Stick, an old paint tin, and a stuffed possum

Stick dropped by the other day for a yarn. Normally, I don’t encourage Stick because when he talks and looks me in the eye, I know he thinks he can see his future.

On this day, our discussion turned to water tanks, and I mentioned that I was waiting for a load because I had almost run out of water.

“It’s runnin’ like silt out of the tap, and the last drink I had tasted putrid,” I told him, screwing up my face, recalling the unladylike state of my recent gut-bending trip to the bathroom. “I should probably hire some young ‘un to get in and clean out the tank — don’t really want to waste a water load dumpin’ it in on garbage.”

Too late, I realised I had opened the opportunity for Stick to lend a hand. I don’t want to be beholden to him; he can be a pest that way!

“I’m your man!” he cried delightedly.

“No, you’re not!” I screamed in my head, wishing I had kept my fool mouth shut.

“Tell me,” he asked conspiratorially, leaning way into my personal space, “did you get a gut ache and the runs after drinking that water? Betcha did, huh?”

My rising discomfort must have shown.

Stick tried to fix the awkward silence.

“We’ll soon sort it out for yah. The tank, not yer gut ache, although I reckon fixin’ your tank will sort that little lot out, too!” he guffawed raucously.

“It’s okay, Stick. I can get the tank sorted. I don’t want to bother you.”

That’s when I should have turned and walked into the house, waving goodbye as I went.

“It’s no bother, luv.”

Not your love.

“I’ll be around with me ladder and the tools I need to get in and clean that tank out. Might as well paint it while I’m at it.”

“No! No painting! I recently had it galvanised!” I snapped, waving vaguely toward the old tank, which shone brightly in its new coat.

“I mean the inside,” yelled Stick over his shoulder as he wandered back to his ute. “I’ve still got some paint from when I did mine.” He scratched his head, thinking. “It’d be about forty years ago now, still as good as new. That stuff sure did the job.”

A pang of concern accompanied me into the house. My concern was twofold: Stick and his paint, for one, and the new cramps that were sending me rushing to the bathroom, for number two. Pun intended.

The next morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard Stick’s old ute pull into my yard. I went out to investigate.

Dingo was busy running circles around Stick’s legs, and I so wanted to issue the heel-nipping command, but I held my tongue.

“Dingo! Heel!” I called. Nope, not the biting command.

Dingo rushed over to my side and plonked himself in the dust.

“Good boy,” I bent to scratch his head and demanded he stay put.

“Mornin’,” greeted Stick.

“How are ya?” I replied.

“Good. Good. I’m all set to fix up that tank for ya.”

He struggled to remove his ladder from the ute, then dragged it over to lean it against the side of the house.

“First, I gotta check the downpipe. Could be blocked,” he declared knowledgably. “I’ll just finish unloadin’.”

In a few minutes, Stick had all his tools spread out on the ground. I noticed a large, old, rusting tin of paint with red dribbles dried on the side. I wandered over for a gander.

“What’s this?” I asked, lightly kicking the can with my boot.

“That’s what I’m gonna paint the inside of your tank with,” he mumbled.

“What is it, Stick?”

He mumbled under his breath. He needn’t have wasted his energy.

“It’s red lead paint, right?” I growled.

“Yep,” he admitted. “Don’t worry, it’s real old. I’m not gonna charge to paint the inside of your tank.” Stick shrugged and looked away.

Turning on my heel, I cut him off and leaned into his face. “Do not, under any circumstances, paint the inside of my tank, especially with old red lead paint!”

Stick shrank back.

“Got it?” I shrieked.

He nodded, unwillingly.

I strode over to the offending item, hefted it, and carried it to my garden shed, where I locked it away.

“Me paint!” bleated my helper.

“You’ll get it back when you’re finished. If you don’t want to finish, I won’t take it personally. Guess I can do the job myself.”

“No. No. I get it,” pleaded Stick. “I won’t paint your tank with anything.”

With that said, he slithered up my ladder and proceeded to prod around in the downpipe.

“Ah hah!” he declared. “I found your gut ache problem.” With a few more grunts and struggles, Stick triumphantly dangled a dead possum by the tail. “This little blighter was jammed in your pipe.”

He threw the offending creature onto the ground, which landed with a dull thud, sending the restless Dingo into a fury of activity. Racing over to the body, he snatched it up and belted off into the nearby bush.

“Dingo!” I screeched, over and over, to no avail. When that dog decided to come home, he was in deep trouble.

“Okay!” declared Stick, returning to ground level and grabbing a bucket. “There’s no need to hang around, love. I’ll just get in the tank and start cleaning it out.”

I decided to read on the porch, just in case Stick ran into problems. I had just settled into my rocker when a large volume of dirt and leaves was flung from the top of the tank. Stick saw me and yelled that he had a few more bucketloads; then he would probably need me to start the pump at the dam so he could use a hose to wash out the residue.

He promptly disappeared into the depths of my tank, and I went back to reading. I was engrossed in a juicy bit when I realised there had been little or no noise from the Stick for some time. I put down my book and sauntered over to bang on the metal walls.

“Hoi! Stick! You still there?”

Silence. Bugger. What had that git done?

Suddenly, a weak tap on the tank told me Stick had responded. Shortly, two skinny arms appeared from the tank aperture.

“Help me!” called a pathetically weak voice from the depths.

I skittered up the ladder and grabbed hold of Stick’s skinny arms and hauled him up onto the top of the tank.

What the hell was that bleachy smell coming from within?

Stick was out cold and a dead weight, so I had to leave him in situ, spreadeagled in the hot sun, while I skedaddled back down the ladder and contacted the Royal Flying Doctor Service on the two-way.

Fortunately, some local lads were mucking around on their radios and heard my call.

Even before the plane arrived, they were out on their trail bikes to my place and had hauled the semi-comatose Stick onto the ground, placing him under a tree.

Bazza, one of the guys, climbed back up the ladder to see what he could find out about the odour still emanating from my water tank.

“Don’t worry, Sheila,” he called, waving Stick’s bucket around. “The stupid dipstick was using full-strength bleach to clean your tank. Johnno, go start the pump, and I’ll run a bit of water through. Sheila, run the outside tap for a while. Be good as new in no time!”

I turned on an outside tap, then went to investigate Stick just as a light plane landed nearby.

A nurse came running over and pushed me aside.

“What’s that smell? Is that bleach?” She looked at me enquiringly.

“Yep. Silly bugger tried to clean the inside of a water tank with straight bleach and knocked himself out. Will he be all right?”

The nurse shook her head in disbelief and began examining her patient.

Johnno and Bazza helped lift Stick onto a stretcher.

Stick’s eyes flicked open and settled on the nurse in attendance. He moaned and then went all limp.

I glanced at the two boys and shook my head. They grinned.

“I think we’d better take him into the local hospital,” announced the nurse. “Be good to keep him under observation for a night.”

I nodded, knowing full well that Stick didn’t need a hospital bed any more than I did. He did, however, desire the further administrations of the lovely young medical aid in attendance.

The nurse went ahead as the two boys grabbed the stretcher and began to stride towards the plane. Stick managed to raise his head high enough to wink at me, then fell back into a “dead faint”.

A huge feeling of relief settled over me. My tank was cleaned and ready for a couple of loads of water the next day, and there was a bloody good chance that Stick’s affections had found another place to alight.

At least for the time being.

The Old Water Tank was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A morning reprieve

She works hard, like a bloke, in the little town of Augathella in Outback Queensland, serving behind the bar at the town’s solitary pub.

On rare occasions, when she finds time to escape, she creeps out at the first hint of daylight and takes her husband’s truck, still loaded with empty kegs, to drive along dusty tracks into the surrounding countryside.

She has a place she needs to be, away from the sleepy town where the raucous sound of thirsty drovers and embattled sheep station owners greet the end of day with pints of beer and lusty tales.

Early mornings are her favourite time, when the pub is still asleep, and Nature holds her breath, as if waiting to unfurl the day in unexpected ways.

The woman drives recklessly along a dusty track, slipping around corners and leaving a dust storm in her wake, finally arriving at her special place. Slipping from the cracked leather seat, mindful not to tear her skirts, she sits alone with the beauty of the outback, the sun painting the spinifex with golden light, the horizon glowing as if on fire.

There is beauty in the rugged natural survivors of this harsh country, and she has learned to appreciate the lone gum tree presently standing sentinel over her parked vehicle. She holds her breath in reverence as a mob of kangaroos moves through silver-green mulga trees mere feet away.

It rained during the night, and she delights in a patch of gorgeous colourful wildflowers that have sprung up where the ground was dusty only yesterday.

She steps on down to her favourite place, her skirts moving in rhythm as she walks, to where she can truly appreciate the beauty of the outback, the billabong.

Tiny frogs appear from nowhere as the scent of the wet ancient earth permeates the air. She lifts her head in delight to the distant call of a crow. A breeze whispers through sparse leaves, then is no more.

Native birds fly in, skimming the billabong, coming to land on its banks, finding a breakfast of swirling insects along the water’s edge. A vibrant king parrot visits with his harem, hoping to impress. The woman tosses a few breakfast crumbs retrieved from deep pockets to show appreciation.

As the day’s growing heat creates a shimmering haze on the horizon, absolute silence becomes so complete that she becomes aware of her own breath. There is nothing demanding her attention. Nothing flashing, ringing, or hurrying. Just vast distance, stretching into the wavering horizon where the red earth meets the crimson sky. She smiles, acknowledging a landscape that at first seems empty, becoming a place of wonder and fullness, filling her heart with peace.

Filling her with the beauty of the Outback.

