WRITING GALLERY - JULY 2026

Frank Carter was the definitive average man so beloved by opinion pollsters. Frank commuted to the city by train five days a week. He worked from eight thirty to four in a dingy, stuffy office; a tiny cog in the huge ponderous wheel of bureaucracy. The one bright spot in Franks tedious day was to stroll to the park at lunch time to pelt the ducks with stale cheese sandwiches. It vented his frustration and brought a modicum of excitement and danger into the dreary lives of the overfed wildlife.

Franks weekends were equally pedestrian and predictable, a dreary routine of shopping trips, gardening and car washing, yet he was happy with his lot. His two great ambitions were to play the lead role in his local amateur dramatics club and to finish a Times crossword; lofty heights that were to elude him forever.

One day as he strolled towards the park, armed with his duck-baiting ammunition, he passed by one of the major banks as alarm bells began to ring furiously. Two shady characters burst from the building, stockings over their heads and carrying bulging holdalls. One of the men waved a sawn-off shotgun at the gathering band of curious lunchtime strollers. Franks sharp, analytical civil servant mind quickly

assessed the situation; either these were security guards with an identity crisis, or the bank was being robbed. Something snapped; with total disregard for personal safety, and no thought of material gain - except perhaps a brief mention on the evening news - Frank took a flying leap at the villain with the gun.

Franks spontaneous urge to earn his fifteen minutes of fame was granted in spectacular fashion. He knocked his intended victim off balance, the gun went off and Frank’s face was blown away by the startled bank robber. Frank Carter died as he lived - making a futile gesture.

The story was seized upon hungrily by the media. The six o'clock news hailed Frank a hero. Next day newspapers carried banner headlines proclaiming the selfless action of this brave citizen. Tributes trickled in.

'How could he do this to us,' cried his distraught wife Betty, 'the stupid bugger wasn't even insured.'

His boss of thirty years was equally grief-stricken. 'Frank who? Are you sure he works for me?'

'Silly bugger should have stuck to duck-bashing for his kicks' suggested a colleague.

The police chief issued a statement: 'It was a stupid stunt to pull. We have better things to do than go around mopping up would be heroes from the pavement.'
Frank himself took his death very calmly. Freed from its fleshy strait jacket after forty five dreary years, his spirit literally soared. He drifted up through the clouds, away from the drudgery of life. He floated aimlessly through the stratosphere, rising until the planet was a speck in the velvety blackness of space; stars winked knowingly as he passed. Out here time had no meaning, speed no relevance. The incomprehensible vastness of eternity, the intense silence, inspired a feeling of incredible loneliness; yet he was not afraid. For the first time in his miserable existence his insignificance did not matter so much.

A GRAVE ADOPTION
by Melinda

Closing her eyes Penny focused on the rhythmic clickety-clack of the train wheels on the track. She noted her quick breathing and wondered, why the uneasy feeling? Scrolling the news on her phone a few minutes later, she found an article about ‘Grave Adopters.’ It described a phenomenon that had been unfolding in Holland over several decades.

She read, 

‘Operation Oyster was an allied attack on several Philips factories in Eindhoven, Holland during WW2. The factories were major producers of radio parts and radar technology for Germany. The bombing operation was challenging as the factories were in suburban areas. It took place on a Sunday. The aircraft dived precariously to within 30 metres of the factories in order to accurately unload 60 tons of bombs. After the raid, it took the Germans more than six months to ramp up production again.’

Penny, looked out the window at the backyards as they slipped by affording momentary glimpses into other people’s lives. Then Windsor Station. Still a while to go. She continued reading.

Whole families tending the graves of strangers, she thought. Over generations. Amazing!

Her phone rang.
“Hello, Penny Ryan?” asked an accented voice.

“Yes?” Penny considered hanging up.

“Here is Annaliese. I live in Eindhoven in Holland. I know it is crazy, but I have a message for you. From a relative. Please, I know it is crazy, but please, just a few minutes.”

Both intrigued and suspicious Penny grunted her assent.

Annaliese continued, “Um, you see, my family, since 80 years, has looked after a graf, … I think in English, you say ‘grave?”

“Hmm hmmm,” Penny responded – thinking, ‘This has to be a scam. Someone else has read the article about Grave Adopters and is trying to turn it to account. Not on my watch! She was about to hang up when she heard a familiar name.

