THE GARDEN

THE GARDEN

                                                                                                                                                                                John Ross©

                Mark Smith was four years old when he first told his parents about the dreams that he had nearly every night. It was always the same. First he would hear a man’s deep voice telling him that he must follow the path. Then an elderly woman, who Mark thought looked like his maternal grandmother whom he had never met, would take him by the hand and lead him to a massive stone gateway. On entering he would be filled with happiness as he walked forward alone along a path strewn with golden sand. He would then pass through another gateway; this one was very small, made of moss covered wood, with long green vines hanging down from a wall that extended into the far distance on either side. Ahead he could dimly see a beautiful garden that was full of flowers of every shape and colour imaginable.  

                When Mark’s dreams had not stopped by the time of his eighth birthday his concerned parents took him to see their local doctor. Unable, or unwilling, to express an opinion the doctor referred him to a neurologist. After x-rays, scans and many tests the neurologist referred him to a psychologist. After nearly a year of analysis and many more tests, and at huge expense, the psychologist admitted that she had no idea what caused Mark’s dreams or how to stop them from occurring. 

                Mark was a below average scholar and struggled at the private school that his parents sent him to. He did however excel at art. By the time of his final year at high school his paintings had been featured in two major exhibitions and were selling for well over a thousand dollars each. They were all landscapes featuring either stone or wooden arches that framed scenes of spectacular floral displays. The archways were always painted in clear, stark reality, whilst the flowers were ill defined and as one art critic said, ‘as seen behind a veil’.

                The increase in popularity of his paintings enabled Mark to set up his own studio and to earn a very good income from their sales. He became well known in art circles but led a reclusive life. The few people that managed to visit his studio found it crammed with books on famous gardens.

                 His nightly dreams continued. Ever so slowly as the years passed his vision of the garden at the end of his dream became clearer. Then one night just after his thirtieth birthday his dream did not stop at its usual place but continued. He was inside the garden, surrounded by brilliant flowers, his senses filled with their scent and his heart bursting with the beauty of it.

                The very next morning, the first day of spring, Mark followed his usual pattern at that time of the year and set out to visit the many gardens that were open for inspection in the mountain above where he lived. He had ventured out further than he had in previous years, and was ready to turn back as he had not seen an open for inspection sign for some time, when he was approached by an elderly gentleman. The man asked if he was looking for gardens that were open. When Mark replied that he was, the old man indicated a small path that Mark had not noticed. He told Mark that at the end of that path was the most beautiful garden in the whole area. Intrigued Mark entered the path.

                Just ahead he could see a very old woman limping along the path carrying a very large basket. He stopped and asked if he could help her. The woman let him take her basket and holding onto his arm for support they continued down the path. They arrived at a stone archway where the old woman indicated that the garden was just beyond another arch made of wood further up the path.

                When Mark saw the wooden arch he was suddenly struck with the similarities to his dream. He was overcome with a sense of terror and yet at the same time a deep longing and compulsion to continue. His inner voice was urgent in its insistence that he continue. Was this the garden in his dream that he had for so long been searching for?

                In a dream like trance he walked down the golden path and through the wooden arch.

                The garden was even more beautiful than in his dreams, the scent more powerful and the feeling of peace and fulfilment that filled his mind lifted his soul above its mortal bounds.

                He glanced back at the arch but it had disappeared.

                He was surrounded by beauty.

                With a soft sigh he relaxed and allowed himself to sink into and be totally immersed by it.

                All around him he could hear small voices whispering.

                ‘You are here at last. We have been calling you for many years. You now belong to us.’ 

                Mark’s family, friends and the police searched for him for many months but he was never found.

                Below the mountain a four year old boy dreamt of a golden path and a beautiful garden.

 

DOUBLE KNEE REPLACEMENT.

Back home again after a week in Nepean Private Hospital and two weeks in a rehab hospital.
For those that are not aware I have had a total replacement of both knees. This involved literally cutting out the old knees and replacing them with metal and plastic.
I was up walking just two days after the operation and am now on two walking sticks. The pain is bearable but the worst problem is trying to sleep all night on my back.

THE CHALLENGE

THE CHALLENGE

                                                                                                                                                               John Ross©

                It was a cool windy afternoon but I decided to go for a walk anyway. I knew that the path across the headland and down to the beach would be deserted on an afternoon like this and, in my present mood; I would prefer to not meet anyone I knew. I just wanted to be alone.

                I had just celebrated, and that is the wrong use of that word, my sixty fifth birthday two weeks ago and one week later had to retire from my job where I had worked for the past thirty five years. I felt old, unwanted and useless.

                Right out at the end of the headland, high above the ocean, there was a wooden bench next to the path. I had sat on this bench many times in the past, in all seasons and all weathers. It had become like an old friend to me; somewhere where I could internally discuss my problems, rejoice in my triumphs or just sit and enjoy the view. It always listened in silence, never complained or was critical.

                As I approached today the bench was outlined against a leaden sky that was dressed in ragged white clouds and adorned by screeching white seagulls that soared and dipped in the wind. To my relief there was nobody there.

                I sat down and gazed out over the ocean. White horses chased each other endlessly all the way to the horizon. Patches on the water were alternately rippled and flattened by gusts of wind. The air was full of the noise of the birds, the crash of the waves on the rocks below me, the sigh of the wind as it carried the salty spray over the land and the sense of the timeless battle of the ocean against the land.

                I was so entranced by the view, whilst at the same time, lost in the mire of my emotions that I did not notice him until he was right in front of me. He smiled and said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ At first I was so distracted by his appearance that I did not reply. He was very old with a bushy white beard, long straggly white hair and dressed in an old fashioned crumpled woollen suit. He was bent over with both hands resting on a black cane with a large silver top. Stirring myself I motioned for him to sit.

                We sat in silence for fully ten minutes before he suddenly said, ‘You look like a man with a lot on his mind.’ Afterwards I was never sure why these simple words opened the floodgates within me. I told this stranger things that I could not talk to my friends or even my wife about. I was terrified of the future and the creeping destruction that old age would bring to what I had been and still thought of myself as.