Reluctantly, she notes that it is almost opening time back in Augathella, and she stands, brushing tiny twigs and scraps of leaves from her skirts.

Her drive back to town is slow, deliberately drawn out, as she attempts to keep hold of, at least temporarily, the serenity that lingers within her.

She pulls into the pub parking lot where her husband awaits patiently in the open doorway of the old pub. He tips his Akubra hat back on his head and scratches his forehead, perplexed, as he watches her jump lithely from the old truck and slam the door.

She looks up and smiles.

He still can’t believe she is his and he is hers as he strides confidently over to take her hand.

How did he, in all the wilderness of the Queensland countryside, manage to find and win this beauty of the Outback?

The Beauty of the Outback was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Cereal boxes, stakeouts, and threats to the Cap’n’s manhood

Previously: The newly re-formed SDA hunts for a Cereal Killer terrorising early-morning breakfasters. Sheila Crumpet, a maverick from North of the Black Stump, assists with the investigation.

Sheila knew a lot of case details, which had been passed on to her by M. Apparently, the AAFFP deemed the Cereal Killer case to be out of their lofty purview because, frankly, it was too silly to waste on real investigators with real sleuthing ability, so they shunted it down the line to the SDA. The widely held belief among AAFFP agents was that the SDA was incapable of resolving anything beyond a missing pension payment.

“I’m solving this case if it kills me,” grumbled Crunch in a fit of pique, “coz I can’t stand this stupid SDA bullshit, and I don’t belong with a bunch of has-been, adult-diaper-wearing nuckfuckles!”

Arthur looked positively offended, and I wondered if there was something he hadn’t been sharing.

“It may well be the death of you if you keep insisting on predawn starts,” laughed Sheila. “The Cereal offender will put an end to your cap’n-ing over your coffee and Weetbix.”

She laughed, slapping Crunch heartily on his back. The sudden pummeling released a cloud of dust and stink that had been happily ensconced in Crunch’s outerwear for God knows how long.

On its immediate release, the rest of us began choking and wheezing.

“I won’t be any nut job’s easy target,” he mumbled, glaring at Sheila for daring to touch him. He patted his sidearm, and I wondered if he was thinking of the killer or Sheila. He glanced up in response to our asthmatic chorus.

“What’s got into you lot? God, I hope I cark it before I get old!”

“No probs,” retorted Sheila between gasps, giving Crunch the evil eye.

By the end of the day, we had summarised the case and planned a course of action.

We knew that the Cereal killer was a local because Sheila’s neatly organised murder board, now resplendent with names, addresses and TOD of the victims, verified they were all local to the area.

The crimes were exactly one week apart, and with careful consideration, Sheila determined that the next one would be in a day or so, and most likely on Wattle Street, about two blocks from the SDA.

“Well…” began Crunch, as he pushed back his chair and deliberately stood on Dingo’s tail. Dingo remained stoically mute, returning the favour with a casual, but vicious nip to Crunch’s exposed ankle. Crunch, however, did not remain stoically silent. He yelped like a six-year-old, then reflexively slammed his knee into the corner of the desk, which tore another screech of pain from his throat.

Arthur and I repressed giggles.

Sheila muttered, “Good dog, Dingo,” whereupon Dingo rose languidly to stand behind Sheila, sensing that protection-by-owner was probably a good option.

“What were you about to say, Cap’n?” asked Arthur, still struggling to remain mirthless, head lowered, feigning intense interest in his shoelaces.

Hopping, rubbing at his mangled ankle whilst glaring at both Sheila and Dingo, Crunch declared, “By God, if I ever get you alone out the back of my shed…”

Sheila shuddered. “No, thank you. Did you have something to add?”

“You all effin’ meet here tomorrow at dawn!” Crunch continued to hop, rub, and throw wretched looks, “Bring your cars. We’re goin’ on a stakeout. Better leave your nasty dog at home, Crumpet.”

Sheila laughed her raucous, dismissive laugh. “And miss out on Dingo’s revenge snacks? I don’t think so, Crunch.” She scratched her forehead, lifting her hat a fraction as she dug for an invisible itch.

Crunch began to herd us out of the shed, through the still-open doorway. I figured he had no lodgings and was planning to stay in the shed overnight.

“See you guys at 10.00am,” Sheila grinned, then threw a leaving comment over her shoulder to Crunch. “This place better be the duck’s nuts when we get here in the mornin’. Don’t forget, M is a cobber of mine.”

Sheila laughed again, setting off a flock of kookaburras roosting in a nearby white gum. The birds’ laughter echoed her own in both cadence and volume.

“See you at 6am,” Sheila whispered. “Better get an early start, but don’t tell Cap’n Guts-ache I said so.”

We agreed an early meetup was warranted, considering we were trying to catch a cereal killer who butchered brekkie eaters at the crack of dawn.

Sheila hoisted herself nimbly into her ute and gunned the engine.

“Up, Dingo!” she hollered.

Her beloved pet sailed effortlessly through the air to land on all fours on the vehicle’s tray just as it was pulling away.

Sheila yelled, “Show off!” and waved exuberantly through her open window as she drifted her way down the road.

“Bloody hell,” laughed Arthur. “The woman is exhausting. Crunch was right, though; she’s as sharp as a tack.”

“She’s a corker,” I agreed, relishing the idea of working the next day with the incredible Sheila.

Sheila was waiting in her ute for us to arrive, bang on 6am the next day. The moment she spotted our car, she leapt from her ute and scrambled to our driver’s side window.

I noted that Dingo was sitting on high alert inside the cab.

Sounding breathless, Sheila grabbed Arthur’s arm, urgently nodding to me. “We gotta go look for Crunchy…”

Uh oh, Crunchy? Something was up!

“He’s not here — the shed door is open, a whole new mess spread around from a fight, I reckon. His coffee is still warm. We gotta drive around the neighbourhood. Check out Wattle Street. Follow me!”

She raced back to her ute, gunned it up, performed a reckless U-ey and wrestled the truck to stability as she screeched off down the road.

Arthur was in hot pursuit as I clung desperately to both sides of my seat, my breakfast rose to greet my throat and slid back again. Our coffees wobbled out of their holders, scolding our thighs.

This was bloody bonza! I felt truly alive for the first time in 15 years!

Arthur made an ineffectual swipe at his burning thigh, managing to grin and look gravely concerned at the same time. I knew his emotions were mirroring mine.

“Cap’n Crunch was the next target! The Cereal Killer has ‘im!” he yelled above the protests of our engine.

“He’ll be okay,” I yelled back. “He’s a pretty tough ol’ bugger!”

Arthur nodded, keeping his attention on his horribly rusty driving maneuvers.

Spotting Sheila’s ute pulled in haphazardly ahead, we saw her belting down the road with Dingo matching her pace.

Something was up!

Arthur decided running wasn’t in our aging best interests. He drove to catch up to Sheila, slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing her fleeing backside.

“Keep going!” she screamed, “The bastard has ‘im down there!”

Not at all sure which bastard had which, Arthur gunned it again, passing Sheila until we solved the bastard issue.

Crunch was in full pursuit of a … WTF?? … an anthropomorphic cereal box? The box’s appendages were pumping furiously, quite comically, I thought, but the Cap’n was almost on it. We leapt from our car (if untangling one’s stiff, rheumaticky legs and limping until we unseized counts as leaping) just as Sheila drew level at the exact time of our unseizing.

The next few seconds had our blood banging in our ears. The three of us pounded along (Arthur and I would suffer grievous bodily everything on the morrow) just as Crunch threw himself at the cereal box. He managed a particularly spectacular mid-air tackle, crashing to the ground on top of the Cereal Killer. The killer was immediately crunched, and Crunch was immediately winded.

“That blighter’s well and truly cactus,” muttered Arthur. I was unsure which of the blighters my beloved was referring to, but as the only blighter moaning was the Cap’n, I assumed Arthur meant the mangled box lying beneath said Crunch.

Sheila was sweating, leaning forward and recovering with hands on knees, breathing shallowly.

“Is Crunchy okay?” she managed through gaspy breaths.

I knelt to help the Cap’n just as he revived and spluttered, “Crunchy’s fine,” croaking rancid, death breath into my face.

Sheila delivered a swift kick to Crunch’s still Dingo-damaged ankle.

“God help me, you idiot, if I ever hear you tell of the time I called you Crunchy, you can re-number your testicles!”

As Crunch howled in protest, Sheila turned and made her unhurried way back to her ute, be-jeaned bottom swaying confidently, Dingo pattering along at her unblemished heels.

Prologue:

Crunch was released and promptly disappeared somewhere in the Northern Territory. Crumpet returned to North of the Black Stump with the loveable Dingo. Arthur and I decided to stay on at the SDA with a new mission to find new old recruits. Crumpet had agreed to keep in touch — we had a book to collaborate on.

M made a special appearance at our pristine and beautifully smelling SDA headquarters, although I swear, when the wind blows a certain way, I can still smell Eau de Cap’n Crunch. On those occasions, we abandon the shed and sit outside with the much-washed, dewormed and well-fed Mongrel who had been abandoned to our care.

The upshot of M’s surprise visit was that I was prohibited from writing blog posts. From this point forward, my name and everything associated with it were Top Secret/On a Need-to-Know Basis, and social media didn’t qualify.

I understood the need to keep the verification of anthropomorphic creatures running amok in the community a secret. This horrible reality was now in the hands of a specially appointed Department of WTF. (What to Fear).

When M departed (to North of the Black Stump, I suspected), I sat Arthur down with a nice cup of cocoa and told him I intended to keep writing my erotica, as a novel.

He endured a minor stroke, but stopped fitting when I explained that Sheila had some juicy stuff she would love to see in print. She wanted to remain anonymous, insisting on the stories being labelled FICTION. I told her no problem because that’s how I label all my true stories.