“The grave is from Sergeant Peter Marlo. He is, I think, the uncle of your mother. My family never knew him, but they visited always to say, ‘thank you.’ He died in WW2.”

“Oh?’ queried Penny. ‘Marlo’ was her grandmother’s maiden name.

“Yes, Australian Airmen, they bombed factories here in Eindhoven, back in two and forty … nou, 1942. Sergeant Marlo was one of the Airmen, he died. In 19 … 45 my grandparents started to visit his grave. Also, my parents continued and now I with my husband and children. Last week we visited and I got … I don’t know how you say, maybe, a strong feeling.“

Shocked, Penny was realising that not only did Annaliese’s story tally, maybe too neatly, with the article she had just been reading, but also it was quite personal to her. Still dubious, but nonetheless interested, Penny looked out the train window and around the near empty carriage that was typical for her early Friday afternoon commute home. Annaliese explained that she had somehow heard or received Penny’s details and a message. “I don’t understand, such a strong feeling. I had to call you. I think it was from the grave of Peter Marlo. It was through my body. … Do you take a train?” she continued, “the message is, very strong … that you should not take the train next Monday morning. So, I must say, please. Please don’t take the train.”

Thanking Annaliese, Penny hung up thinking, that was all a bit odd.

On the Monday after the call Penny had a strong uneasy feeling. She rang-in to work sick. At 11am the news started coming through that there had been a mass shooting on the 7.42 train from Sandringham. Penny would normally have been on that train.

Several weeks later Penny was in Eindhoven with Annaliese sharing a picnic and whisky at the grave of Sergeant Peter Marlo, Airman of the 464 Squadron. He had died in Operation Oyster on December 6, 1942.

'Today, thousands of Eindhoven residents still tend the graves of the Airmen they never knew – on the Airmen’s birthdays, on D-day and Sinterklaas Day. They light candles, bring flowers and share a glass of whisky over the grave; with a splash for the airmen.'  De Telegraaf, May 2026

YOUR CHOOK IS COOKED
by Libby

She could hear him moving around the bedroom as she pretended to be asleep, then the walk-in robe opening drawers softly, then the bathroom. Finally, she heard his footsteps heading to the front door and departing.

She waited for a few minutes making sure that he had indeed gone. She roused herself.

“Plenty to do today”, she thought.

She was ready and waiting for the man to arrive at nine. He was punctual and they greeted each other politely as she showed him the way to the garage. He went over to the red mustang and peered inside.

“It’s all good”, she assured him. “Did you bring the cash? You are getting the deal of a lifetime.”

He opened his bag and showed her the pile of $100 and $50 notes.  

“Forty grand, exactly.” He said with a hint of a smile.
“It will have disappeared by tomorrow.”

He handed her the bag and she gave him the keys to the car. She was sorry to see it go as he drove off.

A few minutes later she hailed a taxi to take her to her bank in the City.

“Are you sure you want to do this madam?” the teller questioned as she withdrew all the money in the account and closed it. “It is a huge amount of money to be carrying around”.

“I’m only going around the corner, I think I will be ok” she replied.

She packed the money into the bag with the $40,000, zipped it up, put it over her shoulder, left the bank and made her way to Tiffany’s around the corner.

“Good morning Madame,” came in a lispy dulcet tone from behind her. “Can I be of assistance?”

"Yes please, I want to buy the ring that I was admiring last week, the pink diamond and I want to pay

cash.”

In less than ten minutes she was wearing a faultless diamond ring and admiring it with her fingers

outstretched in the back of another taxi to take her home.

He had already been to the bank, withdrawn his money and closed his account. Then headed for the

mint and bought gold bullion and a new mobile phone. “Ha ha you’re not getting your hands on any

of this,” he thought.

He stepped onto the footpath and hailed a taxi. “The domestic airport please."

On the way he sent a message. Hi sweetheart, this is my new number. I will be arriving at 10.15pm.

Can’t wait to see you and start our life together. I will be there before she even knows I left, she

goes out with her girlfriends on Wednesday nights and no one else knows anything. Love you, Dave.

There was a knock at her door. She opened it to her gorgeous lover Ralph. They embraced passionately.