                When I had finished he said, ‘Each day think of tomorrow as a new country that you have never visited. Do not be afraid, be excited about the new things you will see and experience. It may not be familiar to you and you may not be able to do all the things you do today but do not turn your back on it because of that. Life is a series of adventures that are waiting to be explored. The day you stop and look only to the past is the day you really start to grow old. You cannot change the past but the story of tomorrow is yet to be written.’

                As soon as he had finished he stood up and said he had to go. I stood next to him, shook his hand, thanked him and asked if he would give me his name. He gave me another of his shy smiles and said, ‘Rupert Rudolph Rumpstead. My parents never did apologise.’ With a smile that almost turned into a laugh he turned and walked off slowly down the path. I watched until he was out of sight.

                I sat back down on the bench and it was few moments before I realised that now I was just enjoying the view. Ideas of what I might do during my retirement filled my head.

                Just as I stood up to go my pullover caught on a rough patch on the back of the seat. As I disentangled it I realised that it was caught on the edge of an old plaque that had been painted over. I had never noticed it before. With some difficulty I read, ‘This bench is dedicated to the memory of Rupert R Rumpstead. A man who lived life to the full.’ It was then dated October 14 1928.

               

 

 

THE QUIET (A science fiction story)

THE QUIET

We had just spent three earth years on this stinking Grade 3 planet when I received a message from Control. There were three more scientific types on their way from Earth. 

 As if I wasn’t already up to my neck in scientists. There were already nearly five hundred of them here in the settlement. It was my job to keep them safe. I should say ‘try to keep them safe’ as they were always inventing new ways of getting themselves into trouble. To top it off I only had a single platoon of marines to do this and most of them were on their first off earth rotation. Thank the heavens we had not had to use any force against the native inhabitants.

The natives had been nicknamed ‘The Quiet’ as they appeared to be dumb. In three years no one had ever heard them utter a sound. They were bi-pedal and in body shape much like us except for their head. It was overly large and their eyes were also much bigger than ours. They wore only the minimum of clothing and no shoes. Their feet were wide and flat and they made no noise at all as they moved around. They lived in small villages and each stone house contained a large family group. The scientific types had not discovered any use of sophisticated mechanical devices. In fact they appeared to gather everything they needed from the dense forests that covered most of this planet.

When we had arrived we had to blast out a clearing for our landing and my marines were the first to exit to secure a perimeter. We were ready for any eventuality, or so we thought. The natives greeted us with total indifference and it took us many weeks to realise, that to them, we just did not seem to exist. Every attempt at communication failed and as strict protocols did not allow us to interfere with their lives, unless invited by them to do so; we just went about our mission to see if the planet offered any useful resources. The scientists did what scientists do and my men quickly became bored with the daily routine of escorting them and forever pulling them out of swamps, rescuing them from cliffs and the myriad of other ways they seemed to get into trouble.

The climate here had not changed since we had landed. Every day dawned clear and hot. By the middle of the day it was cloudy, humid and hot and by late afternoon it rained. It did not just rain but came down in bucket loads.

It was becoming difficult to keep my men motivated and as the months dragged on into years they became more and more vocal about ‘The Quiet’ and their dumb ways. I was forced to discipline some of them when they had tried to provoke a reaction from the natives. Nothing that they did got any response and this annoyed them even more.

Well, the three scientists arrived by shuttle accompanied by nearly a tonne of equipment. They took two days to set it all up in one of the empty accommodation modules. They had just finished when we received an order from Control that we should all gather in the main hall for a meeting.

When we had all finally arrived and settled down the Chief Scientist took the podium. She announced that for the past two years they had been studying the natives with remote devices from the orbiting Control centre. ‘The Quiet as you call them are not so quiet after all.’ She said as she switched on one of the machines. The room was filled with high pitched noises that seemed to ebb and flow.

‘We have changed the frequency so that you can hear it, but what you are listening to is one of the natives ‘talking’ to another. We have managed to decipher their ‘language’ and can now understand what they are saying to each other. We do not as yet understand how they generate the sounds except that it comes from somewhere within their brain.’

There was stunned silence in the room until one of my men said, ‘What are they saying?’ Another muttered, ‘Just cause they speak don’t mean they’re not dumb.’

The scientist explained that ‘The Quiet’ knew that we were arriving well before we had even reached orbit and that they also realised that their planet did not have anything that we would find useful. They had decided to just ignore us and we would eventually go away.

She concluded by saying, ‘The Quiet are not as quiet as you thought and also more importantly they are not as backward. They have a rich and vibrant culture that we are just beginning to understand. So as the old saying goes, ‘do not judge a book by its cover’.’

 

THE END

 

WASHING CHEESE

WASHING CHEESE

Julia is playing in the sandpit.

Her daddy calls out, ‘Julia lunch time.’

Julia is hungry so she runs inside.

Lots of yummy sandwiches for lunch.

Daddy and mummy have tomato, lettuce, some meat and cheese.

Julia eats all her sandwiches.

‘Daddy can I have some of your cheese,’ says Julia.

‘No Julia.  It’s special cheese for big people,’ replies daddy.

Julia is sad. ‘‘But daddy you said I am big now.’

‘OK, Julia, just a little piece,’ says daddy.

Julia smells the cheese. ‘Daddy, please wash the cheese.’

Her daddy looks cross, ‘Did you drop it on the floor?’

‘No daddy it is smelly.’

Her daddy washes the cheese under the tap.

Julia looks at the cheese and says, ‘It’s wet now daddy.’

Her daddy dries the cheese on the tea towel.

Julia smells the cheese again. ‘It’s still smelly daddy.’

Julia’s daddy puts tomato sauce all over the cheese.

Julia eats the cheese and tomato sauce all up.

‘May I have some more cheese please daddy?’

 

 

AAAHRGGG.....That’s daddy.......swearing quietly under his breath.