Arthur attempted to object again because of our oaths to King and Country and stuff, but he saw that I was determined to write.

I sat for a moment in deep ponderance. “I think, Maudie Shadwell, for my pseudonym.”

“Mmm,” remarked Arthur, appearing offended. “I see you’ve cleverly dispensed with your real surname — Shatwell to Shadwell.”

“There’s never any room for shatty stuff in erotica, in my opinion,” I sulked.

“But isn’t Maudie Shadwell too close to your own name. I mean, M and his cronies are super sleuths, you know.”

Arthur was probably right.

I had a sudden thought. “How’s about…how’s about Madame Mavis?

It sounds bondagey to me,” mumbled Arthur.

“Ohh, yes, how titillating!” I enthused. “I could take this in a whole new direction with Sheila’s help.”

Arthur’s cheeks pinkened. “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he guffawed.

List: The Senior Detective Agency | Curated by Raine Lore | Medium

The SDA Rises to the Challenge was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Wherein a cereal monster influences our brekkie choices

A phone rang deep within the house. Arthur and I jumped at the sound and paled visibly.

“It’s the red phone, dear,” whispered Arthur. “Will you answer it?”

Bile rose to my throat. “Nobody calls the red phone nowadays!” I retorted.

“Better answer it, Martha. You know it won’t stop ringing. Unless it’s a wrong number,” Arthur added hopefully.

We shuffled zombie-like into the den.

The phone shrilled. My elderly hands visibly shook as I reached for the old-fashioned handpiece. I waited mutely for someone to speak.

“Hello, Martha,” M greeted in his sullen, studied way.

I waited as M blustered on about a new case, the Cereal Killer who had been rampant in our general area for several weeks, knocking off early risers over their brekkies at the first light of dawn. I had heard about it, of course, but never supposed Arthur and I would be drawn into the investigation.

“But…we’re retired! Fifteen years now! Our skills have all but disintegrated…” I protested.

“I’m sorry,” M interrupted. “Cap’n Crunch has been located and has agreed to head up the organisation again. The SDA is reinstated, and as you, Arthur and Crunch are the only ones still upright and breathing, you three are it!”

Not that derelict!” I screeched. “You know we can’t work with him. He’s an idiot! I thought he went rogue…”

M cut me off, explaining that Crunch would be working (and solving) the case in exchange for a pardon for his roguery. His expertise had once been in catching serial killers. M reasoned that Cereal or Serial, however spelled, was much the same thing. He seemed to think that Cap’n Crunch’s ridiculous name somehow bridged the gap.

M was always a sandwich short of a picnic. Nothing had changed!

“Crunch’ll meet you at the old headquarters at 0.600 hours tomorrow. Don’t be late!”

“We don’t get up until 9.00am”, I cried, but the phone had been quietly disconnected, and I was standing, stunned, in what had only this morning been my quiet sanctuary — until the bloody red phone started ringing.

“What?” cried Arthur fearfully.

“You heard, dear. We’ve been recalled.”

“I don’t think my name was actually mentioned,” whimpered Arthur.

“Come along upstairs,” I ordered. “We have to make sure our old uniforms still fit!”

Just after 10.00 am, Arthur and I arrived at the old SDA tin shed where all past cases had been pondered. The shed had been purchased years ago to house a new offshoot of the Australian Agency of Foreign Feral Punishers, still tasked with keeping foreign ferals and their mischief from Aussie shores.

The mandatory retirement age at the AAFFP had been 60, but the Agency was running short of recruits and begrudged retirement to those whose training would be wasted.

That’s when the TOP SECRET SDA was created. We were still in our 50s when aging agents began being sent to Queensland to sit it out on reduced wages in a stinking hot tin shed.

Crunch had previously been sent to Aussie by a sister organisation in the US, to assist with the capture of a feral escapee who had snuck into Australia. At the end of the mission, the American Agency had refused to take him back, and the AAFFP didn’t want him either. We discovered they got rid of him quietly by banishing him to the SDA. Arthur and I wound up at the SDA not long after and were horrified to see Crunch cap’n-ing roughshod over the SDA wrinklies.

There had been some recent gossip that Crunch had found his way back to the old tin shed after the SDA had been disbanded, hiding out there for a while before going off grid.

Crunch was waiting impatiently for us when we arrived. He stood on the overgrown pavement, doodling in a scruffy notebook. I shuddered to see his old, mangy dog, Mongrel, lying asleep in the shade.

“Well, it’s about bloody time!” he exclaimed in his grating drawl.

“We’re retired,” I retorted. “Don’t get up before 9.00!”

Crunch shrugged. “You’re not retired anymore. Hope you’ve got the key, Agent Arthur, I’ve been locked out since dawn!”

Arthur began scrabbling around in his jeans pocket.

“Oh, well,” added Crunch. “At least you’re not as late as Crumpet.”

Arthur’s head snapped up in happy astonishment.

“Well, really, Crunch,” I complained, “must you always be so disrespectful? Which, um, crumpet are you talking about?”

Arthur’s eyes were literally pulsing with anticipation.

“Not what crumpet, you silly woman,” he bellowed as if I was five hundred yards away. His rancid halitosis nearly knocked me off my feet.

“Sheila Crumpet. My new 2IC! I can’t stand her or her dog! She’s loud, uncouth, rambunctious, always laughing. Ugh,”

Arthur recommenced struggling with the rusty lock, shoulders slumped, all crumpet excitement leeching from his body into the dusty ground.

“M didn’t mention a 2IC…”

“I can do what I want,” he snapped, cutting me off.

I was puzzled. “Can I at least ask — if you dislike this woman so much, why hire her as your second in command?”

Crunch had the decency to look slightly embarrassed as he kicked aimlessly at a clump of grass. “She’s the smartest damn tart I ever met!”

“Oh, really, Crunch, you are disgusting,” I muttered, already warming to the unknown and as yet unseen Sheila Crumpet.

“Steady on, Crunch,” added Arthur, squaring up to defend my smartness, “Martha is very smart, too, you know. She’s writing erotica for us old guys these days. Has a helluvu following!”

Crunch threw a contemptuous look at me, then turned to see if Arthur was going to venture into the vile stink that was now emanating from the shed portal.

Fortuitously, a battered ute chose the moment to slide noisily into the footpath; it bumped and screeched to a sudden, jarring stop, with its front passenger wheel making ruts in the dusty edge of what masqueraded as a lawn.

The driver’s door slammed, and the sound of an extraordinary “Cooeeeeeee” reverberated around the neighbourhood. Before the sound had finished bouncing off and shattering window glass for miles around, a skinny, older woman appeared, dressed in ripped jeans and a blue singlet. Grey, pink-tipped hair spiked from beneath her Akubra hat. Her smile was a mile wide in greeting, and she was waving so enthusiastically, I half expected her thin, toned arms to detach and fly off into the nearby eucalyptus.

“Gidday, yah mongrels!” she greeted at maximum volume.

Thinking someone had spoken to him, the much-neglected Mongrel raised his lethargic head hopefully. A well-bred Australian cattle dog, wearing a red bandana no less, chose that moment to catapult himself from the ute tray, then sauntered over to say hello to the animal whose odour lingered somewhere in the newcomer’s olfactory memory bank.

Mongrel half raised himself and began growling terrifyingly, snapping his slobbery jaw. The cattle dog slowed to a halt in the dust mere inches from Mongrel, who continued his nasty bluster. The new dog glanced towards the newly arrived Crumpet, who nodded and muttered, “Good dog, Dingo.”

Dingo promptly sat heavily and squarely on Mongrel’s head, completely settling any argument for the time being. The two animals remained in situ, Mongrel with his head squished solidly and silently into the dust, and Dingo perched obediently on top, awaiting instructions that were slow to arrive. I had a feeling this was an oft-replayed scene from the past.

I liked Sheila Crumpet from that moment on.

It wasn’t difficult to ascertain the source of the stench emanating from the shed. It had been locked up tight on the remnants of Crunch’s disgusting lifestyle all those years ago. One breath-holding peek told me that the floor was littered with food remnants dried with age, dead rodents that had found their way in but not out, and a stench that was undeniably Crunch, which failed to dissipate over the years.

“Oh, God,” I semi-gagged, rushing in to throw open two small windows, then rushing back to fan the door in an optimistic show of human air-conditioning.

“It’s not that bad!” defended Crunch as he pushed past me and made his way to a workworn table in the centre of the shed. He used his forearm to sweep more garbage onto the floor and demanded that we follow his lead.

“I’m gonna clean this mess up first!” I declared, looking around for suitable cleaning aids.

“Not on the company’s dime you’re not!” snarled Crunch. “Clean it up after hours, if you have to.”

Arthur, face twisted in disdain, slumped into his old chair by his old computer.

Without preamble, Sheila strode over to Arthur and shoved out her hand.

“You must be Agent Arthur,” she declared as boisterously as any single person could possibly boister.

Arthur made to take her hand, but she pushed it aside, patted him on the cheek, and muttered, “Well, now. You’re a bit of all right. A bloody bottler!”

Arthur coloured from the nether regions of his shirt to the top of his shiny forehead.

Rushing to Arthur’s aid, I moved to introduce myself when Crumpet grabbed me in a crushing bear hug and declared at a fever pitch, “Agent Martha! I’m so chuffed to meet yah! It’s good to have someone to even out the male-versus-female power play!

Then, with an air-piercing whistle, Crumpet summoned Dingo, who appeared in the doorway, leaving, I assumed, a semi-comatose Mongrel to recover in the dirt outside.

