Our February, 2008 meeting was held on Thursday 28th February.
The assignment this time is to write an apology from a historical figure.
Our next meeting will be on Thursday 28th March at 2pm.
This blog site will feature current writings from the members of the group and also announce any news about our group.
We will also add works which have been created during the interesting writing exercises at our monthly meetings.
We set a monthly assignment at the end of each meeting and those works will also appear on the site.If you wish to access the past works of our very talented writers then you will find their names in the Links section on the right side of this page.
Some of our writers have published works and details about these books can be found on their blogpages.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
A DEAD LIBERTY by Dave Wellings
(The September assignment was to write a legend.)
Most successful entrepreneurs have a sense of opportunism that borders on cheek. In the late 1860s the construction of a railway line between Toowoomba and Warwick offered numerous opportunities. In addition to the vital transport for a growing sheep industry, the line brought with it a large work force which had to be catered for. Hastily built stores and unlicensed bars were established at every halt along the line. When the line reached the Clifton sheep station, an Irishman, James Mowen, built a slab hut from which he sold provisions and liquor to the railway “navvies”.
Seeing an opportunity in the expanding settlement, he decided to invest in Clifton. In 1869 he applied for and was granted a liquor licence and he built a hotel next to his store. A small plaque (appropriately across the road from O’Shanley’s Irish Bar) still marks the site of his original ‘Redbank Hotel’.
In response to increasing demand by migrants from overseas and the southern States, the government released parcels of Crown land across the Darling Downs and Mowen was quick to purchase a block in what is now the main street. He built the Clifton Arms Hotel and four other business premises, all of which he rented out. Such enterprise marked him out as an obvious person to approach when funds were required to build a Catholic church. He was appointed as joint-treasurer of the fund-raising committee and donated an acre of prime town land to the project. A small church was subsequently built near to the site of the present Catholic church.
He was a wealthy man when he died on 20th April 1897, at the time 600 pounds was a considerable sum of money and there were no heirs to inherit it. He had stipulated in his will that the money should be spent on a “grand monument” to be built over his grave. The executor of his will, John Logan, was an old friend and coincidentally a prime mover in fund-raising to build a new, larger church. The prospering Clifton township had long overgrown the original small church and John Logan was not slow to see the serendipity of his situation.
“When considering what form the memorial should take, it occurred to me that nothing would be more appropriate than a memorial church…”
Special dispensation was granted to have Mowen’s body exhumed from the Clifton cemetery and reburied at Meara Place and the present church was built over his grave – a grand monument, as he’d requested.
His name is immortalised in Mowen Street at the southern end of the main street which he had largely established – and in a more subtle way in the name of the church itself. James Mowen and John Logan may have fallen some way short of sainthood but when the fine new building was commissioned as the “Church of Saint James and Saint John” it was in recognition of their contribution.
It was a final touch of opportunism bordering on cheek and Mowen would have surely approved.
Dave Wellings ©
Most successful entrepreneurs have a sense of opportunism that borders on cheek. In the late 1860s the construction of a railway line between Toowoomba and Warwick offered numerous opportunities. In addition to the vital transport for a growing sheep industry, the line brought with it a large work force which had to be catered for. Hastily built stores and unlicensed bars were established at every halt along the line. When the line reached the Clifton sheep station, an Irishman, James Mowen, built a slab hut from which he sold provisions and liquor to the railway “navvies”.
Seeing an opportunity in the expanding settlement, he decided to invest in Clifton. In 1869 he applied for and was granted a liquor licence and he built a hotel next to his store. A small plaque (appropriately across the road from O’Shanley’s Irish Bar) still marks the site of his original ‘Redbank Hotel’.
In response to increasing demand by migrants from overseas and the southern States, the government released parcels of Crown land across the Darling Downs and Mowen was quick to purchase a block in what is now the main street. He built the Clifton Arms Hotel and four other business premises, all of which he rented out. Such enterprise marked him out as an obvious person to approach when funds were required to build a Catholic church. He was appointed as joint-treasurer of the fund-raising committee and donated an acre of prime town land to the project. A small church was subsequently built near to the site of the present Catholic church.
He was a wealthy man when he died on 20th April 1897, at the time 600 pounds was a considerable sum of money and there were no heirs to inherit it. He had stipulated in his will that the money should be spent on a “grand monument” to be built over his grave. The executor of his will, John Logan, was an old friend and coincidentally a prime mover in fund-raising to build a new, larger church. The prospering Clifton township had long overgrown the original small church and John Logan was not slow to see the serendipity of his situation.
“When considering what form the memorial should take, it occurred to me that nothing would be more appropriate than a memorial church…”
Special dispensation was granted to have Mowen’s body exhumed from the Clifton cemetery and reburied at Meara Place and the present church was built over his grave – a grand monument, as he’d requested.
