WRITING GALLERY - JUNE 2025

THE SHOT
by Valda R

She stood in shock horror as the bullet shot out passing through the mattress and on through the fibro wall of the house. Gasping in disbelief,  she gazed at the small burned hole in the sheet and the wall, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed still clutching the heavy 38 calibre Smith and Wesson Police revolver.

It was late in the evening and the air had barely cooled after another hot day in the tropics. She was the lone adult in the house with the three children sleeping soundly in nearby rooms. Her husband had been called to work and she was unsure of when he would return. As 2IC of the Criminal Investigations Bureau in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea’s largest town, where crime was rife, tribal wars and payback murders were common, he was often called out at all hours. She was aware that many break and enters involved men with naked bodies smeared with pig grease making it difficult to lay hands on.

Sleeping fitfully she had been awakened by a picking sound. Creeping along the upper level of the house and peering through the glass louvres, she could see a hand through the broken arc mesh and torn fly screen, with only the louvres left to be removed. With heart thumping, and after checking the sleeping children she returned to the bedroom and with shaking hands retrieved the revolver from the bedside cabinet.  Her mind was working overtime trying to remember instructions he had instilled in her:  

Step one: be careful with your aim,

Step two: hold the revolver firmly,

Step three: make sure to put a second shot through the ceiling. 

Oh, did it have bullets in it? What to do? She had noticed a box of bullets lying beside the pistol in the bedside drawer. With her heart pounding she slowly pulled back the hammer which felt tight and heavy, to check the chamber where she would surely see if it was loaded. 

It somehow slipped forward and a bullet flew out, passing through the mattress, and through the wall and passing down the driveway. At the end of the drive dozens of people living in a shanty town at the end of the street, walked by at all hours.

Feeling terrified and still holding the pistol tightly, she inched back along the passageway and peering down could see no sign of an intruder, who no doubt would have fled at the sound of the bullet being fired.

Returning to the bedroom, she sat heavily on the bed with tears streaming down her face, aware of her unprofessional actions which would surely not please her husband. She was still there when he returned, taking the pistol from her hands he asked tiredly ‘so what happened here?’  After she tried to explain in a coherent manner, he checked the downstairs louvres and said, ‘we will go through it all in the morning’. ‘I don’t think there will be  any more trouble tonight’. With the acrid smell from the hole in the sheet and mattress she lay down, unable for sleep to come easily and knowing she would be receiving further training the next day.

COFFEE CALAMITY
by Melinda G

Have you ever wondered how love starts? Like, actually starts?

Because according to 63% of romantic comedies, it begins when two impossibly attractive strangers bump into each other in a coffee shop and spill a drink. Usually something expensive. Usually on someone’s pants. And from that sorry event, romance develops.

I always thought that was nonsense. Until last Wednesday.

I’d just escaped a Zoom meeting about "Universal Design for Learning" with people who unironically use terms like “constructivism” and “Bloom’s Taxonomy.” My brain was melting. I needed caffeine. A warm caffeinated salvation — cappuccino, strong with perfect texture - the kind of hit you can feel through your bones, a kind of espresso-based CPR.

So, I ducked into Lure — Yeppoon’s best Coffee Shop. It's the kind of place where they draw leaves or cats in your cappuccino … while you gaze at the ocean outside. I was already late … for my own mental breakdown … when I collided — full frontal, mind you — with an actual human.

A tall one. Wearing Levis.

And just like that — BAM! — my perfect cappuccino, medium heat, no lid because I like to live dangerously, launched itself, like a caffeinated missile, straight into his chest.

Silence.

Then steam. Then the faint aroma of scorched man.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I blurted, trying to dab his jumper with a serviette that wasn’t absorbing anything and was less useful than a philosophical conversation with my cat, Freya.

He blinked. “Well, at least it wasn’t a turmeric latte. Those stain for life.”

I laughed. Out of panic. Then I snorted. Out of stress.

Now, in my defence, I had barely slept, hadn’t eaten, and wasn’t loving life at that moment — so I was not emotionally prepared for a charming exchange and a bodily collision before 10am.

He peeled off his jumper — revealing a T-shirt emblazoned with a trumpet, and the name, Miles Davis. I suddenly became very aware that I was wearing trackie dacks with a rip in the knee and a T-shirt with a picture of cartoon characters, Archie and Jughead.