At the sight of Dingo, Crunch began to complain and moved to summon Mongrel, but Sheila was too quick for him, leaping to the door and slamming it shut.

“This shed has a one-dog policy, and the policy ain’t yours to dictate,” she sneered wildly at Crunch. “Regarding the clean-up of this dump,” she added, “Martha, Arthur and I will stay back for a couple of hours to set things in order.”

“Why can’t I stay back and clean too?” demanded Crunch.

Sheila slyly winked at me. “Well, why didn’t you say so. I assumed, because you are the filthy grub that made this mess, you wouldn’t want to lower yourself to cleaning up.”

Crunch began to stutter in protest.

“Well, okay then,” announced Sheila with a tone that was not to be reckoned with. “You’re the boss. We’ll expect this place to be tickety boo in the mornin’ when we get here at…” She made a show of checking her watch and winking again, “…at 10.00am. That will give you a bit more time. If it’s not hunky dory, I’m puttin’ in a report to M about unsafe workin’ conditions, oh, and a word in his ear about who created this pigsty might help to put that amnesty deal of yours under reconsideration.”

“In the meantime,” declared Sheila, slumping into a seat opposite Crunch, “Let’s get to work!”

Crunch appeared to be on the verge of imploding as he watched his in-charge-ness slowly disintegrating.

“Great bluff,” I whispered to Sheila.

“No bluff, Martha. I’ve worked undercover, wink-wink, for M off and on for years. You could say we’re besties.”

“Ooh,” I girlishly giggled. “You might have some erotic ideas for my new book.”

Sheila looked surprised, then winked conspiratorially again.

Crunch had set up a murder board and was busily stringing coloured wool and drawing pins between photos, which Crumpet pooh-poohed, saying the murder board looked like a giant Knitting Nancy, an old toy made by children using cotton reels and headless nails.

Sheila and I rocked with laughter at the men’s dumb WTF expressions.

I shared the story of the long rat-tail I had made with my homemade Knitting Nancy and how I turned it into a fancy round mat. Sheila had a similar story of making reins for her toy horse.

Still laughing raucously, Sheila strode to the corkboard and began ripping off the lines and photographs.

“What the hell, Crunch, some of these photos don’t even belong to this case!”

Red-faced, Cap’n Crunch haltingly explained that there had only been 6 murders to date, and he felt compelled to leave some old case photos in situ, supposedly to express how serious the existing situation was.

The logic was lost on the rest of us.

Sheila spent a little more time ridiculing Crunch, then frantically rearranged the murder board to her satisfaction.

It was time for some serious serial/cereal sleuthing (Strewth!)

Part Two coming soon.

List: The Senior Detective Agency | Curated by Raine Lore | Medium

Threatened and delivered, Brian Lageose. You know I can’t help it.😁

Also, thanks to James Parsons for encouraging my Aussie nonsense.

The Senior Detective Agency was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The song of me and you

Remember, dear, when we were young,
When soil ran through our veins,
Those droving days, your pure white steed
Responding to its reins.

I’d sit upon my wooden perch
Above the cattle crush.
The c’mon! calls, the oi! yip! yip!
The choking, airborne dust.

And always at the pointy end
Your mother, fierce and strong,
In charge of prods and other means
To push the herd along.

She yelled her c’mon cattle calls
As rowdy as the best;
A tough, old-fashioned lady in
her flowery summer dress.

Beasts pushed their way through stubborn mob,
Protesting grunts and lows.
Then, awkward flounder into dip
To cure their ticky woes.

We’d set them free to roam away
To drain the toxic waste,
Then horses, men, and womenfolk
Sought shelter in the shade.

’Twas time to tip the thermos out,
And munch a scone or two,
Then check the windmills and the trough,
Then find a bushy loo.

When all was done, we’d load the ute,
And call the day a day.
Head back to Dad, left home alone
To while the hours away.

His health had seen much better times,
Life’s tolls a heavy strain,
Then, suddenly, he left us for
a funeral in the rain.

The family toiled, we did our best,
A few years passing by,
Until that day, your mother cried,
“There’s stuff I want to try!”

With heavy hearts, the signs were placed,
The final work began — 
Machinery, tools, a lifetime cleared,
Souls ploughed into the land.

The day arrived, with azure skies
A heat haze beckonin’
With heavy hearts, we rode along
To muster livestock in.

Our throats were filled with grief and dust,
Yips, yells, and loud, “C’mons!”
The last round up on precious ground,
A final era gong.

Then battered thermos — lukewarm tea,
and scones fresh-made at dawn.
Some salty tears and tales retold,
A wake; a boisterous mourn.

The years flew by, directions changed,
Adventures by the score,
Down Mem’ry Lane in old deckchairs,
Our bodies frail and sore.

Your fierce ol’ mum — she’s still with us,
A century old and more,
Who never could quite leave behind
The life she once adored.

Remember, dear, when we were young
So bold in life and love?
We took our passions to the stage,
And thanked the stars above

For everything that we’ve been blessed,
For country, true and blue,
The heat, the sweat, the toil, the grit,
The song of me and you.

John wrote — I challenge you all to share your favorite poem — the one that touches your heart the most.❤️And also tell the reason behind that.

💭 Maybe it healed you
💭 Maybe it changed your perspective
💭 Or maybe… it simply feels like home

And here’s the twist 👇
You can also write your own poem if you feel inspired!

As you can see, I wrote a poem of my own, from my heart.

Now, I’m tagging the following lovely writers — perhaps they would like to tell us of their favourite poem, or write a poem of their own (or not)🥰 Jaylee Reign, David Rudder, Suma Narayan, Maria Rattray, James Beaufait, Neera Handa Dr

John prompted us with this poem that holds a place in his heart:

✨ “The Poem That Lives In Your Heart” 💫 — An Open Invitation ✨

The Last Round Up was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When there’s nothing to do but be posh

Martha’s — Blog Post: A winter’s night, a blankie, and Arthur.

“Arthur!” I screamed enthusiastically.

Arthur leapt visibly in his lounge chair, having been on the verge of nodding off.

“Wha..? What?” he demanded, pretending he hadn’t been sleeping at all.

“Oh, nothing, dear. I was trying to remember the name of the author who wrote, The Hound of the …”

“Arthur Cannon-Ball,” he declared triumphantly, perking up in his chair. “Hyphenated, you know!”

“I don’t think…”

“Nonsense!” dear. You are a great thinker; however, on this occasion, I know exactly what I am talking about.”

“You do?” I giggled, happily snuggling into my blankie.

Arthur nodded wisely, his eyes signalling he was deep in thought.

He cleared his throat and began …

It was a stinker of a winter’s night when a thunderous knock was plainly heard on the door of 221F Butcher Lane, Brisbane.

Sherwood Homie glanced at his homeboy, Wassup. “Who the dickens could that be at this time of night?”

Wassup, always eager to correct Homie, announced, “I think you probably mean, who the Arthur Cannon-Ball could be at the door?”

Homie shook his head in disbelief. “Just answer the door, Wassup. I have to prepare for a mysterious visitor of average build, nondescript clothing, no facial hair and a short back and sides haircut.”

Wassup grumbled as he trudged down four flights of stairs because Homie was too stingy to install a camera and call button at the front door. Shortly after, Wassup reappeared at the apartment, dishevelled and sweating, accompanied by a tall, stringy man in a tailored suit. The man’s long black hair flowed down his back from under a ridiculous top hat. He held a walking stick and appeared to have taken the stairs with ease.

Ignoring the man’s rather flamboyant appearance, which greatly differed from his earlier portent, Sherwood spoke to the visitor.

“Please, identify yourself, sir, and take a seat by the fire.”

The man spoke hesitantly, “My name is …”

Sherword whispered to Wassup, “Mortician!” predicting the stranger’s profession.

“Why, how on earth did you know that?” queried the man excitedly.

Sherwood puffed up with detective-ability-importance and grinned at Wassup.

“My name, dear Homie, as you appear to have somehow deduced, is Grisley Mortician, Dr of Medicine. I am here on behalf of Ivan Bugger-All of Cecil Plains. He is in a most grievous situation and begs for your assistance.

“Ahh,” sighed Sherwood, his eyes glistening in the firelight. “I have heard of the Buggeralls.”

“No, no, Mr Homie. The name is Buggar-All. Hyphenated, you know!”

“Oh, of course,” acquiesced Sherwood, sitting back in his fireside chair. “Wassup, do offer our guest a refreshment.”

Dr Jimmie Wassup glared at Sherwood Homie. “I’m not a servant, sir,” he reminded the detective, who seemed to forget Wassup had recently received his medical degree from the online Brisbane TAFE College.

“Were you not thinking you would like a whiskey?” sniped his companion.

Wassup guessed he had been staring longingly at the decanter in the corner. He shrugged.

“Well, then, be a gracious host and pour us all a drop of the good stuff. There’s a good man.”

As Wassup poured three generous serves of the good stuff, Sherwood encouraged Mortician to continue.

“As you may know, the Bugger-Alls have a large Mansion in the most desolate area of Cecil. Recently, the eldest Bugger-All, Chuck, died in mysterious circumstances…”

Sherwood was keen to interrupt. “Did you perhaps give him a shot of embalming fluid instead of his iron injection?”

“What? No, of course not.” Mortician was beginning to worry that the great Sherwood Homie was perhaps suffering from early-onset dementia.

Feeling sorry for their guest, Wassup handed him his drink and begged him to continue.

“Contrary to what you may be thinking, I’m not here because of the mysterious death of Baron Chuck.”

“Damn!” interjected Sherwood. “I had you pegged for the perp. Embalming things at random, and all that.”