His name is immortalised in Mowen Street at the southern end of the main street which he had largely established – and in a more subtle way in the name of the church itself. James Mowen and John Logan may have fallen some way short of sainthood but when the fine new building was commissioned as the “Church of Saint James and Saint John” it was in recognition of their contribution.
It was a final touch of opportunism bordering on cheek and Mowen would have surely approved.
Dave Wellings ©
FORGET-ME-NOTS by Dave Wellings
(August's assignment was set by Gloria who selected an opening sentence onto which we must add our own 500 or so words to create a work of either fiction or non-fiction. The opening sentence reads:
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged. The regulars, the ones who cared enough to bring a bunch of flowers.
“Nothing flashy,” The Colonel had insisted, “We don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.” In The Colonel’s mind there was more stigma attached to flashiness than to sexually-transmitted disease, He wasn’t actually a colonel: he’d been pensioned off from the army with the rank of captain but he did little to discourage the use of his nickname.
Jason’s bouquet was what The Colonel probably had in mind – large showy red tulips which clashed with his maroon and gold scarf. It was windy up on the hillside overlooking the town but a football scarf and beanie looked out of place at a graveside. Jason was on his way to a match and was too young and gauche to consider such things.
Norman wore a beige cardigan under his navy blazer and he raised his brown trilby hat in respect as he placed his tasteful violas on the grave.
“It was her greatest fear, that she would be forgotten, that her life had meant nothing more than a few moments of gratification to those of us in need.”
“It was more than that,” said Graham who, like most of us, was on the wrong side of middle-age. “It was a useful life; she was a caring woman, a compassionate woman.”
“And a good listener,” added Ted who had missed having anyone to listen to him since his wife had died five years earlier.
Jason looked up, puzzled perhaps at the revelation. “I never…Some of us…It’s not always…I never know what to say to girls. She gave me my first – experience.”
We all nodded; we had our own reasons for knowing her and out reasons for regretting her passing, quite suddenly, a brain tumour, twelve months to the day.
With his need for military order, The Colonel arranged the flowers, tall tulips at the rear and the others in descending order of size to form one poignant tribute. The he stepped back, stood briefly to attention and spoke for us all: “Gone – but not forgotten.”
Dave Wellings ©
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged. The regulars, the ones who cared enough to bring a bunch of flowers.
“Nothing flashy,” The Colonel had insisted, “We don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.” In The Colonel’s mind there was more stigma attached to flashiness than to sexually-transmitted disease, He wasn’t actually a colonel: he’d been pensioned off from the army with the rank of captain but he did little to discourage the use of his nickname.
Jason’s bouquet was what The Colonel probably had in mind – large showy red tulips which clashed with his maroon and gold scarf. It was windy up on the hillside overlooking the town but a football scarf and beanie looked out of place at a graveside. Jason was on his way to a match and was too young and gauche to consider such things.
Norman wore a beige cardigan under his navy blazer and he raised his brown trilby hat in respect as he placed his tasteful violas on the grave.
“It was her greatest fear, that she would be forgotten, that her life had meant nothing more than a few moments of gratification to those of us in need.”
“It was more than that,” said Graham who, like most of us, was on the wrong side of middle-age. “It was a useful life; she was a caring woman, a compassionate woman.”
“And a good listener,” added Ted who had missed having anyone to listen to him since his wife had died five years earlier.
Jason looked up, puzzled perhaps at the revelation. “I never…Some of us…It’s not always…I never know what to say to girls. She gave me my first – experience.”
We all nodded; we had our own reasons for knowing her and out reasons for regretting her passing, quite suddenly, a brain tumour, twelve months to the day.
With his need for military order, The Colonel arranged the flowers, tall tulips at the rear and the others in descending order of size to form one poignant tribute. The he stepped back, stood briefly to attention and spoke for us all: “Gone – but not forgotten.”
Dave Wellings ©
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
THE DISPARATE GROUP by Gloria Moress
(August's assignment was set by Gloria who selected an opening sentence onto which we must add our own 500 or so words to create a work of either fiction or non-fiction. The opening sentence reads:
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged. The pub was dim, the conditioned air sharp with the tang of stale beer. It was a little awkward until we’d downed the first round of drinks, then little knots of conversation tied us more firmly together. Besides our reason for meeting, we had nothing in common, so feelers were put out to establish some connection, to soften the business of the meeting with token familiarity.
I looked around at the disparate group with an inward smile. What had I expected – them all to be archetypal nerds, like me? My eyes lingered on a gorgeous woman, too curvy for current tastes, her full hips and breasts somehow perfectly in synch with her pouty lips, as if she could not quite close her mouth properly. Very sexy.