THE CAT

THE  CAT

                They say that families don’t own cats, that they are just their servants. Some people even add that we don’t adopt cats, they choose us. Well! In the case of our cat both of the above observations are definitely true.

            We first met Squeaky, strange name but that is what she came to be called, when she was just a small kitten. She had taken up residence in the storm water drain on the road at the front of our house. A number of the surrounding families had tried to coax her out with offers of food and a home. She resolutely refused all their approaches until our children approached. They had no food to offer and had certainly not spoken to my wife or myself about a home. When my daughter, who was in the lead, with the two boys, (not as inquisitive as her), trailing behind the cat rushed out of its hiding place and rubbing itself around her legs began to purr loudly. She picked it up and it nestled into her arms and promptly went to sleep.

            Later that afternoon there was quite a division in our household; my daughter and my wife voting to keep the cat, our two sons voting no and myself sitting on the fence. Meanwhile the cat had been locked in our laundry with a freshly bought tray of kitty litter, a bowel of milk and a plate of cat food. After a long, unproductive, discussion it was decided to bring the cat into the kitchen where we were gathered. This idea was put forward by my daughter as she believed that we were discussing the future of the cat and therefore it should be present.

            Well! You would not believe what happened next. Placed on the by now cleared kitchen table top the cat made a bee line for the two boys who after each giving it a pat and a cuddle changed their votes to yes. That left just me who was still unsure about the idea of having a pet around the house. As usual in our family with a vote of four to one, with me being the one (no reference to any TV reality shows) it was not deemed necessary to further canvas my opinion. I was left sitting at the table, rather bemused at what had happened during the afternoon, while the others rushed about with the cat and a multitude of ideas as to how to make the animal feel more at home.

            Well the days and then weeks passed and the cat had definitely adopted us as her servants. I suppose I should, from now on, call her by her name, Squeaky. As I said before a strange name for a cat, but one that eminently suited her as when she was excited her meow turned into a high pitched squeak. My wife had early on decided that she could not just be referred to as “The Cat” and had started to refer to her as Squeaky. The name was adopted by the rest of the family but as a protest, probably childish and futile; I still referred to her as the cat. The cat. Oh. Ok Squeaky was showered with presents; a cat bed, a coat for the cold weather, her very own little door in the bottom of the laundry door and even a little soft stuffed toy cat so she would not feel lonely. The toys! Yes toys for cats. In no time at all the floor of the laundry and the rumpus room, read those as Squeaky’s bedroom and lounge room were a health hazard. They were strewn with all manner of things for her to chase, chew on or scratch.

            Squeaky and I developed a healthy respect for each other that did not involve any close contact. I never patted her and she flatly refused to sit on my lap in front of the television. There was however the occasional outbreak of hostilities such as the time I woke in the middle of the night to find her asleep on our bed. I yelled, she ran and my wife yelled – at me. I refused to allow any more nocturnal visits and there were a few days of frosty looks from both my wife and the cat. As usual, in these circumstances, I retreated to the garage or the garden shed. Needless to say the cat won in the end, but as a small gesture of defiance I would not let her sleep on my side of the bed.

            Over the years we moved house and city a few times and Squeaky always went with us. She inspected every new house as if its acceptance by us depended on her approval. She would always decide where she wanted her bed and her toys placed.

            After a number of years we moved back to Sydney and much to the disgust of my family I developed an allergy to cat fur. I could not even sit on a lounge or chair where Squeaky had been without developing very itch, watery eyes. The only relief was to wash my face thoroughly with cold water. It took a few weeks for me to work out that it was Squeaky’s fur that was causing the problem. The family, of course, had different ideas. My daughter thought that I was just tired and rubbing them too much, my wife that it was hay fever and my oldest son just told me, “To toughen up.” We went away down the coast for a week’s holiday, children stayed at home to house and cat sit, and the problem with my eyes immediately went away. I had proved my point.

            There was no way that Squeaky was leaving so we had to work out a compromise. She became an outside cat, banished from the house. This still did not stop her from occasionally trying to sneak inside. She came to know that I could not be won over and all I had to do was confront her and point out the door and she would turn tail and run outside.

            A few more years went by under this new arrangement. Our family grew up and my two sons now lived with us with their partners. Squeaky was visibly getting older and slowing down. My wife and I went overseas for a few months leaving our extended family to house sit, mow the lawns (yeah right!), Look after the swimming pool, (new pump required on our return), water the plants (not the inside ones every day; flooded soggy carpet), mind Squeaky. This last simple task turned ugly. You might well ask how? We certainly did on our return. Squeaky had got very sick and the vet offered only two alternatives; expensive cure or euthanasia. The house sitters were divided evenly with one son and partner opting for cure and the other two for euthanasia. A rather acrimonious discussion continued for days. Neither of the parties thought to call us for a decision. Eventually the cure camp won out with the other side washing their hands of the whole thing. So! Result. We arrived home to an elderly still quite sick cat and a horrendous vet bill. Apparently Squeaky had spent a week in cat hospital on a trip. I must admit it brought a smile to my face imagining her lying back on a hospital bed with a number of nurses to order about.

            Squeaky never fully recovered and eighteen months later my wife had to make the sad journey to the vet to have her put to sleep. She could not eat properly and was becoming weaker by the day. By then it was only my wife and I in the house so we decided to not tell the children until it was over.

            Over the years I had grown so accustomed to having her around that I found myself missing her presence rather badly. Sometimes working out in the back yard I was sure that I had seen her out of the corner of my eye walking purposely towards the back door as if to challenge my authority one last time.

            Rest in peace Squeaky you were an integral much loved part of our family.

 

                                                            THE END

 

 

A PIECE OF MY HEART

A PIECE OF MY HEART

 

There are many things that I vividly remember.