“I am not a mortician, Sherwood. Please understand that I am/was personal physician to Chuck Bugger-All, and consequently, I became personal physician to Ivan, who is very much alive and very vexed.”

“Vexed?” sneered Sherwood. “Who says vexed these days?” Turning to Wassup, Sherwood added, “A bit of a wanker, don’t you think, Wassie?”

“Don’t call me that! You know I detest that nickname.” Wassup indignantly gulped a large mouthful of whiskey and began to choke.

“Oh, dear! exclaimed the visitor, half rising. “I appear to be something of an annoyance to you both, AND I object to being called a wanker!”

“Forgive Sherwood,” choked Wassup, slowly recovering. He cast a warning glance at his flatmate. “Can you tell us a short history of the Bugger-Alls. I wonder how they came by that surname?”

Mortician sank warily back into his seat and finally removed his hat, placing it on the floor at his feet.

“Well…” he faltered, gathering his thoughts, concerned that the great Sherwood Homie and his sidekick seemed to differ greatly from their reputations. Goes to show, he thought, you can’t take a lick of notice of what you see on the YouthTubes.

Clearing his throat, he continued. “My employers and their predecessors have been Bugger-Alls through many generations. It is said that the name originally was Burgessall, one of whom built a great fortune in Britain during the Industrial Revolution. Over the generations, his successors fell into idleness and great debauchery. One such ancestor chased an unwilling wench across the moors on a cold winter’s night. He rode his horse with ferocity, his baying hounds leading the way, until the poor woman collapsed in fear and died.

“The fellow was brought before the English courts and sent to a convict settlement in Sydney. The family continued to live on in Australia, some finally finding their way to Queensland, whereupon the Burgessall family’s fortune somehow reached the surviving colonists. They were a lazy, good-for-nothing lot, and the name Burgessall finally became Bugger-All, possibly because the family did just that, bugger all. I suggest it was a nickname given to the family by Aussie outbackers, and the inbred lot that had settled in Australia were too stupid to realise the locals were laughing at them. The new hyphenated version of the surname appeared posh, so it was legally changed.

“My late employer made good of some of the family fortune by buying a cotton gin and investing in grain in Cecil. However, I am afraid the laziness and idleness of the latest baron is legendary. Nevertheless, he is my employer, and it is my duty to somehow help him out of his quandary.”

“Ah,” Wassup murmured. “Well, it would seem like a perfectly normal colonial story of wealth and debauchery. What is the problem that is causing such…” Wassup winked at Homie, “… vexation?”

Doctor Mortician continued. “The late baron, always keen to be doing something his ancestors did, began breeding dogs. Somehow, he managed to produce a massive black hound of mixed heritage. It’s a nasty beast; snarly, gnashing of teeth, slobbering. At first, it was a suspect in the baron’s death, but that seems unlikely because, whilst the hound is large and unfriendly, it is too lethargic to get off its backside, even to defecate.

Homie muttered in the corner, “Which brings us back to lethal injection by embalming fluid.”

“Nonsense!” shouted the visitor. “Will you please refrain from pointing your finger at me. I am not here regarding the late baron’s death.”

“Perhaps you should be,” Sherwood countered.

In haste to calm the situation, Wassup asked, “You refer to the hound as the hound of the Bugger-alls. Does it have another name?”

“Its name is Soccer-Ball. Hyphenated,” replied Mortician, casting an evil eye at Homie.

“What a strange name for a dog,” remarked Wassup. “Why do you think it was given that name?”

“Because it lies on the ground doing nothing,” interjected Homie, “until it receives a good kick in the guts.” He smiled triumphantly. “Now, if you don’t mind, Dr Mortician, it would please Wassup and me if you would get to the matter that brought you here.”

Mortician struggled to gain his composure. Ignoring Sherwood, he addressed Wassup. “I’m here because the hound ate the new baron’s Bisabolol.”

“His what?” chorused the residents of 221F Butcher Lane.”

“Bisabolol,” returned the visitor. “The baron’s new anti-aging cream. It’s outrageously expensive. The upshot is the hound ate it, and appears to be growing younger every day!”

“And there is a problem because?” asked Wassup.

“Because, if the beast grows younger and more feisty, it might leave its slovenly ways behind and begin to create some real mischief.”

“Like eating the new baron, for instance,” added Sherwood. “Why don’t you use some of your embalming fluid on the hound?” he asked, suggestively.

“I didn’t…” stuttered Mortician.

“Or, perhaps, have it euthanised before trouble gets a go on,” suggested Wassup, trying to divert attention.

“Of course,” agreed Mortician. “In fact, that is being taken care of in Cecil Plains as we speak.”

“Well, what in the good Lord’s name do you want from me?” screeched Sherwood, finally running out of patience.

Mortician leaned forward eagerly in his chair, his face colouring with a hint of embarrassment.

“I haven’t been able to source Bisabolol, and if I return to Cecil without it, my life won’t be worth a cent. I need the great Sherwood Homie to track some down so that I might return home in jubilation.”

It was Wassup’s turn to be scathing, “Jubilation! Who says Jubilation these days? I ask you, Homie.”

Homie cast a silencing eye upon his partner. “I do, you uncouth scoundrel!”

Wassup could not remember a single day when Homie had used either the word, jubilation, or scoundrel, but he held his tongue because he knew his friend’s mind had fallen to the task of solving the Baron of Bugger-all’s vexation.

Homie reached for his mobile phone and began scrolling.

“What, Homie?” Wassup enquired eagerly.

“Apothecary Warehouse!” declared the great detective, “and I bet they have embalming fluid, too!”

“The end!” declared Arthur, leaning back in his chair, feigning exhaustion. “How was it?”

“Oh, it was marvellous, dear!” I enthused. “You outdid yourself with details this time.” I pointed to the book languishing on his coffee table. “I take it you have just finished the real deal?”

Arthur laughed. “Yes. How else did I manage the intricacies? By this time tomorrow, I will have forgotten my whole story.”

“Not to worry,” I declared triumphantly, holding up my phone. “I recorded every single word right from when I screamed, Arthur.”

“You tricked me,” Arthur laughed. “Is this going to find its way onto that little writing platform of yours?”

“Of course, dear.” I patted him playfully on the arm and shrugged off my blankie. “Now, how about a cuppa and a nice choccy wheat biscuit? You must be famished!”

Welcome back, John Peck . We have missed your special style of humour.

John, Where the Hell Have You Been?

The Hound of the Bugger-Alls was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Blood, scarlet women, and strawberry jam

Previously: A dam-digging cowboy was approached by a strange young lady as he rested for lunch under the flame tree. A series of dream adventures followed in which he revisited life-altering events from his past. Weirdly, the colour red featured heavily throughout his visitations.

Brigit was still cradling my head when I roused from sleep, which, unfortunately, meant that not everything had been a nightmare. I consoled myself that the worst parts of my experience had obviously been a dream, so that was something positive.

“Remember,” declared Brigit, noting that I was now awake, “when you failed to see the stop sign and totalled your first car? Doesn’t pay to ignore red for stop.”

I shrugged her off, impatiently, and jumped to my feet.

“How do you know that?” I was beginning to yell. “Who sent you here? I would be happy if you just buggared off!”

She didn’t have the decency to look offended.

The car had been my pride and joy, absorbing every cent of the money I had saved during my first two years working on a neighbouring farm.

There had been a few rust patches in the old Holden and a few necessary repairs to attend to before I painted it a silver-grey colour (thankfully, not red) and gained a bit of local notoriety by cruising too fast down local lanes and through the small township that we called home.

On the night of the accident, however, there was a lot of red.

The car I totalled when I careered out of control on the outskirts of town, having ignored, as suggested by Brigit, the only stop sign in the local area, was a bright, red, family sedan.

At that time, of course, there had been a lot of blood; mine, the other driver’s and that of an unrestrained six-year-old child who was D.O.A at the local hospital, fifteen minutes post-crash.

Long story short, the judge made an example of me and sentenced me to five years in a Queensland jail.

I haven’t driven a car since.

There was certainly a lot of red in prison, I recalled, lying beneath the flame tree, once again cradled in Brigit’s arms. I was staring up at the red blossom cloud, remembering the battle for survival that was an everyday part of prison life.

Many of the other prisoners wanted to make me their bitch, and I wanted no part of it. Sometimes I had to defend myself against unwanted advances, which sure helped toughen me up.

Anger and violence erupted daily, when blood was drawn, and sometimes, prisoners died from their injuries. I kept a low profile, though that wasn’t always possible.

I used my time by participating in prison programs and studying animal husbandry and business practices. I wanted to make something of my life after leaving the prison walls.

I was grateful that Queensland prisons, for the most part, had separate cells for their inmates, which meant I could relax my guard a little at night, focusing on study and the self-improvement courses the prison offered.

Nothing, though, could protect me from the nightmares. To this day, I still have dreams of abattoirs and a little boy, moaning and dying in an ocean of blood, and I suspect that sometimes, the boy is both me and the one in the accident, all mixed up together, crying for life lost, a mother’s comforting breast no longer available.

“Remember,” Brigit’s voice broke into my remembering, as if she had been part of my mental processes, “how you coped when you were released from prison?”

I nodded, a little embarrassed. I couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Not well, as it turned out,” I admitted. “All my good intentions were left behind within the prison walls.

“They put me on a bus and dumped me in a doss house in the middle of town. It was hard to find work, and I soon burned through the savings I had put away before the accident.”

“‘There wasn’t a lot — you didn’t buy a car,’” reminded Brigit.

“Nope.” I wanted to change the subject.

“There was a red-light district, even in that small town.” Brigit was grinning now.

How did this annoying girl know so much about me? It seemed she took great pleasure in dragging out the embarrassing stuff, making me examine events I was happy to forget.