She was chatting with a fortyish, innocuous looking man. In his “casual” chinos and Ralph Lauren polo shirt, he looked pale and soft, probably from hours behind the desk telling others what to do. He cleared his throat several times, and looked at his feet self-consciously. What a place to try to pick up. Oh well, if you got lucky, at least you’d know what to expect later. A skinny girl with dreadful acne on her chin and neck hovered at the edge of the group. She was swathed in black layers, with pants that drain piped her thighs but bagged around her ankles. I’d never liked that look, and the pigeon toed, shuffling walk that went with it. I always think the person is in imminent danger of tripping over.
A solid, shorthaired woman in her mid thirties with a slightly impatient air was standing near an anxious looking younger man in jeans. She gave a cursory nod then looked away whenever he spoke to her. I’ve heard that looking past people when talking to them means you want to be somewhere else. Well, no one dragged her here. The young man was quite ordinary except for his stance; hunched with hands jammed in pockets so hard it’s a wonder he hadn’t torn the bottoms out.
And there was me. When I’d put the notice in the community pages of the paper, I was only half serious. I didn’t think any one would come forward, and here were six of us. I squared my shoulders and cleared my throat loudly to call the meeting to order. The others slid into their seats while I stood at the head of the table.
“Welcome to the inaugural meeting of TA,” I began. “Perhaps we could start with introductions, a brief history of your problem, and what you have tried so far to control it.” I took my place and glanced around enquiringly.
The businessman took the cue, “I’m Stephen. I’ve been doing it forever. It only really became a problem when I moved into my current position, which is quite high-pressure. Before that I could control it.” He took a breath. “I’ve tried all the usual methods to stop, even hypnosis, but I can’t. That’s why I’m here.”
The impatient woman stood. “I’m Anne. I’m a nurse and you’d think that in itself would stop me doing it. So far, nothing has worked, even the rubber band on the wrist to sting myself whenever I want it. I hope coming here isn’t another waste of time.” She sat abruptly.
Mr Average with the pocket problem spoke up. “I’m Tony. I’ve tried all sorts of things, from cognitive-behavioural therapy,” this occasioned a few interested murmurs, “to chemicals. I always find a way to do it, even though I hate myself for it. This is my last hope”
“I’m Jen,” the Bombshell. “I know this sounds bad, but I just really love doing it. No one worried much when I was younger, they just let me go, and now I’m not sure I can stop. Or even if I want to. But I’m getting married next year and my fiancée says I can’t do it anymore.” Sympathetic looks all round.
“I’m Vanessa,” Girl in Black. “I do want to stop. I’ve got enough problems without this stupid habit. I feel like a freak.”
I stood, “Thank you, every one. I’m Evan, as most of you know. I didn’t really think anyone would come, but I’m really glad you all did. If we achieve nothing else, at least we know we’re not struggling with this alone.” I looked at each face – sullen, impassive, eager, dubious, thoughtful.
“I think I came out of the womb doing it, and I do it every chance I get. Like Jen, I enjoy it, but also, like the rest of you, it causes problems in my life. I too feel like a freak, Vanessa, and hate myself, like Tony.” I nodded at each of them. “I do it when I’m stressed, when I’m tired, lonely, sometimes even when I’m hungry.” Someone snorted with suppressed laughter. “Part of me believes I’ll never stop, but I really want to try. That’s why I created the twelve step program based on AA principles and started this group.” A few nods. “If alcoholics can do it, drug addicts, over eaters and sex addicts, why can’t we?”
Stephen raised his glass, “Here here.” The others murmured in agreement, and Jen smiled and gave the thumbs up. “Here’s to Thumbsuckers Anonymous,” she said.
Gloria Moress ©
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged. The pub was dim, the conditioned air sharp with the tang of stale beer. It was a little awkward until we’d downed the first round of drinks, then little knots of conversation tied us more firmly together. Besides our reason for meeting, we had nothing in common, so feelers were put out to establish some connection, to soften the business of the meeting with token familiarity.
I looked around at the disparate group with an inward smile. What had I expected – them all to be archetypal nerds, like me? My eyes lingered on a gorgeous woman, too curvy for current tastes, her full hips and breasts somehow perfectly in synch with her pouty lips, as if she could not quite close her mouth properly. Very sexy.
She was chatting with a fortyish, innocuous looking man. In his “casual” chinos and Ralph Lauren polo shirt, he looked pale and soft, probably from hours behind the desk telling others what to do. He cleared his throat several times, and looked at his feet self-consciously. What a place to try to pick up. Oh well, if you got lucky, at least you’d know what to expect later. A skinny girl with dreadful acne on her chin and neck hovered at the edge of the group. She was swathed in black layers, with pants that drain piped her thighs but bagged around her ankles. I’d never liked that look, and the pigeon toed, shuffling walk that went with it. I always think the person is in imminent danger of tripping over.