 On hot, still, summer nights, sitting on the back porch of our house in the middle of thousands of acres, in the middle of nowhere. The heat like a warm cloak over our bodies, the stars so bright and so near that if I reached out I could touch them. Far away in the north the flash of lightning as it illuminates a massive cloud that for a few moments looks like a giant’s glass house lit from within. The rumble of thunder that reaches us many seconds later that reminds my father too much of shell fire during the war. A red glow just peeking over the horizon in the west, another bush fire on the Liverpool Plains reminding us of the fragility of life here. Tomorrow could bring either flooding rains or more fierce heat and all consuming fire.

On a bitterly cold winter’s morning riding my horse behind a slow moving mob of sheep as the dogs ceaselessly circle behind them, keeping them together and headed in the right direction. Watching the skill of the dogs as they seem to anticipate the movements of individual sheep that try to break away, the short bursts of white breath from their mouths as they work. The low morning sun strikes the frost crystals on the grass and the bushes and sends streaks of diamond light across our path.

Out on the edge of the plains taking a rest beneath a lone gum tree, its leaves hardly moving in a gentle breeze. It is so quiet that I am sure that if I concentrate hard enough I will hear the living movements of the tree that I am resting against; its roots drawing in moisture and food and the trunk transporting it upwards to the leaves high above me.

Lying in my bed listening to the sounds of the night. The sigh of the wind through the large pine tree just outside my window.  My parents talking quietly in front of the fire in the kitchen. The sound of rain drumming on the tin roof. Sometimes the unmistakable howl of a dingo that will start off an eerie choir as others respond.

Visits to the nearest town for shopping, business for my father and sometimes for social outings such as the annual races or rodeo. Shopping was always an exciting adventure as we only went to town once a month on a Saturday. An ice cream was often my reward for behaving myself whilst the boring business of buying groceries and clothes was conducted. However I still remember my parents buying me my very first pair of R M Williams and a proper Akubra hat.

Out here in the bush there were only friends and neighbours. One never had to ask for help as it was always there whenever one needed it. A handshake was not only a greeting but also a binding contract and a promise was always kept and a person’s word was his bond.

I remember the pride I felt in the fact that I was an integral part of the running of the property. My daily chores which included, feeding the chooks and the dogs, keeping the kitchen stove supplied with wood, tending the vegetable garden, making sure the kerosene fridge never went out, lighting the chip heater for hot water for the bath, all enabled my father to concentrate on the major tasks that only he could do.

The freedom to explore and experiment. The exhilaration of galloping full speed on my horse down the long slope to our house; the wind on my face, the rhythmic movements of the horse and the feeling of power that emanated from him. The sense of achievement, and really contributing, when I brought home the first rabbit that I had shot with my new rifle and my mother cooking it for our evening meal. On weekends and holidays riding my horse out to the mountains, ridges and deep valleys that surrounded our house; watching kangaroos grazing next to the fast flowing streams, the goannas sunbaking on the rocks and the fish rising to take insects that had settled on the surface of the water. The never ending story of new birth, life and death that was played out almost daily on the wide acres of the land. It was my kingdom and I was free to explore it, to learn from it and to try to understand it.

The two times of the year that held a magical hold over me. Shearing time and lambing time. Nearly all year the shearing shed and the shearer’s quarters were the sole domain of families of mice and spiders but come shearing time they were filled with movement, energy, laughter and hard work. For me it was a whirlwind of penning up sheep, sweeping the board, keeping the water bag filled, listening to the banter of the shearers and all the time learning from my father who did the wool classing. I fell into bed every night exhausted but loved every minute of it. Lambing time was also a busy time but also one of wonder at nature at its best; the miracle of new life. We had to keep watch day and night over the ewes as they gave birth as this was a time of great danger for them and their new lambs; dingos, wild dogs, foxes and crows were always ready to take advantage. It was a time of little sleep but great rewards and to me watching over a paddock full of newborn lambs was recompense enough.

There are many other things that I remember. The smell of approaching rain, of newly mown hay, the distinctive smell that comes with the dawn just before a hot summer’s day and the aroma of freshly baked bread straight from the kitchen oven. The sound that a thousand new born lambs make, the cries of a flock of hundreds of budgerigars, the thunder of the hooves of my horse at full gallop, the crack of my father’s stock whip and the roar of a usually dry stream in full flood. The sight of a lone wedge tail eagle riding a thermal, of thousands of galahs following the harvester, of horses frisky and jumpy at the smell of approaching rain, of low branches on a willow tree trailing in the flowing river, the splendour of hillsides covered in the white of flowering gums and the brilliant green of new grass after a bush fire.

Mostly I miss the sense of belonging and being one with something. Perhaps I do not explain myself well but I am sure of one thing I left a piece of my heart in that place and at that time.

A FLORAL WREATH

A FLORAL WREATH

                Mary and William were married in the springtime in Paris. They were both working there for the Australian Government immediately after the war. They were very young and madly in love. For their first wedding anniversary William gave Mary a linen rose made in an exclusive little shop in Montmartre. They returned home to Australia shortly afterwards, but each year, on their anniversary William had one of the linen roses sent from Paris so he could give it to Mary.

                Sadly William lost Mary just last year. William had a floral wreath made up from all the linen roses that he had sent Mary on their wedding anniversaries, and laid it on her grave after her funeral.

THE END

 

AS THE WHEELS TURN

AS THE WHEELS TURN

                Quick decision. I’m going. When? Tomorrow.  No time to change my mind. Get on the phone and make the reservation now. No! I can’t do this. It’s been so long; will I even be welcome? Do it.       The bus comes at last. If it had been late I’m not sure my resolve would not have faltered. The driver loads my suitcase. Just one; all my possessions; not much to show for ten years in the city. People hug and kiss, happy, sad. Alone I climb aboard trying not to look. I choose a seat right at the back hoping no-one will sit next to me. I still have time to get off. No, it is time to do this.

                The city slides past as we turn onto the freeway. Some good memories, not that many, bitterness, failure, loneliness.  Happiness torn to shreds by her sudden betrayal.  I wonder if she is still in the city here somewhere.  Does she think of me? Probably not. Best to try to forget. I’m leaving all that behind me now.