“Sure, alright,” I capitulated when she kept pressing for more details. “I spent most of the money I had on cheap whores, sex and pornography. Are you happy now?”

“I am always happy. Why do you refer to working girls as whores? Weren’t you pleased they were available in your pain?”

I shrugged. “Never thought of it like that. I suppose so.”

“Ladies of the night are red, you know. They are instruments of passion and, for the most part, compassion. Passion, seduction, danger. That’s as red as can be.” Brigit nodded sagely, then looked to me for validation.

“Yeah, okay, so they are red, so what?”

Brigit looked at me pityingly. “There has been a lot of red in your life.”

A chill ran down my spine. A sudden thought compelled me to sit away from her and ask the question. “Am I going to die? Is this what you are all about?”

“Remember your red guitar? How happy did playing make you?”

“Are you going to answer my question? Forget about my guitar,” I almost yelled at her.

“Why would we forget about your guitar? It brought you back from the brink of despair and gave you purpose. Playing your music and learning a new skill gave you hope. You moved on and made a new, more constructive life. Red for pleasure and purpose,” she announced.

I gave my guitar a few seconds of my time, feeling love and appreciation for all it had given me, then returned to the question at hand.

“Tell me, now. Am I about to die? What’s with all the red stuff?”

A sudden wave of fear moved up from my gut to my neck, spreading fire with it. “Are you from Hell, a warning of what is to come?” I was panicking, trying to create distance between us; the red blooms shifted and stirred as I moved away.

Brigit raised a finger to her lips in an effort to calm me. “Hell is of one’s own making. There is no place after death that contains fire and brimstone, whatever that is. But you are experiencing some of the major events of your life, symbolised by red. Red is a powerful mind stimulant, a positive thing.”

“How can this be positive if I am about to die?” I cried, terrified.

“Relax, think red,” she replied. “Red is the colour of life-force, a lucky colour in most Asian countries. Remember, it is the colour of passion, and in many cultures, red equals happiness. In ancient times, red was the colour of spirituality, not purple as is the modern craze.” She giggled as if it were preposterous to think of purple as a spiritual colour.

Brigit reached out a hand to take mine.

“You are not about to die. Look!” She was waving over to where the dozer had been standing, next to a large hole that was destined to become a dam.

She encouraged me to step off the red carpet of flowers and move closer to the large pit where I had been working for hours, minutes(?) previously.

Brigit walked with me, still holding my hand, gently, comfortingly.

When I saw what it was that she wanted me to see, my knees buckled, and I sank slowly to the ground, shock sapping my strength.

The dozer was upside down at the bottom of the pit I was digging just before I stopped for lunch. The large motor had ceased running, and oil was pouring from the engine, down the paintwork, and onto the legs of a pair of denim-clad jeans protruding from beneath the monstrous vehicle.

“I’m not about to die,” I whispered hoarsely.

Brigit smiled, looking directly into my face. “I’m afraid you made a terrible error of judgment.” Her laugh tinkled again. “That strawberry jam sandwich was beckoning. I am afraid you were in too much of a hurry to get your lunch.”

The shock was beginning to wear off, and I was feeling light and peaceful, joyful, even.

“Huh,” I commented, “strawberry jam….”

“… is red,” laughed Brigit.

They were all there, packed into the little chapel at the crematorium.

My parents were front and centre, being consoled by local farmers and a whole lot of people from the community. The way they were going on, you would think I had been a pillar of society, even though two out-of-uniform prison guards represented the local prison.

I was surprised and perversely amused by the presence of two cheaply dressed girls who had been a source of comfort to me during my darkest hours. I sent them a ghostly word of thanks, with the apparent approval of Brigit, who was still with me.

We were sitting on the oak beams high above the little crowd below when I suddenly realised my earthly body was almost due to head for the crematorium. Panicking, I asked Brigit if it was too late to change my mind. Being burnt to a crisp in a mighty fire had lost its appeal if it ever had any.

“Don’t be silly,” Brigit admonished, patting me on the arm. “You won’t feel a thing, and purification by fire assists the soul to transcend.”

“It does?” I was pretty naïve when it came to this death stuff.

Looking down at my parents, I was surprised at the level of grief my father was exhibiting. I had thought he was harsh and uncaring in life, but now, in my death, he seemed to be suffering.

“He always loved you,” remarked Brigit. “He thought he was showing love by raising you to be tough.”

“I guess,” I replied. “Can we go now?”

I had no idea where we were going next, but I was anxious to begin. The scene below me was suddenly of no genuine interest, feeling as I did that there were better things to be getting on with.

“Of course,” replied my guide, standing on the beam and striking a pose. “You sure you don’t want to stay around for the last big flame? It’ll be red!” she cajoled in an enticing tone.

“Think I’ll pass on that one,” I laughed at her antics. “What’s next?” I was feeling great excitement.

“Rebirth,” she announced, soft breath escaping pursed lips.

We gazed at one another as the information sank in.

I felt a smile creeping through my mouth.

“It’ll be red!” we laughed in unison.

“…that’s the way to tell a true story from a made-up one. A made-up story always has a neat and tidy end. But true stories don’t end, at least until their heroes and heroines die, and not then really because the things they did and didn’t do, sometimes live on.”
Elspeth Huxley, The Flame Trees of Thika: Memories of an African Childhood

List: The Illawarra Flame Tree x Two Episodes | Curated by Raine Lore | Medium

With thanks to Suma Narayan, who asked to be tagged.

The Illawarra Flame Tree was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I see red, I see red, I see red

Part One of a Two-Part Series —

She had no idea that she was trespassing, lost as she was, in a magical world of her own making.

At first, I thought she lived in her fantasy place because she was a little bit naïve, but as time went by, I began to understand that all was not as it seemed, both for her and for me.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

I saw her walking — no, prancing — across the paddock, fine fair hair flowing, skirts swirling around her ankles in a rhythm of their own making.

My first impression was that she was imitating a frisky lamb or pony, skipping her way across the paddock, head held high, twirling a full circle now and again.

It seemed she was flitting directly towards me, but actually, she had no idea I was there at all. Apparently, I didn’t fit into the dream she was making, and if she happened to open her eyes and see I was there, I figured she would see a frog turned into a prince, not a dusty cowboy seated beneath a tree, slap bang in the middle of a paddock.

It might have been magical dreamtime for the girl, but it was lunchtime for me, and I had sought out the only tree offering shade.

Focused as I was on eating my strawberry jam sandwich and quenching my thirst from a buckled flask that had accompanied my lunch bag for years, I was not all that interested in interruptions.

At mealtimes, I usually liked to distance myself from my boss for fear that my rest might be interpreted as an unnecessary interruption to the work I was doing, which, at present, was digging a dam sorely needed for stock watering and irrigation.

The bright yellow D6B dozer that I had been driving was parked some metres away, waiting for me to return to my duties.

Admittedly, it was a magnificent tree that was shielding me from the midday sun, and, in retrospect, I guessed it was the tree itself that first beckoned to the girl, drawing her through the wire fence and across the field.

If she had been looking for splendour, the flame tree would have attracted her like a moth to a flickering flame.

In the hours that followed, I would try to point out to Brigit, (her name, as it transpired), that all the magic and mystery one could ever need was right here in front of our eyes and whilst she agreed in principle, she did not seem to understand precisely what it was I was talking about; real things, like moss on a rock in a softly flowing stream, or the incredible length frogs legs are when they are extended fully during mid-leap.

My impression was that her thoughts were of dragons that breathed fire, and unicorns that pranced pinkly through misty forests.

But once again, I am getting ahead of myself.

And so, this beautiful girl, whose name I didn’t know at that stage, was drifting in rhythm, closer to the flame tree, and I was sitting like a gaping loon, strawberry jam sandwich gripped in a grimy hand, half poised in front of my face. I was vaguely aware of the nipping cold of my battered flask dripping beads of moisture onto my other fist.

I was wondering if the girl would ever notice my existence, when, suddenly, her dancing ceased abruptly, right at the edge of the carpet of red flowers that covered the ground for several feet around the flame tree. A carpet upon which I sat, leaning against the tree.

“Oh, there you are,” she looked me directly in the eyes and smiled softly. “I nearly missed you.”

She waved a slender arm, indicating the blossoms lying thickly about. “How can there be so many flowers on the ground and yet the tree is weighted with blossoms? There doesn’t seem to be any spaces from which they fell.”

Her eyes flicked over the tree and back to my face, expecting an answer.

I merely shrugged, still holding the sandwich in front of my face, a doughy fan waving as if to create a breeze in the heat.

I found my words suddenly, my throat released from a strange stranglehold.

“You do know you’re not supposed to be here?” I enquired, surprised at the tone of my own voice.

The girl’s demeanour abruptly changed from blissful wonder to an intensity that surprised and slightly worried me.

“Oh, I am supposed to be here!” Once again, she indicated the red carpet all around. “My favourite colour, isn’t it amazing?”

I had a sudden, unsettling reaction to her enthusiasm. A low buzzing filled my ears, and my vision suddenly blurred into a red fog, shifting and swaying before my confused eyes.

The strawberry jam sandwich fell onto the flower carpet with a dull plop, and I was vaguely aware of loosening my grip on my flask. It too fell and nestled softly into the blooms.

I heard her laugh, soft and tinkling, and a fleeting thought crossed my mind. She was used to these sorts of reactions. It pleased her to confuse and bedazzle, and I was quickly becoming her victim, eagerly succumbing to her flirtations.

And then, I think I passed out cold.

I came to (at least I think I was conscious), to a most confusing sight.