A solid, shorthaired woman in her mid thirties with a slightly impatient air was standing near an anxious looking younger man in jeans. She gave a cursory nod then looked away whenever he spoke to her. I’ve heard that looking past people when talking to them means you want to be somewhere else. Well, no one dragged her here. The young man was quite ordinary except for his stance; hunched with hands jammed in pockets so hard it’s a wonder he hadn’t torn the bottoms out.
And there was me. When I’d put the notice in the community pages of the paper, I was only half serious. I didn’t think any one would come forward, and here were six of us. I squared my shoulders and cleared my throat loudly to call the meeting to order. The others slid into their seats while I stood at the head of the table.
“Welcome to the inaugural meeting of TA,” I began. “Perhaps we could start with introductions, a brief history of your problem, and what you have tried so far to control it.” I took my place and glanced around enquiringly.
The businessman took the cue, “I’m Stephen. I’ve been doing it forever. It only really became a problem when I moved into my current position, which is quite high-pressure. Before that I could control it.” He took a breath. “I’ve tried all the usual methods to stop, even hypnosis, but I can’t. That’s why I’m here.”
The impatient woman stood. “I’m Anne. I’m a nurse and you’d think that in itself would stop me doing it. So far, nothing has worked, even the rubber band on the wrist to sting myself whenever I want it. I hope coming here isn’t another waste of time.” She sat abruptly.
Mr Average with the pocket problem spoke up. “I’m Tony. I’ve tried all sorts of things, from cognitive-behavioural therapy,” this occasioned a few interested murmurs, “to chemicals. I always find a way to do it, even though I hate myself for it. This is my last hope”
“I’m Jen,” the Bombshell. “I know this sounds bad, but I just really love doing it. No one worried much when I was younger, they just let me go, and now I’m not sure I can stop. Or even if I want to. But I’m getting married next year and my fiancée says I can’t do it anymore.” Sympathetic looks all round.
“I’m Vanessa,” Girl in Black. “I do want to stop. I’ve got enough problems without this stupid habit. I feel like a freak.”
I stood, “Thank you, every one. I’m Evan, as most of you know. I didn’t really think anyone would come, but I’m really glad you all did. If we achieve nothing else, at least we know we’re not struggling with this alone.” I looked at each face – sullen, impassive, eager, dubious, thoughtful.
“I think I came out of the womb doing it, and I do it every chance I get. Like Jen, I enjoy it, but also, like the rest of you, it causes problems in my life. I too feel like a freak, Vanessa, and hate myself, like Tony.” I nodded at each of them. “I do it when I’m stressed, when I’m tired, lonely, sometimes even when I’m hungry.” Someone snorted with suppressed laughter. “Part of me believes I’ll never stop, but I really want to try. That’s why I created the twelve step program based on AA principles and started this group.” A few nods. “If alcoholics can do it, drug addicts, over eaters and sex addicts, why can’t we?”
Stephen raised his glass, “Here here.” The others murmured in agreement, and Jen smiled and gave the thumbs up. “Here’s to Thumbsuckers Anonymous,” she said.
Gloria Moress ©
THE ANTIPODEANS by Marion de la Croix
(August's assignment was set by Gloria who selected an opening sentence onto which we must add our own 500 or so words to create a work of either fiction or non-fiction. The opening sentence reads:
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
Location:
100 kilometres South West of Nairobi, Kenya
The following is a translation from the Massai language
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.
Abbasso swung down from the fever tree and nearly flattened Warty who had paused to scratch a flea that had niggled persistently in his armpit for the last twenty lopes.
‘Watch it mate’ the warthog growled to the Baboon.
‘Who’s snitchy today didn’t she come across last night then?’ Abbasso retorted, delighted to have touched a nerve.
Warty ignored Abbasso found the flea and crunched delightedly between his incisors.
‘You looked so funny Abbasso when you landed on Warty’s head’ giggled Chichi from behind the safety of Nzinga’s bulk.
‘Shut up vervet,’ Abbasso snarled.
‘Now now,’ roared Zhinzhi ‘lets have some order this is an important meeting.’
The rest of the animals formed a circle round the lion but Chichi kept her the hippo between her and Abbasso.
‘I’ll start. Who told you the kangaroos were coming Zhinzhi,’ an Impala called out
‘No one. I saw them I up near the border when I visited my cousin last week.’
‘How could they have reached inland so quickly?’
‘Have you seen how fast the bloody things hops? Wouldn’t be surprised if they made an appearance today.’