                Out in the open country and I think of the e-mail I sent, “I’m coming by bus, Greyhound, Thursday. Can you meet me?” I should have said more; did not have the courage.

                Should have brought something to read. Bored. Another eighteen hours to go. Sheep in a paddock. The grass is lush, they must have had some rain. See, I still think like a country boy. Why did I leave? No choice really or that is what I had told myself. No future on the land, drought, debt, relentless hard work. Life in the city easy, fun. The pull of the bright lights had been irresistible. As I look at the passing countryside memories come flooding back, the shearing shed full of noise and activity, milking the cow on a cold frosty morning, fresh baked bread direct from the oven.

                Comfort stop, fifteen minutes, don’t be late, get off, stretch and join the queue for the loo. That rhymes. Buy a paper. Luke warm pies, sausage rolls, limp sandwiches in a coffin of plastic, ten varieties of coke a cola and a pimply faced youth who asks, “Watcha want?” Nothing thanks.

                As the wheels turn time seems to slow down. The paper has been read and passed to a fellow passenger who asked, “You finished with that mate?” Sound recedes, becomes the gentle lapping of waves on a stony beach, she is walking away, I want to follow but can’t, she does not look back. A loud voice intrudes, the driver, we are stopped, “Those of you travelling further check at the transit counter. Thank you for choosing Greyhound.”

                Waiting room; children scamper, some read, others just stare into their personal abyss, backpackers chatter.... Germans, not sure. I have to get out; three hours is too long to sit. Walk aimlessly; suddenly hungry. McDonalds; cardboard box, cardboard circle, cardboard bun, cardboard meat, tiny salty chips in a paper container. Walk again, feeling better. Small town, small town people. Some nod, some stare at the stranger. Darkness and cold drive me back to the waiting room.

                Finally on the last leg, smaller bus, elderly gentleman beside me, says hi, then settles back and sleeps. Dark night, feel like I’m in a dim time capsule rocking and bumping though a black void on its way to an unknown future. Occasionally headlights flash past like comets in the dark.

                Try to sleep as the wheels turn. An hour gone by? No, the luminous hands of my watch say ten minutes. Don’t look at the watch. The coming dawn tears a long bright strip in the darkness of the night that slowly turns to red. My body aches, my head is full of half remembered dreams. Not long now.

                Then there they are at the side of the road beside a dusty, battered four wheel drive. My father tall and ramrod straight, my mother, grey hair now, searching the windows, looking for me. Down the steps, my mother’s warm embrace, my father’s firm handshake. “Welcome home son.”

                Yes, home.        

NARRATOR MAGAZINE

My story THE ROBOT has been published on-line on the Narrator Magazine site.
You can access and read it at http://www.narratorsss.com/2013/10/the-robot-john-ross.html
It is free. So enjoy.

THE TANGLED WOOD

THE TANGLED WOOD

John Ross ©

                My young brother and I called it ‘The Tangled Wood’. We had called it this ever since our mother told us the story of a young knight who had dared to enter it. The legend said that he had become so entangled in the thick bushes that grew under the towering trees that he had never returned. She was always warning us that the woods were full of evil, and demons and goblins lived there. There were also rumours that a tribe of men who worshipped the devil had made it their home.

                Our estate was the largest in the county and was bordered on one side by the road to Winchester and on the other three by a brook. The woods began just on the other side of the brook. My father employed many people to work our land. They lived in family groups in small villages scattered over the estate. Even as a very young person I was aware of the vast difference between these folk and our family. Neither my brother nor I had to work and we had private tutors. The serf families were very poor; their children received no education and were sent out to work as soon as they were old enough. This did not overly concern me as it was the way it had always been. My life was too full of exciting things and I rarely had time to dwell on such matters. I was very busy with my lessons and the captain of our house guard was teaching me how to use a long sword. Father had also told me that after my next birthday he was going to arrange for me to have lessons in jousting. I dreamt every night of joining the crusaders in far off lands and winning heroic battles.

                The day before my sixteenth birthday my brother John and I had ridden out to the edge of the estate near the wood. My uncle from Winchester had recently given me a hunting falcon and we had set out to give it some exercise. We had chosen this area as game birds often flew out of the wood to drink at the brook. It was time for my falcon to try for his very first wild kill.

                I waited until a large pheasant flew down to the water’s edge and then released my falcon. The pheasant immediately took fright and darted back into the darkness of the wood followed closely by the falcon. The falcon is a bird that lives and hunts in open country so I was amazed to see it enter the woods.

                We waited for many minutes but the bird did not reappear. Then my servant tapped me on the arm and said, ‘Listen master. It’s the falcon can you hear it?’ Just very faintly from deep in the wood I could hear the sound of the bird in obvious distress. I immediately dismounted and started towards the brook.

                Without looking back I said, ‘We’ll cross here. We can follow the sound of the bird into the wood.’ Behind me I heard a gasp from my brother and turned to see a look of horror on his face. My servant had dropped to his knees and was fervently crossing himself and mumbling Hail Marys.

                I was not going to let a few rumours started by ignorant peasants stop me from trying to retrieve my prize bird, so ignoring my brother’s pleas and the servants talk of demons I crossed into the wood.

                I had only taken a dozen steps when my courage deserted me. The small bushes that lined the edge of the wood had given way to tall trees with gnarled twisted trunks. Very little light filtered down from the canopy far above my head. In the deep gloom a rotting tree stump became a snarling goblin. A twisted vine hanging from a branch was the devil’s serpent. Darkness wrapped itself around my soul and the chill of evil invaded my mind and body.

                The cry of the falcon brought me back to reality, and summoning all my courage, I headed deeper into the wood towards it. To keep my imagination under control I started to recite the Lord’s Prayer aloud.

                Ahead I could see a clearing and a patch of sunshine. Instinctively I changed direction towards it. Just a few moments in that golden light would lift the black thoughts from my soul.

                I stood in the centre of the small clearing and lifted my head up to the light. Its warmth renewed me and I felt ready to continue.