She was strutting up and down the bed of red flowers, twirling with a hand on her hip, head held back, now and then striking a pose. I knew she was pretending to be a catwalk model, utterly obsessed with performing to an imaginary, adoring audience.

Blooms were being disturbed as she moved, and, occasionally, she kicked out with a dainty foot, sending red to float in the air.

Still dazed, my eyes followed an airborne flower as gravity pulled it back to earth.

The bloom morphed before my confused gaze, liquifying into a large, red droplet which hit the earth with a terrifying plop and burst into a million droplets, covering my face and filling my eyes.

I began choking. Was the cursed stuff filling my throat? My head felt as if it would burst with the sudden onset of a dreadful pressure. I heard voices in my mind, reassuring and calming, and then, suddenly, clarity as my eyes cleared, and, with a roar of relief, I drew a deep, reviving breath of the blessed breeze that was kissing and ruffling the branches of the blazing flame tree.

She told me her name was Brigit as she held me to her breast and smoothed my damp hair.

A cool, anxious touch softly caressed my closed eyelids, and I felt her gently opening my curled fingers as if to examine them for something undiscovered.

I slept right there, cradled in her arms, a gnawing hunger rising in the bit of my stomach.

When I awoke, I was surprised to note that the sun had barely moved from its high point in the sky.

Raising myself onto my elbow, I noted with idle curiosity that the flame tree had disappeared and I was alone.

The ground below me was hot, dusty and unrelenting. Why was I lying in the middle of what appeared to be a country lane?

A glint of red flashed in my peripheral vision.

Dragging myself to a sitting position, I stared in surprise at what appeared to be a shiny, new bicycle partially hidden in the grass at the side of the road.

Crouching low, a painful graze on my knee caught my attention, drawing a curse from my throat. I wiped at the wound gently, dragging a smear of blood across the fabric of my torn jeans, then, staggering across to the bike, I was dismayed to discover it had been damaged. The glossy, black leather seat was scuffed, and the front wheel was twisted and broken.

I was heartbroken.

How could I have been so stupid? Dad was going to be furious. I knew better than to take the new bike out for a spin, having been told many times to wait until I was big enough to reach the pedals and control the bike. Now it was ruined. A belting was surely coming my way.

I could almost hear the roaring of my father’s anger, a reaction to my disobedience. Yep, I was in for it, for sure!

Sanity suddenly prevailed. What had I been thinking? A grown man, worried about some stupid farm kid’s bike, discarded and ruined in the grass.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but I could still hear my father’s voice and imagined I could feel the welts that raised red on my backside all those years ago.

“I’m going mad,” I declared, rubbing at my stinging backside and noting with alarm that my knee was still grazed and smarting.

A light laugh disturbed my thoughts.

“Haha, your thought processes are quite normal,” declared Brigit, appearing from apparently nowhere.

She twirled and finished by striking a pose.

“Where the hell did you come from and what’s with the Madonna routine?” I snarled, confused and angry.

“Madonna?” she looked at me enquiringly.

“You know, Vogue, strike a pose and all that?” I sounded daft, even to myself.

“Oh, yes, I see where you’re going with that. Think Naomi Campbell, more like,” she suggested.

I snorted. “She’s black, very successful and controversial, not white, fragile and ethereal.”

Brigit looked confused. “Is she?”

I was getting fed up with the silly conversation. “Is she what? And where do you keep popping up from?”

“Is she black? I hadn’t noticed. I pop up when you need me, I thought that was becoming obvious.” Brigit touched her left temple. “I thought Naomi was red.”

I made an unattractive spluttering sound.

“Red for fiery, energetic and passionate,” Brigit explained patiently.

“Whatever,” I shrugged. “Look, I need to get back to the flame tree and the dozer, wherever that is,” I looked around, still confused. “I have work to do.” I sounded lame.

Nothing says lame like a strapping farmhand lying like a disused and abandoned rag doll in the middle of a slightly overgrown paddock.

I dragged myself to a sitting position and wondered where Brigit had gone. Surely, she couldn’t have carried or dragged me here, to wherever here was.

I became aware of a familiar noise, filling my ears and drowning out the other, more pleasant sounds of nature.

An odour assaulted my senses; a smell I knew well: metallic, vaguely disgusting, and red, red, always red.

Then I knew what I had awoken to.

I was lying near my boyhood home, close to a place that had repelled me in my youth.

My father had an abattoir that supplied the local butcheries, and I was required, from the age of thirteen, to work in the family business.

Although I was acutely aware that we needed to slaughter cattle to provide meat and an income for the household, I hated doing the work. I hated hearing the last lows of the cattle before they were rendered unconscious. I hated the smell, and I hated hosing down the yards, the weakened red of the blood mixed with water, flowing into drains and into my nightmares.

My mother had declared me too sensitive for the work, which, once again, enraged my father, and barely a few years passed before I found myself out of the family home and on my own, seeking work on local farmers’ properties.

I had no desire to raise myself to my feet to revisit the horrors of the abattoir, and I wondered in fear what it was I had done to deserve the treatment I was receiving, and then I realised — none of this was actually happening!

I told myself I must have fallen asleep under the flame tree, dropping my sandwich and flask onto the glorious red carpet of flowers, and all I had to do to end the vile red nightmare was to wake up.

So, I did!

Next Time: Briget guides the cowboy to the story’s fiery, crimson conclusion.

List: The Illawarra Flame Tree x Two Episodes | Curated by Raine Lore | Medium

The Illawarra Flame Tree was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Oh, and discordant musical scales

In 1954, the years of the Second World War were still freshly etched into the minds of adults, many of whom had become parents of young children.

In my later years, I began to wonder how many of us post-war boomer babies had parents who struggled with not-yet-recognised PTSD (shell shock) and other mental health problems, which made parenting difficult, and were responsible for detached parenting practices.

As a four-year-old, I was vaguely aware that my brother and I were often shipped off during holidays to stay with different family members because our parents needed a rest.

Sometimes, we were lucky enough to be sent to Nana’s house to spend some of the summer break.

Nana’s home was a little old dwelling on a smallholding in a tiny country town (population around 1300) in New Zealand. We had to fly by plane, from the South to the North Island, with small identifying labels attached to our clothing. Our plane was met by a relative who would drive the considerable distance to Nana’s place.

The busy little town consisted of a main street with shops, a taxi rank, a town hall, a church and, for sure, a pub or two.

The cottage had two bedrooms with an outhouse, which was scary for a small child. Young children weren’t expected to visit the outhouse at night — there was a big, chipped enamel potty shoved under the bed for nocturnal emergencies.

When our cousins also visited, the four of us slept in grandma’s bed, and she bunked with our aunt, who was only 11 years older than I, and who seemed to do nothing but practise her singing scales in the front room from morning to night.

It was fun being with the other kids under the swamping feather-down quilt, but I didn’t like it when the light was turned off, and moonlight shone on the many overhead dark, wood-grained cupboards that seemed to gleam ominously in the shadows.

They appeared to be perfect for hiding child-eating monsters!

One morning, I was woken by crashing sounds at the front of the cottage, punctuation for Aunty’s piano playing and incessant vocal scales.

Later, I asked Nana if I could go outside to see what had caused the banging in the early hours. Nana and our aunt looked at one another in horror.

Nana appeared to be weighing up whether to spin a yarn or to tell the truth. She decided on the truth.

“At certain times of the year, in the early hours of dawn, the light makes the glass panes at the front of the house seem like open windows. Crows often slam into them at full speed and knock themselves unconscious. Most of the time, they recuperate and fly off with a giant headache. Sometimes, one or two suffer terrible injuries and don’t recover.”

She advised me not to go looking for comatose crows in the early hours of the morning, as it could be upsetting.

I planned an early-morning excursion in the very near future.

Later that day, dressed in my best outfit, I accompanied my grandmother, my aunt, my older brother, and my cousins on a pleasant mile-long walk into town. Our destination was the old town hall, where my aunt was scheduled to perform a song in a concert to be held at some future date for the town’s general public.

I sincerely hoped that her repertoire consisted of more than screechy, monotonous scales. I was kind of glad I wouldn’t be in the audience on opening night — a person could become a laughingstock by association!

We were all ushered into the front row, which consisted of hard wooden benches; bum-numbing even for us youngsters.

We enjoyed watching the dress rehearsal of the concert and the ensuing panic and disruptions when things failed to go according to plan. We skittered around on the seats trying to relieve our uncomfortable bottoms as production problems were worked through.

Soon, it was Aunty’s turn to dazzle with her vocals, and I inwardly shuddered when the pianist hit a note, and Aunty came on in a fetching frock, holding a large, golden umbrella.

As the introduction continued on the piano, I sat up in amazement, recognising the refrain that began a very popular tune that was playing on all the radio stations at the time; “If I Had a Golden Umbrella”.

Without fear or aforethought, I jumped from my torturous bench and belted up the little steps onto the stage. Snatching the glorious umbrella from Aunty’s hands, I launched into my favourite song and danced around the stage as if I owned the joint.

For some reason, my doting relatives let me finish my routine before removing me and encouraging my aunt to begin again.

In my humble opinion, my rendition was far superior to hers!

The next morning, as Aunty practised her infernal scales and crows slammed into the front windows with gay abandon, I slipped quietly from the bed and let myself out of the back door. I snuck around the house, soaking my slippers in the cool morning dew, ducking beneath the side window, just in case my head could be seen from inside.

As I neared the front of the cottage, I peered around the side of the house, and sure enough, three crows lay in the garden, immobile, with little legs and feet pointing skyward.

Taking a deep breath, I steeled my mind and moved closer to bend over one of the birds as it lay prone. I wasn’t afraid of seeing something dead — a child of the times often saw dead and injured animals. I was, however, terrified that a large crow would regain its senses and take flight while I was hovering over it.