“I think I owe you a coffee,” I said.

He looked down at the coffee still soaking through his Levis and said, “You’ve already given me one.”

Touche.  

We sat down. Why? Because apparently when I commit to ruining someone’s morning, I also shout them brunch.

His name was Julian. He was a graphic designer. He said that like it was a confession. I told him I was a curriculum designer, which is essentially a professional incompetent, but with strong grammar skills.

We spent forty-five minutes debating whether banana bread is a cake or a bread (it's cake — don’t die on this hill), and bonding over our mutual hatred of raisins. (Seriously, why do they keep showing up where they’re not invited?)

And just as I started to wonder whether this chaotic, coffee-stained encounter might actually be something, he asked:

“Same time tomorrow?”

I nodded.

Then promptly walked into a pot plant on my way out.

NOT A POPULAR ELEPHANT
by Cindi B

GONE FISHING
by Malcolm W

Dad was a keen fisherman; and one of his pleasures back in the day was to spend an evening pitting his wits against one of his two favourite quarries - pike or eels – down at the local river. Apparently they were more active at that time of day, and he would relish the fight these two species put up. He would release his catch if it was Pike; but would often bring home the eels to cook.

As a twelve-year old, I was usually the first out of bed in the morning, as it was my job to make breakfast for my two brothers Steve & Kevin before they went to school, and for dad before he went to work; whilst mum had a deserved lie-in with my little sister before starting her daily chores. I would dread those mornings when I would find a couple of slimy eels squirming in the kitchen sink. Eels can survive quite a long time out of water before they die, and I’m not sure whether I found them more disgusting in this state, or after he had cooked and jellied them. At least he never tried to foist them upon us children at mealtimes; his jellied eels were a dish that he alone enjoyed in our household. Sometimes he would take them along to his club in the evening, where like-minded blokes would enjoy them with a few cleansing ales.

I would soon take up playing rugby, a sport that I would play on and off over the next fifty years; but at that time, I had no hobbies or outside interests, so dad thought he would recruit Steve and me to this alleged sport of fishing; a decision he came to rue.

The English countryside can look beautiful in a Constable painting. It can appear very inviting on one of those quaint English TV shows featuring country vets, laid back village policemen or jolly farming folk; but it can be hell when you are a kid, and someone forces you to enjoy it in ways that are unappealing to you. One summer afternoon the family headed off to the river armed with a picnic lunch, a tin of freshly dug worms and some shiny new fishing rods for us boys. We might not be keen on the idea, but if it was going to please our dad then we would give it a try.

With no family car the trip to the nearest river entailed a brisk two mile walk with two grudging fishing novices, a jar of equally reluctant worms and a pile of fishing gear. We were accompanied by mum pushing our baby sister in a stroller and Kevin sulking because he wasn’t given a present. On the face of it this should have been a happy family outing; but it was a sure-fire recipe for disaster.

Having chosen a likely spot, we dropped the gear and made ready for the so-called contest where there was only ever one winner. Dad patiently assembled our shiny new fishing rods and showed us how to bait our hooks. I was not impressed with the idea of impaling a poor worm and dunking it in the water, but Dad assured us they felt no pain. Looking at them wriggling and squirming I wasn’t convinced. I envied Kevin who was considered too young to be wielding a fishing rod. He had gotten over his disappointment and was running around terrorising the butterflies.

“Ok, take your rods and wait for me” dad said as he handed us the baited poles. Then he began to set up his own rod and reel.

I looked at Steve, who seemed to be warming to the idea of dropping a line in to the water. I fidgeted impatiently as I watched the poor worm squirming helplessly and decided to put the poor creature out of its misery by immersing it in the water. What harm would it do to go dangle the line in the river while I waited? What mischief could I get into just standing there on the bank? I might even get the honour of the first catch. I didn’t really want to, but surely that could only make Dad proud of me.