                Suddenly the deep piles of fallen leaves around me exploded.

                The air was full of flying, rotten matter.

                A terrifying cry rent the silence asunder.

                I fell to the ground, my body convulsing with terror.

                Dimly through the twisting, dancing leaves I saw them.

                Grotesque figures with contorted faces. Demons. The spawn of Satan.

                I fainted.

                It was dark. I was lying next to a roaring fire over which a deer carcass was roasting.

                Two young men who were sitting next to the fire were looking at me. The tallest one stood up and walked over towards me. He sat down next to me and said, ‘Don’t be frightened Master Richard. My men meant you no harm. It was their idea of a joke.

                When I asked who he was he replied, ‘My name is Robin and my fat friend there is Brother Tuck.’              

               

               

RUBY TUESDAY

RUBY TUESDAY

                                                                Apologies to the Rolling Stones                                                 John Ross©

                Samuel Smyth always thought of himself as being very attractive to the opposite sex and the events of the past three weeks had bolstered this view.

                 One month ago a disastrous affair with his secretary had seen her depart the firm in tears. Then just a week later the very first girl he interviewed for the position started to flirt with him as soon as she entered the room. Her name was Ruby and befitting her name she had flaming red hair. She was not beautiful in the classical sense but had a great figure, which she was showing to its best advantage. She also had a wicked grin and a way about her that instantly aroused his interest.  She was the only person interviewed that day as he gave her the job and sent the other applicants home unseen.

                Within a week of her starting they were meeting for coffee at a private little cafe after work. After ten days they would both find themselves ‘by accident’ in the filing room for a quick kiss and cuddle.  Then just a few days ago when she arrived at work Ruby asked if he could drive her home that evening as her car had broken down. All day Samuel was like a little child who on Christmas morning just can’t wait to open his presents. All day Ruby teased him whenever she came into his office; showing just a little more than usual of her long legs when she sat down and purposely leaning over his desk to show off her ample cleavage.

                However, all of Samuel’s dreams of an evening of passion alone with the ravishing Ruby came crashing down when they pulled up in front of her flat. The upstairs light was on and Ruby announced that they definitely would not be able to go inside as that meant that her flatmate was home. His disappointment soon changed when to console him Ruby gave him the most passionate, mind blowing kiss that he had ever experienced. The car windows steamed up, and Samuel’s mind was just beginning to think that he might not miss out after all when Ruby leaned back hard on the car horn. The resulting loud undulating sound seemed to go on forever. Lights came on up and down the street and one elderly lady actually peeked out her front door. The moment was shattered. Samuel drove home cursing and constantly thumping the steering wheel to release his frustration.

                The next Tuesday, during their now regular session in the filing room, between kisses, Ruby asked if his wife was still away on her business trip to Brisbane. Samuel, instantly realising what prompted the question, said that she was and would not be back for another week. Ruby, with one of her cheeky grins asked if it was a king size bed in their bedroom. After another long kiss Ruby pulled back and said, ‘I know it’s your birthday tomorrow and tonight I want to give you a special birthday present.’

                It was soon all arranged. After work Samuel picked Ruby up a few streets away from the office. Ruby said they should do this so no one from the office could start any mischievous gossip. She also insisted that he let it be known around the office that he was driving up to Brisbane to spend the rest of the week with his wife. They drove via the back streets to Samuel’s house and before arriving Ruby got into the back seat and hid under Samuel’s coat. This was Ruby’s idea so that no neighbours would see her. Samuel drove straight into the garage and Ruby stayed hidden until the garage door closed.

                Samuel could hardly wait and had his tie and shirt and Ruby’s blouse off before they even entered the house.

                Samuel fumbled the door into the house open and stumbled into the darkened room.

                Suddenly there was a loud shout of, ‘SURPRISE’, and all the lights came on.

                Samuel staggered backwards with shock. He instantly thought, ‘Shit!  Margaret has organised a surprise birthday party for me.’

                His eyes became adjusted to the glare. There was no birthday cake, no candles, no party hats, no champagne, no friends and the floor was covered in a large plastic sheet. There was just his wife Margaret and in her hand was a huge colt 45 with a long cylindrical silencer attached aimed directly at his chest.

                He was stunned, frozen to the spot and speechless.

                Ruby walked over to stand beside his wife and took a small pink revolver from her purse and pointed it at him.

                Margaret said, ‘Great timing. We are actually ahead of schedule. Plenty of time for me to keep my rendezvous with that lying, cheating husband of yours and for you to get home and prepare things.’

                ‘Now, Samuel where do you think it is appropriate for me to aim first?’      

               

 

               

               

               

THE HORSE

THE HORSE

 

I always called him “The Horse”. He belonged to me as my father had given him to me on my tenth birthday. His actual name was “Tony” but to me that was a silly name for a fully-grown horse.

From the day that he was delivered to our farm, as much as I thought of him as mine, Tony had other ideas. He would never take grain out of my hand, was very difficult to catch in the mornings, and would always graze in the far corner of the house paddock. So Tony became known simply as “The Horse”.

Every time that I went out with the halter to catch him he would wait until I was very close and then gallop off to the far corner of the paddock. Here he would stare at me and snicker as if to say. “I am the boss here. You won’t catch me unless I let you.”

 He would play this game sometimes for nearly half an hour. The strange thing about him was that as soon as I had saddled him, and climbed aboard, he became a most obedient and docile animal.

One morning nearly a year ago my father wanted me to ride over to one of our neighbours to check on his homestead. He and his wife were away at the coast on a few weeks holiday and we had promised to keep an eye on the place while he was away. So straight after breakfast I walked out into the house paddock to catch The Horse.

He was grazing alongside the small dam in the centre of the paddock but as soon as he saw me he was off to the far corner. I had no alternative but to trudge after him as I had done many times before. Forty minutes later I had him saddled and we were on our way.

