. Anything with a backyard was the equivalent of a mansion.

I survey the lounge area with its fake fireplace, and I am already decorating it in my mind. I can visualise how Suzy, myself, and our unknown third housemate – carefully picked, of course – will make it home. We could have friends over for dinners; something I can rarely do at Amma and Dad’s. It is very clearly their house and while they entertain a lot, it’s always their friends. Apart from Suzy and one friend from my primary school days, none of my other friends have seen where I live. This feels grown-up. This feels right. I am not going to let Amma guilt me out of this.

I was very excited to be invited to my first proper birthday party in Year Two. Rosie, who wasn’t a friend but whose mother was one of the kindest souls who didn’t think anyone should be left out, invited the entire year for a Maccas birthday. It was all I could talk about for two weeks despite Amma’s disapproval. ‘Chee, chee! Burgers, chips and milkshakes! What kind of party is that? You’ll get fat!’

Two days before the party, my brother came down with chicken pox.

The day before, Amma said, ‘You’re not going to Rosie’s birthday.’

‘But he’s the one who’s sick. Not me!’ I had been anxiously checking my body for signs and hadn’t seen any. It helped that he was isolated to his room.

‘You really think you can have fun at a party when your brother is sick? Is that what they teach you at school?’

I had cried. Begged Dad who tried to reason with Amma but couldn’t win. I refused to eat dinner that night.

‘That’s fine,’ said Amma, throwing my plate of food in the bin. This from the woman who wasted nothing. I went to bed in tears and thoughts of my brother dying that night, dying while I was at the party having fun.

In the morning, I reluctantly called Rosie’s mum and told her I couldn’t come. ‘My brother is sick, and we need to look after him.’

On Monday, I pretended not to hear the girls speak excitedly about Rosie’s party including the surprise magician her parents had organised. No one asked me why I wasn’t there and the gap between me and the others grew wider.

I join Suzy upstairs. She hops from one foot to the other, in the middle of an empty room with French windows and a clearer view of the bridge. ‘Can I have this one?’ she pleads.

The second room is smaller, cosier, with a similar layout of French windows, a boxy cupboard (I suppose they didn’t have built-ins when these were constructed) and overlooks the back garden. Trees obscure the bridge. A couple of rainbow lorikeets are visible through green. Our unknown housemate will have the third room downstairs.

‘Yeah, I like this one.’ I will have to buy a new double bed but my desk from home will fit next to the window.

We get down to business, inspecting the house against the condition report. It’s funny how one moment you can picture a home and the next you are coldly analysing cracks and gaps on the floors and ceilings. An hour later, our condition report is complete, and the home doesn’t seem so perfect anymore. It must show on my face because Suzy puts her arm around me.

‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen far worse than this. This is an old place; it’s bound to have cracks and crap. But it’s functioning and that’s the main thing. We won’t even notice these flaws once we’re all moved in.’

I hope so. Once again, I think of Amma’s judgemental eyes scrutinising every crack, every imperfect floorboard. In the excitement of finding the place a few weeks ago, thinking it perfect, and looking forward to freedom, I’d for once, let go of Amma’s voice in my head. I’d seen this place the way I’d wanted to. And maybe the way Suzy wanted me to.

‘Speaking of moving in, we need a plan to break it to your mum that it’s happening next weekend.’

Amma was adamant I couldn’t go away for school camp to Canberra like every other kid I knew.

‘It’s only for one night, Amma!’ I cried. I couldn’t imagine missing out on sharing a cabin with my friends. Who knew if the girls would talk about me behind my back? Or if alliances were formed in my absence? No. I had to be there. Dad, patient and calm, reminded Amma how my brother had gone to the same camp three years earlier and had returned undamaged and unscarred.

‘Why does she always let you do stuff and not me?’ I’d hissed at my giggling brother.

‘Because I’m the favourite.’

At eleven, I believed that. Of course, she let him do things because she liked him better. Eventually, Amma relented, but not without a list of warnings. Make sure you can always see your teacher. Don’t wander away from the group. Sit up at the front of the bus; that way you are near the teacher if you need anything.

Yikes! I wasn’t the most popular kid in my year, but Amma seemed keen to downgrade my social status further.

Amma and I have become strangers in our home, like ships passing in the night. She leaves the lounge room if I sit down to watch TV; walks out of the kitchen - even if she is in the middle of cooking - when I enter. How do you communicate with someone who refuses to be present?

Dad has been more supportive, but I hadn’t doubted that. When I told him we got the keys to our new home, he asked for the details. Where was I moving to? Who with? How much rent were we paying? Was it financially worthwhile? And finally, ‘You’re an adult. I trust you’ve thought about this. Let me know if you need us to help you move.’

Why couldn’t Amma see things his way? I ask Dad if he’ll talk to Amma, help her understand as he has in the past.

‘She’ll come around,’ is all he can say. He refuses to get involved, though. His brown face is creased with worry when he tells me that Amma and I should sort things out between us and not use him or my brother as middlemen. Old age and the same battles have worn him down.