I sidled over to the bank as Dad wrestled to set up his new reel. After a quick glance around I let the line out and cast it as I had watched the proper fishermen do. Well not actually cast so much as swung the rod around until the line just made it into the water. I felt a smug satisfaction as I saw the float bobbing gently on the surface of the water, the fate of the worm now forgotten. I gradually let the line out as dad had shown us, watching that float drift slowly down stream. I became transfixed as I edged closer to the water. I suddenly became aware that the ground was starting to move slowly beneath me. Too scared to move, I gripped the precious rod tightly as I tried to get dad’s attention. I was going to be in enough trouble without losing my new possession. I was now sliding gradually down the slowly crumbling bank

“Dad”. No response. “Daad,” I repeated, slightly louder this time. Still there was no response. Panic set in. “Daaaaad”. Time seemed to stand still as I heard mum calling out in panic; and dad cursing loudly.

Then there were hands on my shoulders, dragging me upwards by my shirt as the water started lapping around my waist. I was dumped unceremoniously on the ground still clutching the precious new fishing rod to my chest.

Wet and shivering, my legs caked in mud, I helped pack away the gear with the sound of my brothers’ laughter ringing in my ears and the icy stare of Dad chilling my soul. I trudged home shivering from the wet, clammy clothes clinging to my body. My shoes squelched with every step of a journey that seemed like it would never end. Mum was having a hard time controlling the urge not to laugh; Dad was silent and brooding when I just wanted him to yell at me to end the tension between us. I had ruined the days fishing before it had even begun.

After what seemed an eternity, we arrived home. After a hot bath and a change of clothes I confronted my dad. “Sorry for ruining the day for you dad; I don’t think fishing is for me. I’m going to join the rugby team like my friend Colin. Can I sell the rod and buy some rugby boots”.

He nodded and smiled at me. “I think that’s a wise decision son.” He sounded quite relieved.

AN EVENT WITH A DIFFERENCE
by Julie S

In the aftermath of the Second World War and the Holocaust when more than 6 million Jews were killed, more than 17 thousand found refuge in Australia. Many settled around St.Kilda and Elwood, suburbs of Melbourne and a just two-hour drive to The Spa Centre of Australia. 

When our father retired to our small holiday cottage at Hepburn Springs, he transported a couple of large buildings to the block to have these buildings converted into small units for his grown children to use when they came to visit. Mike and I – the Littluns – were the only two of the seven siblings still living at home, with some staying behind at the house in Sandringham, and some at boarding school. However, Dad died before the family got to use the flats and Mum quickly changed their purpose to income generating holiday units. As they were close to the springs at Hepburn, they very quickly became popular with the Jewish community in Melbourne. In fact, the whole of Hepburn with its many guest houses was almost a Jewish community during holiday times. Guest houses with names such as Beer Sheba, Negev, Netivot, Luanda were invariably fully booked. There was a very large Bath House almost next door, and a common sight early each morning was any number of Jewish folk, numbers tattooed on their arms and usually wearing a dressing gown and carrying a bottles to be filled with the mineral water, walking to or from the Bath House. Most guest houses rang a gong with their own specific clang to alert guests it was time to return for breakfast, morning tea, lunch and so on. Our flats, though small, were self-catering so no bells for our guests who paid Mike and I to do little jobs for them once shabbat had begun.

One morning we found much chatter and wailing coming from our large and beautiful front garden. A guest from one of the guest houses had died during the night and the community had come to our place to pray and mourn. Our mother set up a small table with a water pitcher and bowl for hand washing, and the prayers then began. They were led by a rabbi wearing a tallit – a black and white shawl – or a Collinwood football coat as Mike told me. The Mourners Kadish is a prayer that the deceased was “no longer bearing witness and testifying God's Presence in this world”, followed by El Malei Rachamin, Prayers for the soul of the Deceased. There was much chanting and wailing and I think there was a small ululation. We were both fascinated and amused but also realized we were witnessing something special.

The following Sunday was Easter Sunday; the day Catholics celebrate the Resurrection of Christ who had died on the cross the previous Friday, crucified by the Jews. And so, to Mass we went. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.  Dominus vobiscum. Et cum spiritu tuo. In the name of the father and of the son, and of the holy spirit. Amen. The lord be with you and also with you. In the choir that morning I sang with love and gratitude Exultemus et laetemur Hodie. Let us all rejoice on this day and be glad.

Two religions, two languages, two worlds apart. 

CHARIOTS AHOY
by Trevor S