Alarmed everyone looked around.
‘Surely not Zhinzhi?’
‘I can tell you this. I watched them flee without a pause for a single hop before they disappeared over the horizon.
Gasps and cries of wonderment echoed round the clearing.
‘None of us can keep up such a pace for so long,’ muttered Nzinga.
‘Will they attack?’ Taglio asked then spotted a juicy blow fly close by, shot out his tongue retracted it and gulped.
‘Shit where has that one been?’ he grimaced.
He coughed aware he had everyone’s attention now and revelled in it.
‘You rotten chameleons, trust you to only think of your stomach even at a time like this,’ growled Titi.
‘I have to. You zebras are lucky everywhere you look there’s grass but I have to grab my food on the run.’
‘Tsk’ tutted the zebra haughtily and nudged her foal closer.
‘I say,’ said Mbobo from his elevated height amongst the acacias. ‘Can we please stick to the important issues?’
He wiggled his ears to chase a far too friendly tickbird from between his tufted horns.
‘I agree,’ said Zhinzhi.
‘Right first of all I cannot answer your question Taglio. If they do arrive I suggest we unite and approach them. They wouldn’t daren’t attack such a grand gathering as ours and we might be panicking for no reason.’
Overhead Mabili flapped his wings and screeched a warning.
‘Enemy approaching from the west!’ he cried and continued to ride the currents but kept an eye on the strangers.
Zhinzhi padded out of the clearing and gazed into the afternoon sun.
‘It’s them and they’re heading this way!’ he cried. ‘See what I mean they are constantly on the move.’
Everyone pushed and shoved eager to get a glimpse of the strangers.
‘Wow look at them go!’
‘They’re red!’
‘And they’ve got long tails!’
‘Look at their funny shape and they’re heads are only small!’
Suddenly everyone became aware of a thudding underfoot and felt threatened.
‘Calm down everyone!’ shouted Zhinzhi.
‘But they look like they’re on the attack’ screamed Juju.
‘What all of us at once don’t be such a fool hyena!’
‘Well I have to admit they couldn’t kill us all at once,’ he simpered.
The strange animals slowed and stopped about twenty lopes distance then propped on their behinds with their tiny feet tucked neatly into their chest. They showed no fear.
‘G’day,’ the smaller one called out.
Taken aback by the strange language Mbobo, due to his lofty appearance he took charge, stepped forward.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked.
The smaller kangaroo shook its head and looked at its partner.
‘Jeez Bluey I don’t understand their lingo.’
‘Its Massai Matilda I learned some when we were in the circus from the baboon.’
Bluey turned to the giraffe and hesitantly spoke in Massai
‘G’day hallo.’
‘Oh I see um.. I see you kangaroo,’ Mbobo said
‘I see you? What kind of a greeting is that mate?’ inquired Bluey.
‘It is our way.’
‘Strewth sounds weird to me anyway.’
‘What are you doing here?’ interrupted Zhinzhi.
‘Us well it’s like this mate we escaped from the Circus Oz.’
Everyone gasped. They had heard about circuses, evil places where men kept animal in tiny cages.
‘I’m so glad you escaped,’ whispered Chichi, ‘you can run free here with us.’
Bluey bent and peeped between the legs of the larger animals
‘G’day and who are you little one?’ he asked
‘I’m Chichi and I’m a Vervet.’
‘Oh well I’m called Bluey and this here,’ he turned to his partner, ‘is Matilda.’
‘Bluey!’ roared Zhinzhi, ‘but you’re red.’
‘Yeah mate anyone with red hair in Australia where we come from is called Bluey didn’t youse know that?’
Bluey scratched his head, smiled and looked round.
‘Youse’ all so friendly I could like it here.’
‘HERE!’ roared Zhinzhi.
‘Yep mate.’
Zhinzhi looked round the group.
‘I sorry but we must discuss this amongst ourselves before we can allow you to take up residence here.’
‘But were real friendly mate, we only eat grass seeds and berries and wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘They can stay,’ smiled Taglio happy to hear his fly supply was not threatened.
‘I agree.’
A chorus of voices echoed round the clearing.
Matilda smiled, glanced at Bluey then reached into what looked like her stomach and pulled out a miniature version of them both. Gasps of wonderment especially from the mothers rang round the assembly.
‘Thank you everyone. This is Joey.’
Marion de la Croix ©
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
Location:
100 kilometres South West of Nairobi, Kenya
The following is a translation from the Massai language
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.
Abbasso swung down from the fever tree and nearly flattened Warty who had paused to scratch a flea that had niggled persistently in his armpit for the last twenty lopes.
‘Watch it mate’ the warthog growled to the Baboon.