The off-white walls in the room that has been my haven since I was two are now bare. Once adorned with boy bands, and later, indie and alternative bands, all that remains are dried pieces of blu-tac. Amma will be pleased to see them gone; she never did like my posters. I moved my treasured books earlier in the week, gave away several others. I zip up the suitcase and check the closet one last time. It’s devoid of clothes but will continue to house my notebooks from primary school through Year 12 despite telling Amma we will never need them. You never know, is her constant refrain. I haul the suitcase off the queen bed which will remain here due to its size. I wonder if Amma is already planning on turning this into a guest room.

‘Careful! You’ll hurt your back,’ Amma says from the door.

She’s tried to cover her puffy eyes with makeup this morning. She usually only wears kajal at home. My chest tightens, but my mind tells me I am doing the right thing. And it’s only a twenty-five minute drive away.

‘I got you something for your new house,’ says Amma. She moves closer to me, reaches for my right hand, and places something wrapped in paper in my palm. I unwrap it; a mini brass Ganesh weighs down my hand. I look into Amma’s brown eyes; she’s trying hard not to cry.

‘He’ll keep you safe and help you solve problems in your new home.’

‘Thanks, Amma.’ I curl my fingers over Ganesh and throw my arms around her.

‘If he can’t help, you know where to find me.’

She's a Lady

by Alan Bryant

She downed the drink in one gulp. Clutching the bottle, her bony finger pointed at the grave. Alright, smart-arse, in here is my great, great grandmother.

I heard her before I saw her. She was puffing and grunting, hacking at the turf with a spade. The few visitors there that summer morning were intent on tending family plots and might think she was doing the same. But, where she dug, all the graves were well over a hundred years old. A few had worn, sleepy headstones that leaned forward like worshippers nodding off during a warm Sunday sermon. The unmarked grave she was digging had long subsided into a shallow dip.

Though, elderly, and small, of elfin form, her intent and determination showed in the force of her actions. Mud spattered dungarees hung on her like curtains, and her giant wellington boots could have been borrowed from a circus clown.

The ground had settled, hardening over the years, so the spade needed powering in by her boot. There was little space between those old burials and she showed no respect to the interred on either side, each meagre scoop of earth being emptied with indiscriminate flair. One passerby stopped briefly to speak to her but she gave him a stare that roasted him a deep pink and he moved on, probably resolving never again to interrupt anyone digging up a grave.

As I approached, the scent of her gardenia perfume lay heavily between us. My friendly, Good morning, went unacknowledged, lost amid the chattering birdsong. Obviously her desire for polite dialogue was set at minimum level. However, between the hot sun and her extreme effort, the sweat was running down her face. Concerned for her well being, I stopped with the intention of asking if she was alright. She raised her head, giving me a similar stare to the one that tried to burn through her previous caller. Realising she was in no mood for idle conversation I nodded a silent hello and carried on walking.

At the rear of the churchyard a rough map helped me find the family grave I was seeking. I was there to prepare for the funeral of a late parishioner, a lifelong member of the dwindling congregation and loyal bell-ringer. He was born and died in the same house, his only holidays, some rare church trips to the beach.

Small church cemeteries can be difficult to negotiate so I took photographs and decided on the best route for the bearers, a job I sometimes assisted with when necessary. But these would be able-bodied men hired especially for the work. I had lost my left arm as a child, though I do not normally regard my disability as a major hindrance. Fate imposes her own agenda on us and we must comply, adapt and accept our lot. With my assignment done, there was time to amble back in bright sunshine enjoying the cut flowers, birdsong, and ever vigilant marble angels watching over the more affluent family plots. For Victorian gentry, these stone sentinels were towering proof of devout faith and a full purse.

The old lady was still digging when I returned. As she seemed unavailable for conversation I passed with only a polite smile.

Oi!

I stopped.

You look like a big, strong, hairy arse man.

The voice had a local coarseness that can sound attractive in some. Her grating lilt, however, provided her with no such asset. It was an awkward compliment and I smiled again, unsure of what reply might best fit. I had no need to answer.

Can you dig? she said.

I glanced at my polished brogues and the empty sleeve in my new suit. I'm sorry but I'm in no position to assist, I said. May I ask why you are digging this grave?

She leaned forward on her spade, peering over pink, winged spectacles. That's my business.

Even if you ask for help?

Now I could see her properly. Our skin grows old, matching our maturity but sometimes complexions are not merely aged, they can be weathered, driven by hard living, worn by excess and drawn by privation. Hers bore a bleakness that would not be hidden by make-up. Peroxide hair no longer camouflaged grey thatch. At the head of the grave sat her shopping bag, an open champagne bottle peeping from the top. With some difficulty she bent to pick up the bottle, and a glass which she filled. She downed the drink in one gulp. Clutching the bottle, her bony finger pointed at the grave. Alright, smart-arse, in here is my great, great grandmother.

Are you sure?

Her eyes widened. Do I look like I would go around digging into any old grave?

I'm sure you wouldn't, but....

"I checked the records. This is her. I've been here twenty minutes and