“Are you ready darling?” he asked. 

‘Absolutely, but I need to leave a note about the roast chicken.”

She wrote, Dave, a chook and veg are in the oven for your dinner.

“He won’t be any the wiser that I have gone for hours,” she said into Ralphs ear.

Two days later the police received a request for a welfare check at an apartment due to an apparent

strong smell of burnt meat. They were bemused when they arrived. Front door open. Roast dinner in the oven, now burnt. A note resting on a mobile phone. Nothing out of place or stolen. No missing

persons. A complete mystery.

GENNRI'S ADVENTURE
by Cindi

Gennri-Leef-Ntii had become dissatisfied. He had never been adventurous, but now he was the only one of his kin-circle never to have placed pseudopod upon another planet. Also, introverted; he knew his friends had an unseemly joke about this aspect of his character, but naturally he ignored it.

Answering now a call for volunteers for a secret extra-terrestrial mission he worried that it might be a secret because they might not return home. He really preferred not to remember the journey, knowing he needed to repeat it.

However, searching for the tiny black-leafed plant forms had challenged him. When he had extracted them from their planet surface they had whimpered distressingly but, now they were podded and almost purring, safe in his roomy back receptacle.

Such a beautiful planet and this, his target hill, had loose water just tumbling down it and an overwhelming plethora of murmuring plants full of enchanting colours and pleasing smells. Mission almost accomplished! Complete success, until, well...

The mission co-ordinator had spoken gravely about their possible interactions with the alien life forms and warned of three possible reaction situations.

1/ Complete collapse of life-form.

2/ Lifeform flees, making loud panic sounds.

3/ Lifeform “smiles” in return to your “beam” and continues its interrupted journey.

Severely the co-ordinator had stated, “Option 3 is the preferred reaction and can be achieved if the operator uses their beam/smile immediately upon confrontation. Our beams confuse all mature aliens, I cannot emphasise this enough!”

Later, one of his fellow volunteers had confided that a fourth reaction with a primitive bang-stick was also possible. Gennri was now experiencing a fifth option. Very small aliens had encircled him laughing (at least they seemed benign) and pointing with one of their few extrusions. He struggled to start his sound translator to make some sense of the situation. A high, timid voice explained “We didn’t know a real clown was coming- wow! can you do that again? “Embarrassed, he retracted an errant tentacle and managed a rather wobbly smile-beam.

“It is my birthday party and Mummy said, 'for goodness’ sake, why don’t you kids go and play while I am getting the picnic ready?' She didn’t tell us about you; you must be the big surprise she promised! The best clown ever!” Gennri beamed happily at the small alien and gently asked its kin-circle name. Almost in answer, another voice called out “Tim-o-Thee, bring your friends, the ice-cream is melting.”

“Come on!” said Tim.

Sadly, though, Gennri was already disintegrating very carefully in preparation for his journey home. He was now a space traveller with real responsibilities (the little black leaves twittered slightly- could they be laughing?) and perhaps he might even consider becoming an extrovert? After all, literally, what on Earth could a ‘clown’ be?

The Lexus sped down the new highway in the early hours of the morning.

The smell of new leather, warmth from the heater, while reclining in the plush seat with quiet background music would normally have Feng drifting off. Not tonight.

He sat rigid looking across at his cousin. Neither had spoken for hours but he suddenly blurted ‘Are we doing the right thing?’

‘We have gone over this many times, and you know why. This is not just for us, but for our family. We need to have heirs to support us in our old age. Our dear leader made the choice in 1980 for the one child policy which had now left us in this situation.’ Jian replied.

The moon cast an eerie glow over the cliff facings of the surrounding mountains. There was little traffic, only large returning trucks. Crossing a bridge over the mighty Mekong, where the water rushed down the valley ‘Our country is going to dam this and turn it into power,’ Jian proudly announced.

They passed a dirt road off to the right. Fen asked ‘Wonder where that goes?’ hoping to take his mind off their trip.

Little did they know that this road led to a small village with no power or running water where the residents were living below the poverty line. The soil was poor and rain periodic. Subsistence farmers struggled to make ends meet.