There was a rough four-wheel drive track that leads from our homestead to our neighbours but it was a beautiful day and I decided to take the scenic route. It was considerably further than the track but it followed the river as it carved its way through a low range of rocky hills and, most importantly, I could make a short detour to check out my favourite fishing spot.

There was no real track, just a series of cattle paths that climbed over the hills. At times the path was in a valley right beside the river but was mostly high up on the steep slopes and cliffs above the river. My fishing spot was on a sort of peninsular that jutted out into the river where it rushed around a sharp bend and over some rapids.

There was no path to the spot and it was quite steep and slippery with loose stones. I should have left The Horse tethered to a tree on the main path but I was in a hurry as I was probably already in trouble with my father for taking the long way to the neighbours.

We were nearly at the flat rock that I used as a platform to fish from when with a loud flapping, and its usual whistling sound; a crested pigeon flew out from a bush almost at the horse’s front hooves. The Horse immediately reared up and then shied violently to one side. I had no chance and was catapulted over the back of the horse, and over the steep slope down to the river. I hit the ground hard and my head must have slammed into a rock, as the next thing I remember is the freezing cold of the water as it closed over me.

I tried to stand up but could not feel the bottom. The current was sweeping me along. I tried to swim but my right arm would not work properly. Then I realised that as I tried to kick there was a horrible grating sensation in my right leg.

For a moment blind panic gripped me. I was about to scream when the current pushed me up onto a half submerged boulder close to the bank.

It took me many minutes to get my breathing and my mind under control. I looked up to see if I could see The Horse but he was nowhere in sight. I could see that my right arm was broken between the elbow and the wrist. Slowly turning around, as I was afraid of being swept off the rock I looked down at my right leg. My trousers had been ripped open and I could see a piece of bone protruding from the skin just above my ankle. It was then the pain hit me and I passed out.

When I came to I had no idea how long I had been unconscious. It was then that the real desperation of my situation hit me.

My parents would not come looking for me for many hours and then they would start looking along the four-wheel drive track. There was no way I could move from the boulder without being swept away by the river. I was already shivering violently from the cold of the water and if I was still there when night fell it would get very cold.

The pain was really bad and I was only just barely conscious when I thought I heard my father calling my name. I opened my eyes and saw him scrambling down the slope. Behind him was my mother talking into a satellite phone as she carefully descended.

I was in hospital for two weeks and had two operations on my leg but now a year later I am fully recovered.

Apparently very soon after I had fallen off and rolled down into the river The Horse had galloped back to the house and had kicked up such a fuss at the gate into the house paddock that he had attracted my father’s attention. Realising what must have happened my father had alerted my mother and had then, not wanting to waste any time, ridden The Horse out to look for me. The Horse had refused to go along the track and after struggling with him for some time my father had let him have his head.

He had led my father directly to me.

Well! Now Tony is no longer The Horse but is now “My Horse”.

The damn thing is still hard to catch in the mornings though. 

 

                                                           THE END

 

 

 

 

 

THE QUIET

THE QUIET

We had just spent three earth years on this stinking Grade 3 planet when I received a message from Control. There were three more scientific types on their way from Earth. 

 As if I wasn’t already up to my neck in scientists. There were already nearly five hundred of them here in the settlement. It was my job to keep them safe. I should say “try to keep them safe” as they were always inventing new ways of getting themselves into trouble. To top it off I only had a single platoon of marines to do this and most of them were on their first off earth rotation. Thank the heavens we had not had to use any force against the native inhabitants.

The natives had been nicknamed “The Quiet” as they appeared to be dumb. In three years no one had ever heard them utter a sound. They were bi-pedal and in body shape much like us except for their head. It was overly large and their eyes were also much bigger than ours. They wore only the minimum of clothing and no shoes. Their feet were wide and flat and they made no noise at all as they moved around. They lived in small villages and each stone house contained a large family group. The scientific types had not discovered any use of sophisticated mechanical devices. In fact they appeared to gather everything they needed from the dense forests that covered most of this planet.

When we had arrived we had to blast out a clearing for our landing and my marines were the first to exit to secure a perimeter. We were ready for any eventuality, or so we thought. The natives greeted us with total indifference and it took us many weeks to realise, that to them, we just did not seem to exist. Every attempt at communication failed and as strict protocols did not allow us to interfere with their lives, unless invited by them to do so; we just went about our mission to see if the planet offered any useful resources. The scientists did what scientists do and my men quickly became bored with the daily routine of escorting them and forever pulling them out of swamps, rescuing them from cliffs and the myriad of other ways they seemed to get into trouble.

The climate here had not changed since we had landed. Every day dawned clear and hot. By the middle of the day it was cloudy, humid and hot and by late afternoon it rained. It did not just rain but came down in bucket loads.

It was becoming difficult to keep my men motivated and as the months dragged on into years they became more and more vocal about “The Quiet” and their dumb ways. I had had to discipline some of them when they had tried to provoke a reaction from the natives. Nothing that they did got any response and this annoyed them even more.

Well, the three scientists arrived by shuttle accompanied by nearly a tonne of equipment. They took two days to set it all up in one of the empty accommodation modules. They had just finished when we received an order from Control that we should all gather in the main hall for a meeting.

When we had all finally arrived and settled down the Chief Scientist took the podium. She announced that for the past two years they had been studying the natives with remote devices from the orbiting Control centre. “The Quiet as you call them are not so quiet after all.” She said as she switched on one of the machines. The room was filled with high pitched noises that seemed to ebb and flow.

“We have changed the frequency so that you can hear it, but what you are listening to is one of the natives “talking” to another. We have managed to decipher their “language” and can now understand what they are saying to each other. We do not as yet understand how they generate the sounds except that it comes from somewhere within their brain.”

There was stunned silence in the room until one of my men said, “What are they saying?” Another muttered, “Just cause they speak don’t mean they’re not dumb.”

The scientist explained that “The Quiet” knew that we were arriving well before we had even reached orbit and that they also realised that their planet did not have anything that we would find useful. They had decided to just ignore us and we would eventually go away.