What if it thought I had bonked it on the head?

It may well desire revenge!

Thinking I had pushed my luck, I returned to the back of the house, intending to slip inside unnoticed.

To my surprise, I saw my grandmother standing in the still morning air, gazing up at the tall pine trees that surrounded her backyard, keeping it perpetually in the gloom, or so it seemed to a small child.

Hanging back for fear of something strange and unknown, I watched tremulously as Nana let out a shrill call followed by some peculiar warbling whistles that could, I thought, be heard for miles.

Suddenly, the yard was inundated with the sound of beating wings as a black mass descended from the trees. Countless crows alighted on the grass, and those that could fit found purchase on Nana herself. She then set about dishing food out of an old bucket that stood at her feet.

I was terrified but held my ground as I could see Nana was not afraid, continuing her crow-like noises interspersed with sing-songy bird conversation. I was scared to move on two counts: I wasn’t sure I was a welcome observer, plus I had no desire to disturb the large black birds that had invaded Nana’s space.

When the crows finally had their fill and left the yard, flying off, cawking their thanks, Nana turned to me and smiled. She knew I had been standing there all along.

“What about that?” she enquired, her head on one side, awaiting my childish response.

“I was scared,” I replied. “I thought a bird might peck me, but then I remembered my golden umbrella, and I wasn’t afraid.”

“Your golden umbrella?” Nana snapped crossly. “I thought I told you to leave it in the hall.”

Realising my grandmother thought I had somehow, whilst in her company, smuggled the large umbrella a mile home through town and country roads, I quickly set her straight.

“Not the golden umbrella. That one was a bit too big for me anyway, so I made up an umbrella in my head. It’s magic, and I thought I could put it up whenever I was scared.”

Appearing relieved, my grandmother patted me on the head before rinsing and stowing away the crows’ bucket.

A sudden thought concerned me. “Nana, you know how it’s unlucky to put an umbrella up indoors ….?”

“It is, aye,” she murmured.

“Do you think it’s unlucky to put one up in my head?”

My grandmother assured me it wasn’t unlucky, and I continued to use my golden umbrella for several years — until I discovered there were many more scary things than comatose crows and discordant scales.

The magic of my golden umbrella was then discarded in favour of Superman, who might fall, comatose, from the sky at the sudden appearance of Kryptonite. Later, hit songs including “Silence is Golden,” “The Tremeloes,” and “Silver Threads and Golden Needles,” by “The Springfields,” caught my interest.

Golden Umbrellas became so yesterday!

This engaging crow story by May More prompted my post above:

Karmic Crows

Comatose Crows and a Golden Umbrella was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Finding Miss Lid and an end to the story

Previously:

Freddy and his friends have arrived in the panic-stricken town of This One. The town’s library books and librarian, Miss Lid, have all gone missing. The children reason that if they find the missing books and locate Miss Lid, the adventure will be over, and they will return home.

As it turned out, the policeman was right where we left him, sitting on his bike, supported with one leg on the ground, still scratching under his hat.

“How were the refreshments?” he bellowed pleasantly.

“Great, thanks,” I replied, skidding to a halt.

It seemed that fewer people were running about the streets. I mentioned it to the officer.

“Been trying to calm them down. Seems to be working, I guess.” He scraped his toe on the street, spoiling the shine of his boot. “How’d you get on working things out?” he asked, hope lighting up his face.

“Do you know of any underground places around here, like large tunnels or caves? We think The Bookworm is behind all the missing books.”

“The Bookworm?” The policeman looked puzzled. “Never heard of him. Does he have warrants or a rap sheet?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“Can you describe him?” asked the officer. “I’ll get some wanted posters made and put ’em around town.”

“He’s just a person-sized orange worm with people clothes on,” huffed Jan impatiently. “Tell us about any hiding places you can think of.”

“Sounds repulsive,” muttered the cop. “Now, let me see. Hmm, well, there’s a stormwater drain on the outskirts of town that takes the run-off in a storm, you know.”

He suggested other ditches and stupid little places that might house a regular earthworm and a book or two.

“A cave, then?” suggested Jack, trying to keep his impatience under wraps.

“Hmm,” the man said again, with further head scratching.

“Ah hah!” he screamed, causing us all to leap off the ground in fright.

“There is a cave! In the forest! Follow me!” And he took off on his moped with lights flashing and siren blaring.

The three of us remained rooted to the spot. There was no way we could run after him. Besides, we needed to tell him a noisy approach would send the worm poofing into oblivion.

Realising that we were not following, the policeman performed a screeching U-turn and returned to where we stood.

“We can’t run that fast,” explained Jan.

“Um, I don’t want to appear rude, sir,” I explained, “but if The Bookworm hears noise, he will disappear. He has powers, you know. We need to creep up on him very quietly and surprise him. He’ll be okay because he knows us. We will have a better chance of closing the case alone.”

The policeman looked doubtful, but just then, a young woman in uniform rushed over and shoved a pile of papers into his hand.

“Ah hah,” he grinned at us, waving the papers around delightedly. “The posters. I’ll have them put up around town. Keep us out of mischief while you sleuth your way to the worm.”

He held up a poster for our approval.

“We have a great identikit artist!” he boomed enthusiastically.

The wanted poster pictured a small child’s drawing of a worm in overalls. He had been roughly coloured in with an orange crayon.

“Awesome,” I snorted, digging Jack in the ribs. “Get those up as soon as you can, sir!”

The lady officer, Meg, showed us the way to the cave. Quietly, thankfully, the four of us traipsed to the outer limits of town into a rather leafy forest.

“It’s nice in here,” whispered Jan to the officer.

“I used to play here all the time,” Meg replied with a smile.

We had walked for only about five minutes along a track lined with wildflowers when I saw an object up ahead.

“I think that’s a book!” I halted the others and told them to proceed as quietly as possible.

Sure enough, a trail of books littered the track for a few metres, ending at a large cave entrance. Trees and shrubs surrounded the cave’s opening, and I guessed it would be pretty well hidden if it weren’t for recent traffic.

“Officer, would you mind waiting here until we call for you? I’m worried that The Bookworm will disappear if he sees you.”

“Disappear?” she queried.

“He has the power to poof in and out of places at will. You have to see it to believe it.”

“Explains how he got all the books here, I suppose,” she replied quietly. “I’ll wait here behind a tree. You yell if you need help.”

“Will do,” I replied with relief.

Grabbing the other two by the arms, we approached the cave as quietly as possible.

The sight that greeted us was mind-blowing!

Mountains of books were piled high throughout the cavernous opening. Other books were strewn about, knee-deep in places. Over in the corner sat a strange little woman wearing glasses — she was engrossed in the book on her lap. Her complexion was remarkably orange.

Miss Lid, I presumed.

The shadows we cast at the cave entrance caused her to look up from her studies. Instead of calling out for help or even in alarm, she raised her arms in delight and welcomed us in.

“The children!” she exclaimed. “Wormy! The children are here!”

Wormy? I threw a look at the other two.

“Oh, good!” exclaimed The Bookworm as he poofed in from somewhere in the back of the cave. “I’m still nowhere near finding an ending!”

Jan was the first to respond. “An ending!” she exclaimed. “You stole all these books and the librarian just to find an end to your story?”

The Bookworm looked embarrassed. “Well, not stole, exactly,” he replied. “But I was just trying to get ideas, not copy someone else’s. That would be plagiarism, you know.”

“So, you’re the writer, Wormy,” I remarked sarcastically.

He shuffled around in the dirt and threw a coy look at Miss Lid, whose cheeks had gone pink.

Jan shoved me with her elbow and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I think they’re, you know, an item. She kinda looks like him.”

I snickered. “Well, with a name like that!”

“So, to make things clear,” I announced, “you ‘borrowed’ the books, and Miss Lid, to help you find an end to this stupid story we all find ourselves in. As it turned out, the only way to get an ending you liked was to write us in to find it for you.”

The Bookworm nodded enthusiastically. “Anne and I have been searching frantically in case you failed to turn up. Thank goodness you’re here. You were the brightest kids I could find. Now the story has an ending.”

“It does?” queried Jen in surprise.

“Sure,” replied The Bookworm. “You found us and solved the mystery. I can return the books and send you back home, then Anne and I can live happily ever after. A happily ever after ending is very popular, you know. The library will have to find a new librarian, but that’s their problem.”

“I think the town constabulary might have other ideas,” I said smugly. “Jack, call Meg in!”

Jack raced outside and yelled for all he was worth, and then the world went ‘POOF!’.

I woke up suddenly — my head felt funny, and my mouth was very dry. Fragments of a weird dream popped slowly into my mind.

In it, there was a large worm and a weird sheriff on a moped, a town full of crazy people running around wailing about missing books and a librarian named Miss Lid.

Then it all flooded back, and I remembered.

Looking around my room, everything seemed to be in its place. No smart-mouthed worm sat in my bean bag chair — the book I was reading was still beside me on the bed.

Perhaps I had dreamed everything. I shook my head, trying to get the crazy adventure out of my mind.

I picked up my library book and slowly opened the cover, hoping I would not be suddenly whisked into a smelly tunnel again.

Nothing happened, and I was convinced it was a crazy dream.

Until I saw the dedication at the top of the first page.

To three smart kids, Freddy, Jack and Jan, who inspired the ending of this story.
Until we meet again, The Bookworm.

FYI: No children were poofed away while reading this story.

Read them all on the Bookworm Collection:

List: The Bookworm Three Part Series | Curated by Raine Lore | Medium

The Bookworm was originally published in The RvR on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.