During the Vietnam War the American’s jettisoned two million tons of unexploded ordinances on their return to base along the Ho Chi Minh trail. Unexploded, these cluster bombs still caused many deaths and injuries. The tennis ball sized bomblets were picked up by unwary children as a toy, with many now without sight or with loss of limb.

Some of the children were fortunate to gain an education at a Government Orphanage School a day’s walk away. Many of the older students were now about to graduate and with support from overseas donors would go on to gain a qualification.

‘What if’ Feng began.

‘Stop. You know the deal and you need to play your part. I have accommodated and cared for you since you travelled from the country to attend University. Now you need to repay me. I have worked hard to get myself educated and into a job that enabled me to buy this car and the unit we live in.’

They finally came to a built-up village. Houses on both sides of the road, and small shops closed up for the night. It was silent in the early morning, no lights or sign of residents. ‘I have visited here before Fen, and a Loa girl would make a wonderful wife. I could give her a wonderful life. We shall wait until daybreak when they are out in the grounds.’

Jian switched the car lights off before they came to a momentary stop. The moment Fen dreaded. He glanced up at the sign hung over the entrance of an unsealed road to their left.

San Luang Government Orphanage School

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
by Sallie

There was a pinpoint of light at the end of the tunnel. It was getting brighter by the minute. The light was compelling, pulling her towards it and she stretched her arms upwards but she felt rather than heard “No not your time yet,” and the light disappeared.

The gurney was trundled up to the ICU and the surgeon tiredly pulled off his mask and gloves and walked through operating room doors to where his patients’ anxious parents waited.

“We’ve done all we can,” he said, “now it is wait and see. The next 24 hours will be critical.”

“Caroline, our daughter Caroline, can we see her,” a heartfelt question from the mother.

“I understand your concern. You may see her for 5 minutes, but she needs to be cared for by the specialist nursing staff. I suggest you see her then go home and try to rest. Come back tomorrow,” was the reply.

Meantime in the birthing unit of the same hospital a mother gave birth to a still born much wanted baby girl. She and her husband were devastated. They couldn’t believe this had happened when all had been going so well.

Slowly Caroline regained consciousness. She seemed to hurt all over and even as she cried out a nurse was there to administer pain relieving drugs. “Hush now,” she said, “this will ease your pain.”

It was a long slow recovery. Caroline couldn’t remember anything about the accident which had almost claimed her life but her strong will ensured she was finally discharged and there was much rejoicing when she was allowed home albeit on crutches.

“We can make the downstairs study into your bedroom,” enthused her happy mother so pleased that her daughter had made it. “That will make it easier for you to get about.” She was absolutely thrilled that Caroline had recovered enough to come home, even though it would be a long time and lots of hard work with physio before she was fully recovered.

Two years later, still a little slow, Caroline was crossing the road when she was hit by a youth who, driving a stolen car omitted to stop at a red light. This time there was no recovery. She was pronounced dead at the scene.

Again there was that lovely light pulling her up. This time there was no voice saying, “It’s not your time yet.” She felt she was being pulled through a dark passage towards the light. Suddenly she was pushed out of the passage and into the light filled room.

“You have a beautiful baby girl,” the midwife proclaimed as she popped the baby into the waiting mother’s arms.

“Wonderful,” the new mother cried. She and her husband gazed lovingly at their precious new baby. They had been so worried after the still birth of two years ago.

SNAKE FARMING
by Trevor

Like a veil of patterned stockings, it lay stretched across the lawn … a thing of beauty, a true work of art. Various shades of tan highlighted the scales and ripples of a newly shedded reptile skin, almost eight feet long. The fingerprint crown tattoo adorning the headpiece, plus the unique pattern of the tail scales, heralded that a king brown could be somewhere round about.

“This might explain where our kittens have gone,” muttered our mother, as her eyes followed a slithered trail through the dust, in the direction of our farm ute.

Stacks of new and old fence posts, irrigation pipes, and discarded junk, as well as long grass and shrubbery, would have all made perfect snake habitats.

“I’ve got a funny feeling about those pipes on the ute. Tommy, you keep an eye on those bantam chickens, and Beverley tie up Trixie so she doesn’t leave her pups. Both of you stay inside.”

Mum and Dad spend a lot of weekends shooting clays at the local gun club. Both have favourite, double-barrelled shotguns.