She concluded by saying, “The Quiet are not as quiet as you thought and also more importantly they are not as backward. They have a rich and vibrant culture that we are just beginning to understand. So as the old saying goes, ‘’do not judge a book by its cover’.”

 

THE END

 

PARADISE

PARADISE

 

I slowly came awake; stretched, yawned and looked over to see that my servant had already placed my morning coffee on the table beside my bed. I sat up and, as usual, my eyes were drawn to the view outside the glass floor to ceiling windows of my bedroom. The sun was just rising and its early golden light accentuated the beauty of the tropical garden that stretched for nearly a kilometre down to the shimmering blue of the lake. During the night the garden staff had changed the flowering plants in the beds that surrounded the pagoda that overlooked the lake; they were brilliant red poppies this morning.

Many generations ago my ancestors had settled this planet that they had named “Paradise”. The name had been easy to choose as it was truly a paradise. The world wide climate was tropical with the added bonus that it never rained; just very heavy dew every night provided enough moisture. There were no dangerous animals or insects and the tropical vegetation provided ample food. There was no need for farming as the plants produced year round and were easy to harvest.

My ancestors had found that the planet was inhabited by a gentle race of people that not only warmly welcomed the new comers but worshiped them as gods. Over the generations since they had gladly fulfilled the roles of servants, gardeners, cooks, builders and workers in the factories that produced all the necessities of life. They had also proved to be very intelligent and innovative and were continually improving or inventing ways of making my people’s lives one of luxury and leisure. They asked for very little in return and were extremely happy and content with their lives.

My clothes were laid out in the dressing room; brand new as usual; this morning I was playing tennis with my fiancée and a selection of racquets was also displayed. Breakfast was served on the back deck overlooking the ocean and this morning I chose fruit juice, rejected the eggs Benedict, instead decided on a selection of fruits followed by wholemeal toast with marmalade and followed by Vienna coffee. My driver was waiting for me when I was ready to leave and swiftly conveyed me to the tennis club.

The rest of the day followed its usual pattern of leisure and entertainment and by six pm I was back in my house settling into the lounge room after a particularly delicious meal of steamed fish, vegetable pie and spicy tropical ice cream, (my favourite).  I could not decide what to do next so I wandered into the servant’s area of the house. Here a family of four; father mother and two adult children, were working side by side. They were laughing and chatting as they worked; obviously very happy. I listened as they talked and made decisions about their plans for tomorrow and how they fitted their work into their family life. Slowly a sense of longing for something lost came over me.

I stretched, yawned again and came fully awake. My wife beside me said, “It’s your turn to get the coffee today and hurry up as you know I am playing squash with the girls today. There is some left over lasagne in the fridge that you can have for lunch.” Outside the rain lashed the window and feeling the chill of the autumn morning I pulled on my thick dressing gown and hobbled on my arthritic knees towards the kitchen. As I passed the front entrance I glimpsed the sign my wife had put on the outside wall; “Our Little Piece Of Paradise.”

 

 

THE DEADLY GAME

THE DEADLY GAME 

He was still in the house. I could not see him. I could not hear him, but I just knew he was still there. It was like some sixth sense. Call it a feeling in my gut or call it what ever you like but it had saved me a number of times before.

I stood just behind my bedroom door, straining all my senses, trying to pick up the slightest noise or vibration. Was he just outside the door in the hallway, or had he retreated further into the house?

The pistol was cold and heavy in my right hand. I adjusted my grip and took up more pressure on the trigger.

I glanced back at the bed where I had been asleep just moments before. The evidence of his two shots was plainly visible as dark marks on the whiteness of my pillow. I had been very lucky. They had missed my head by mere millimetres as I had thrown myself sideways at the last moment. Being a light sleeper had saved me once before. He was good though, and so he should be, as I had trained him myself. I had not heard his approach until it was almost too late. In my younger days I would have been aware of his presence before he had even entered the room.

I stood as still as possible for what seemed like an eternity. No sound except for the creaking of the house as the sun rose further and warmed the tiles on the roof.

There was no choice; I had to go out through the door. I could not wait any longer. So taking a deep breath, and keeping as low as possible I jumped out into the hallway. There were only two ways that I could face first, either left or right. I chose right as that way the hallway led deeper into the house.

Nothing. The hallway was empty. I swung around as fast as I could but the other way was also empty. So far so good.

I again waited to see if I could hear anything. The crash of a garbage tin lid in the laneway beside the house made me jump and half turn towards it before I realised what it was.

Nothing! So I began to slowly make my way down the hall towards the kitchen. Trying to remember my training from all those years ago I moved my weapon from side to side and kept it extended, gripped in both hands, in front of me. I knew that ten years of retirement and soft living had slowed me down but I still felt the adrenalin pumping and the same old excitement coursing through me.

Pausing just outside the open entrance into the kitchen, I again tried to listen to see if I could detect any movement inside or even the sound of his breathing.

Hearing nothing I stepped inside. It was only a small kitchen with a breakfast bar that opened onto a family living area. There was no one there.

Then I heard it. Just a slight scratching sound that came from behind the breakfast bar. I strained my ears but the sound was gone. Had I really heard it, or were my nerves getting the better of me? Then it came again, slightly louder this time. He must be crouched down behind the bar. It was only about waist high and extended halfway across, dividing the two areas.

Had he heard me enter the room? Was he waiting for me to make a move or was he going to suddenly leap up and fire hoping to catch me off guard?

I could not remain where I was. I had to make a move. I really only had two options, retreat or attack. What to do?

Before I realised that I had made a decision I was in motion. Three quick steps and I was around the end of the breakfast bar. There was a blur of movement and I fired. It was the cat. I had shot my Persian cat.

Cursing myself for having given away my position I was about to turn around when I heard the door of the pantry behind me crash open.

I knew I would be too slow and that it was hopeless but began to turn anyway. I was not more than half way around when the shot hit me full in the back.

He laughed and said, “I got you good that time grandad.” Then he fired his water pistol at me again.

THE END