‘Who’s snitchy today didn’t she come across last night then?’ Abbasso retorted, delighted to have touched a nerve.
Warty ignored Abbasso found the flea and crunched delightedly between his incisors.
‘You looked so funny Abbasso when you landed on Warty’s head’ giggled Chichi from behind the safety of Nzinga’s bulk.
‘Shut up vervet,’ Abbasso snarled.
‘Now now,’ roared Zhinzhi ‘lets have some order this is an important meeting.’
The rest of the animals formed a circle round the lion but Chichi kept her the hippo between her and Abbasso.
‘I’ll start. Who told you the kangaroos were coming Zhinzhi,’ an Impala called out
‘No one. I saw them I up near the border when I visited my cousin last week.’
‘How could they have reached inland so quickly?’
‘Have you seen how fast the bloody things hops? Wouldn’t be surprised if they made an appearance today.’
Alarmed everyone looked around.
‘Surely not Zhinzhi?’
‘I can tell you this. I watched them flee without a pause for a single hop before they disappeared over the horizon.
Gasps and cries of wonderment echoed round the clearing.
‘None of us can keep up such a pace for so long,’ muttered Nzinga.
‘Will they attack?’ Taglio asked then spotted a juicy blow fly close by, shot out his tongue retracted it and gulped.
‘Shit where has that one been?’ he grimaced.
He coughed aware he had everyone’s attention now and revelled in it.
‘You rotten chameleons, trust you to only think of your stomach even at a time like this,’ growled Titi.
‘I have to. You zebras are lucky everywhere you look there’s grass but I have to grab my food on the run.’
‘Tsk’ tutted the zebra haughtily and nudged her foal closer.
‘I say,’ said Mbobo from his elevated height amongst the acacias. ‘Can we please stick to the important issues?’
He wiggled his ears to chase a far too friendly tickbird from between his tufted horns.
‘I agree,’ said Zhinzhi.
‘Right first of all I cannot answer your question Taglio. If they do arrive I suggest we unite and approach them. They wouldn’t daren’t attack such a grand gathering as ours and we might be panicking for no reason.’
Overhead Mabili flapped his wings and screeched a warning.
‘Enemy approaching from the west!’ he cried and continued to ride the currents but kept an eye on the strangers.
Zhinzhi padded out of the clearing and gazed into the afternoon sun.
‘It’s them and they’re heading this way!’ he cried. ‘See what I mean they are constantly on the move.’
Everyone pushed and shoved eager to get a glimpse of the strangers.
‘Wow look at them go!’
‘They’re red!’
‘And they’ve got long tails!’
‘Look at their funny shape and they’re heads are only small!’
Suddenly everyone became aware of a thudding underfoot and felt threatened.
‘Calm down everyone!’ shouted Zhinzhi.
‘But they look like they’re on the attack’ screamed Juju.
‘What all of us at once don’t be such a fool hyena!’
‘Well I have to admit they couldn’t kill us all at once,’ he simpered.
The strange animals slowed and stopped about twenty lopes distance then propped on their behinds with their tiny feet tucked neatly into their chest. They showed no fear.
‘G’day,’ the smaller one called out.
Taken aback by the strange language Mbobo, due to his lofty appearance he took charge, stepped forward.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked.
The smaller kangaroo shook its head and looked at its partner.
‘Jeez Bluey I don’t understand their lingo.’
‘Its Massai Matilda I learned some when we were in the circus from the baboon.’
Bluey turned to the giraffe and hesitantly spoke in Massai
‘G’day hallo.’
‘Oh I see um.. I see you kangaroo,’ Mbobo said
‘I see you? What kind of a greeting is that mate?’ inquired Bluey.
‘It is our way.’
‘Strewth sounds weird to me anyway.’
‘What are you doing here?’ interrupted Zhinzhi.
‘Us well it’s like this mate we escaped from the Circus Oz.’
Everyone gasped. They had heard about circuses, evil places where men kept animal in tiny cages.
‘I’m so glad you escaped,’ whispered Chichi, ‘you can run free here with us.’
Bluey bent and peeped between the legs of the larger animals
‘G’day and who are you little one?’ he asked
‘I’m Chichi and I’m a Vervet.’
‘Oh well I’m called Bluey and this here,’ he turned to his partner, ‘is Matilda.’
‘Bluey!’ roared Zhinzhi, ‘but you’re red.’
‘Yeah mate anyone with red hair in Australia where we come from is called Bluey didn’t youse know that?’
Bluey scratched his head, smiled and looked round.
‘Youse’ all so friendly I could like it here.’
‘HERE!’ roared Zhinzhi.
‘Yep mate.’
Zhinzhi looked round the group.
‘I sorry but we must discuss this amongst ourselves before we can allow you to take up residence here.’