Mum armed herself with hers and strode towards the ute. She dropped the vehicle into reverse, to move onto clearer ground … AND … the chilling soprano-pitch of her scream, brought us scampering to the front verandah.

“When I looked behind to check the all clear, I saw the snake staring at me through the back window. It was in one of the pipes. I just freaked out,” she explained to Dad, later, when he came up from the yards.

Mum, gun in one hand, tried to disembark the ute, which was now slowly reversing in an arc. She toppled out, ripping the seat of her Wrangler jeans before stalking the ute from behind.

Randomly selecting a pipe, she poked the barrel in and pulled the trigger. Glass went everywhere as she blasted the back window out of the cabin. No snake. A form of farmyard Russian Roulette evolved. After three or four more misses, it seemed that the snake must have thought things were getting a bit too close for comfort, so it gambled on an exit, over the side of the ute and off, in the direction of a boundary fence.

Right on its hammer, was Annie Oakley Mummy, in pursuit. Clumps of earth exploded both sides of the reptile.

Just as escape seemed in reach, unlucky for him, he hit the bottom wire at full speed. This propelled him air-borne – a writhing missile, glistening in the sun.

Mum’s clay target skills kicked in, and she scored a perfect kill.

“I think you shot the ute to death,” was one of Dad’s summations. “You’ve cleaned out  most of the weeds, in the lawn,” was another.

“Tell you what: how about we establish a reptile pit? When we need to cultivate we’ll just let the snakes out, and you can run around the paddock, shooting at them. Look at the money we could save on diesel!”

UNCLAIMED
by Paul

Damian Ryan. Deceased, 28 Feb 2025.

Ken opens the first small box and releases a stream of fine, grey ash. It’s captured by a stiffening breeze that swirls it up to the Enterprize’s sails and out into the expanse of Melbourne’s Hobsons Bay.

Another sixty-nine boxes and names wait to be acknowledged before we can return to Williamstown. Bunching my hair into an improvised ponytail I wonder who Damian was and what sort of life he’d led, but mostly why no one had come forward to claim him.

Unclaimed ashes accumulate in funeral parlours across Australia. Some undertakers keep them indefinitely, while others elect to bury them together, probably for expediency, or, as I prefer to think, to offset their singular aloneness.

Sustainable Funerals, however, offers another alternative off the rear deck of an 1830 coastal schooner.

I’m here to represent one of those names still to be read, Patrick Lloyd Peters. He’d perished, cold and alone, beneath a make-shift cardboard shelter wedged between two rubbish skips. The difference between Patrick and most everyone else west of Collins Street is that he died a multi-millionaire. Homeless eccentric? Almost certainly, but, according to his solicitor and a clutch of psychiatric reports, completely sane. His will nominated a sole beneficiary, a younger brother, Billy. However, they’d fallen out several decades past and had lost contact.

As his solicitor’s private investigator my gig was to track people like Billy down. However, the usual enquiry avenues had yielded little so far. I’d hoped that Billy might have responded to one of the advertisements I’d placed in the major newspapers and joined today’s sail-out. Admittedly, not the kindest way to learn that your only brother was dead, but I was rapidly running out of options.

*

Later, all names read and ashes spread, Ken releases ten white commemorative doves to end the day. Exhausted he sits beside me, and together we share the silence, interspersed by the steady creak and groan from the ship’s timbers. Their sound mimics life in what has been a day drenched in death.

‘No luck, eh Ellie?’ Ken finally asks.

‘It was a long shot, but strangely I appreciated being here anyway.’ I pause, overtaken by the enormity of accumulated loss. ‘All those peoples’ stories, their memories and histories gone forever. I find it hard to reconcile.’

‘We contact everyone we can trace. Some won’t come. Most can’t. Maybe, too, the finality is too much for them, as if keeping the ashes in limbo defers the reality somehow. Others deny even knowing the deceased. Or, fall out of contact like your two brothers.’

My phone trills. Private number. Maybe it’s Billie after all. ‘Hi, it’s Ellie.’

The voice grinds, like boots on loose gravel. ‘Stop lookin’ for Billy Peters unless you want to end up stiffer than his brother.’

‘Who is this? Hello?’

The threat floats between us, underscored by a deep silence that finally ends with a decisive click.

MEN FROM MARS?
by Meryl