‘But were real friendly mate, we only eat grass seeds and berries and wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘They can stay,’ smiled Taglio happy to hear his fly supply was not threatened.
‘I agree.’
A chorus of voices echoed round the clearing.
Matilda smiled, glanced at Bluey then reached into what looked like her stomach and pulled out a miniature version of them both. Gasps of wonderment especially from the mothers rang round the assembly.
‘Thank you everyone. This is Joey.’
Marion de la Croix ©
SATURDAY MEETINGS by Nelma Ward
(August's assignment was set by Gloria who selected an opening sentence onto which we must add our own 500 or so words to create a work of either fiction or non-fiction. The opening sentence reads:
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged. I’d been waiting for this for a long time. Now at last I was old enough to join the rest of the devotees, for that’s how I think of us – devoted to a cause.
Of course every young man in this community thinks that one day they’ll be invited to join the others. They check you out first of course. Find out whether your like-minded. I am. Always have been.
I know there’s a lot of bad press about us. Scathing pieces in the newspapers and so on. I don’t think they realise that we have lots of influential people in our group. Pillars of the community – doctors, lawyers and so on, as well as the ordinary folk, the truck drivers, the labourers. Doesn’t matter what you do, if you feel strongly about this matter you’ll be accepted into the group.
So I went along. A few of the older guys came up and shook my hand. They looked me straight in the eye and asked if I was up for it. Up for it! I was trembling with anticipation, wondering what it would feel like, how it would be to finally do something about this problem. To make my mark.
I hoped our efforts today would have a result. We had our target picked – that much I knew. It was a short walk, all of us together, feet and hearts beating as one. I liked the idea of a uniform too. All white, pristine – clean looking, somehow. I’m not too worried about the anonymity aspect really – but the older, wiser heads say that it’s a good thing. I don’t know … some part of me wanted to be recognised. It would have been great to have people who aren’t in these hallowed ranks come up and say ‘good on ya – I’ve wanted to do that for a long time’.
So, now here I was – amongst my heroes, in a long white robe. I’m the one fifth back from the burning cross in the photo which was in the local paper. When the trial started – murder was the charge – that photo went all over the world.
Odd, isn’t it – my first Saturday afternoon meeting, and unlucky enough to be caught in what they say was ‘the most brutal attack this Southern state has seen in many years’. I can still hear the older men, my heroes, my role models, cheering me on, and I can still feel that excitement as I went at the enemy. But that’s the trouble, isn’t it – most people don’t seem to understand about the enemy. I’ve known about it ever since my daddy told me. He’s in the photo too.
You can see that I’m not used to the tall pointed white hood as I’ve put my hand up to steady it. And my hand is slightly covering the three initials emblazoned on it. The three important initials – in my mind the three most important initials in the world. The next hood I’ll wear, so they tell me, wont be a white one, and no initials this time – just something to hide my face as I’m sent to my Maker.
© Nelma Ward
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged. I’d been waiting for this for a long time. Now at last I was old enough to join the rest of the devotees, for that’s how I think of us – devoted to a cause.
Of course every young man in this community thinks that one day they’ll be invited to join the others. They check you out first of course. Find out whether your like-minded. I am. Always have been.
I know there’s a lot of bad press about us. Scathing pieces in the newspapers and so on. I don’t think they realise that we have lots of influential people in our group. Pillars of the community – doctors, lawyers and so on, as well as the ordinary folk, the truck drivers, the labourers. Doesn’t matter what you do, if you feel strongly about this matter you’ll be accepted into the group.
So I went along. A few of the older guys came up and shook my hand. They looked me straight in the eye and asked if I was up for it. Up for it! I was trembling with anticipation, wondering what it would feel like, how it would be to finally do something about this problem. To make my mark.
I hoped our efforts today would have a result. We had our target picked – that much I knew. It was a short walk, all of us together, feet and hearts beating as one. I liked the idea of a uniform too. All white, pristine – clean looking, somehow. I’m not too worried about the anonymity aspect really – but the older, wiser heads say that it’s a good thing. I don’t know … some part of me wanted to be recognised. It would have been great to have people who aren’t in these hallowed ranks come up and say ‘good on ya – I’ve wanted to do that for a long time’.
So, now here I was – amongst my heroes, in a long white robe. I’m the one fifth back from the burning cross in the photo which was in the local paper. When the trial started – murder was the charge – that photo went all over the world.
Odd, isn’t it – my first Saturday afternoon meeting, and unlucky enough to be caught in what they say was ‘the most brutal attack this Southern state has seen in many years’. I can still hear the older men, my heroes, my role models, cheering me on, and I can still feel that excitement as I went at the enemy. But that’s the trouble, isn’t it – most people don’t seem to understand about the enemy. I’ve known about it ever since my daddy told me. He’s in the photo too.
You can see that I’m not used to the tall pointed white hood as I’ve put my hand up to steady it. And my hand is slightly covering the three initials emblazoned on it. The three important initials – in my mind the three most important initials in the world. The next hood I’ll wear, so they tell me, wont be a white one, and no initials this time – just something to hide my face as I’m sent to my Maker.
© Nelma Ward
DE MORTUIS by Brian Hodgkinson
(August's assignment was set by Gloria who selected an opening sentence onto which we must add our own 500 or so words to create a work of either fiction or non-fiction. The opening sentence reads:
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.
It was a stinking hot day, and most of us were grossly overdressed for the weather. Convention, however, demanded it.
Under the formal tight smiles and nods of greeting, we assembled around the open grave.
Even the freshly excavated earth was dry and crumbly under the baking sun.
There was very little shade or shelter from the heat – such trees as there were grew round the very edge of the cemetery, not in the middle among the graves, of course. His children were both there, naturally – they couldn’t risk not being seen on such an occasion.
And their respective spouses – damned hypocrites.
Hadn’t seen or heard from any of them for years, and yet here they were, almost panting in their anxiety not to miss out on hearing what had been left to them.
Plus all his old cronies from the pub.
I could overhear their remarks.
“Can’t have expected anything else. Not at his age. Not considering the amount he put away. Well, he hadn’t anything else to do, had he? Not with that sour old puss of a wife he had.”
I pretended that I couldn’t hear them.
His lawyer was there as well – wearing a synthetic sympathetic smile.
Another hypocrite.
Probably calculating his commission as executor.
Why wasn’t I the executor?
He never trusted me.
“Women know nothing about money,” he used to say “they’re only fit for cooking and children.”
Damned Teutonic outlook - kirche, kuche, kinder.
But I served him and tended him for all those years, didn’t I?
…….
The hearse, at last.
And the parson.
Why did they ever imagine that the parson would help him?
He never attended the church, was always scathing in his remarks about it.
But there you are.
Word, words, words.
And then the coffin was lowered, and the rattle of sunscorched earth on the lid.
And the same synthetic smiles and hypocritical words of condolence.
And that was it.
And that was the end of it.
……
And then the house, empty and echoing despite all the children and cronies echoing in the empty spaces.
And the formal obligatory drink.
And the lawyer saying the formal, expected words.
Just as they had expected – everything for “his beloved wife”.
And their tight smiles as they piled into their expensive cars and drove away.
And then the silence.
……
But I still miss him.
And I am lonely, for all that.
Brian Hodgkinson ©
"The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.")
The lot of us met on Saturday afternoon as arranged.
It was a stinking hot day, and most of us were grossly overdressed for the weather. Convention, however, demanded it.
Under the formal tight smiles and nods of greeting, we assembled around the open grave.
Even the freshly excavated earth was dry and crumbly under the baking sun.
There was very little shade or shelter from the heat – such trees as there were grew round the very edge of the cemetery, not in the middle among the graves, of course. His children were both there, naturally – they couldn’t risk not being seen on such an occasion.
And their respective spouses – damned hypocrites.
Hadn’t seen or heard from any of them for years, and yet here they were, almost panting in their anxiety not to miss out on hearing what had been left to them.
Plus all his old cronies from the pub.
I could overhear their remarks.
“Can’t have expected anything else. Not at his age. Not considering the amount he put away. Well, he hadn’t anything else to do, had he? Not with that sour old puss of a wife he had.”
I pretended that I couldn’t hear them.
His lawyer was there as well – wearing a synthetic sympathetic smile.
Another hypocrite.
Probably calculating his commission as executor.
Why wasn’t I the executor?
He never trusted me.
“Women know nothing about money,” he used to say “they’re only fit for cooking and children.”
Damned Teutonic outlook - kirche, kuche, kinder.
But I served him and tended him for all those years, didn’t I?
…….
The hearse, at last.
And the parson.
Why did they ever imagine that the parson would help him?
He never attended the church, was always scathing in his remarks about it.
But there you are.
Word, words, words.
And then the coffin was lowered, and the rattle of sunscorched earth on the lid.
And the same synthetic smiles and hypocritical words of condolence.
And that was it.
And that was the end of it.
……
And then the house, empty and echoing despite all the children and cronies echoing in the empty spaces.
And the formal obligatory drink.
And the lawyer saying the formal, expected words.
Just as they had expected – everything for “his beloved wife”.
And their tight smiles as they piled into their expensive cars and drove away.
And then the silence.
……
But I still miss him.
And I am lonely, for all that.
Brian Hodgkinson ©
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