I guess, during my formative years, I was very much influenced, and moulded by strong women. I had two widowed grandmothers who, between them, had given birth to twenty-six individual babies (fifteen and eleven) – no multiples. After their husbands had passed, it was up to them to attend to the rearing of their offspring, basically single handed, even though, with elder children pitching in, to assist with the younger ones, this did evolve into combined family efforts. They also had to keep their farm and income enterprises going.

My mother was the eldest of her family of eleven and, when her father moved from their farm, to be closer to the medical services he required, even as a young teenager, she was obliged to take on a variety of adult roles, both domestic and farm related, especially in the dairy.

After she married my father, she took on the dual roles of working beside him, as well as tending to the rearing of three children and to the challenges of making a house a home.

This type of life-style was considered the norm and was perpetuated across most country areas – by our “unsung heroes”.

Many library shelves could be filled through the compilation of feminine achievements.

The English language is punctuated with numerous proverbs, cliches, catchy phrases, wise sayings: from adversity comes opportunity; he/she who hesitates is lost; necessity is the mother of invention; strike while the iron is hot; if you want to be successful, surround yourself with successful people; if you think you can, or you think you can’t … you are probably right …

This is my tribute to women, especially those who lived in the challenging environment of remote and rural Australia, and who established the platform for what the outback is, today.

UNSUNG HEROES by Trevor S

I was hanging out the washing, which is really not my thing,

with no inkling that I’d change my point of view.

As I pegged out shirts and shorts,
things went haywire with my thoughts,

as I contemplated work that women do.

When I went into my household, on that thought-provoking day,

my eyes were opened wide, by what I saw:

dirty dishes, kids with plaits, wrinkled clothes and pampered cats,

smudgy windows, scraps of breakfast, on the floor.

I sought refuge, at my workplace. I escaped from home, at eight.

Kissed my wife, as she made lunches, for our tribe.

Through the patio, broomed clean, our front garden groomed and green,

I left chaos that I really can’t describe.

As I fired up my laptop, to download another file;

took a stretch and gently exercised my hands -

heavy eyelids chose to droop; rounded shoulders chose to stoop.

A daydream took me off to outback lands.

There were spectres floating past me, as I slumped forward, in a trance:

mothers, daughters … ghosts from women’s world -

high in spirits, strong of will; shoulders to the wheel, until

a kaleidoscope of phantoms, whirled and twirled.

Some were working in a kitchen, near a wood stove belching smoke;

some were poking clothes, in coppers in the yard;

some, on horseback, ushered herds; some fed pigs and calves and birds –

the whole shebang had women working hard.

Lines of teachers, nurses, midwives ambled softly, through my dream – women fighting fires, or fencing with their men.

Some were dancing; some sang songs; some held cleavers; some held tongs -

all endured the how, the where, the why, the when.

Without that piece of paper, some achieved amazing things

as vets, accountants, lawyers, licensees –

connecting phone-calls, handling mail; administrating road and rail;

underpinning their true roles … their histories.

When church bells called the faithful, dressed up ladies filled the pews.

Prayed, as one, to their Almighty for their lot:

send the rains, protect our health; guide the markets for our wealth;

keep us humble, satisfied with all we’ve got.

Thus evolved a definition of these women, in my dreams:

proud, courageous, stoic, able, firm but fair;

supportive, confident and loyal; composed and not averse to toil – achievers who performed, outside the square.

Could the typical Australian be a woman, not a bloke?

Or should we die-cast both to play the roles?

Their achievements are enormous; sadly, hist’ry won’t inform us

how they punched, above their weight, with hearts and souls.

I was startled, when my smart phone rang. I surfaced with a jolt.

The lightbulb of my life, had rung, to ask

if I’d collect the kids from school, for instruction, at the pool.

I assured her I was equal to the task.

While I waited in the grandstand, visions, from my dream, returned,

of the squads of unsung heroes, of our land.

Contributions oft ignored; lifetimes spent, without reward.

Henceforth … I’ll be a drummer, in their band.

FISHY TALES by Trevor S

It is said that, the only time a fisherman tells the truth is when he calls another fisherman a liar.

There exists a plethora of fishing tales and stories, varying from the sublime to the ridiculous, that, when added together, make up what can be best described as being fishing folklore.

For example, two old blokes, Bert and Jack, were out fishing in their tinny, when Bert sneezed. As a result, he dropped his false teeth, overboard. This totally distressed him, but his attempt to convey this message, with a pair of flapping gums, was greeted with great amusement, by Jack.

Consequently, Bert went into a sulk, and the trip went quiet.

Jack, wanting to relieve the situation, came up with the bright idea of hooking his own false teeth to his line, pulling them in, and showing the “catch” to Bert.

Much to Jack’s consternation, Bert grabbed the teeth, tried to fit them into his mouth, announced they weren’t his, and threw them away, into the water.

oooOOOooo

Some of the best fishing stories emanate from Murphy’s Law … if anything can go wrong, it probably will.

Harry had a special fishing spot, where a creek flowed into the sea, a kilometre or so beyond the last house on the esplanade. The tide, four days after the full moon, always produced fish, especially at the creek’s mouth. It was an easy walk along the mangrove-edged beach, especially at half tide.

Harry, accompanied by his faithful golden Labrador, Rusty, and armed with rod and tackle, landing net and duffel bag, fresh prawn and strips of mullet bait, water and a bite to eat for man and dog, led off at a steady pace. He was always kept amused by Rusty, who loved to explore the many waterholes, barking at anything that moved, in the pools. Invariably, he would yelp with pain, when a toad fish latched itself to his top lip, drawing blood, before he could flick him off. This happened almost every trip. Harry was convinced that Rusty would never learn.

Arriving at the top of the sandbank, from which Harry always fished, he leashed Rusty to a random fallen tree branch, that seemed half buried. This was followed by his preparing the site, and baiting up. He chose a strip of mullet, and cast out towards the middle of the stream.

Now, Labradors are retrievers. When Rusty watched the hook, bait, sinker arc through the sky, and splash, instinct kicked in. He just had to retrieve what Harry had thrown out. He had been taught that, by Harry, who often threw him balls, sticks … even frisbees to retrieve, in their back yard, parks and on the beach.

The leash took the strain, the limb popped out of the sand and, before Harry could react, dog, leash and driftwood ploughed down the embankment and submerged. The branch was just heavy and awkward enough to keep Rusty bobbing, gulping air and water, each time his head broke through the surface..

Frantically, Harry skidded down the dune face, and found himself waist deep, trying to avoid the entanglement, in front of him. His attempt to drag Rusty out by pulling on the limb, failed. The branches kept dragging him under.

Waist deep became chest deep, as he wrestled Rusty under his left arm, floundering to unclip the leash from his collar, successfully.

While Rusty dog-paddled to the safety of the shoreline, Harry concentrated on untying the leash and letting the branch, now an anchor, settle on the bottom. Sudden movement to his right, caught his eye, but in the predicament he was in, he couldn’t react quickly enough to save his fishing rod which had just been torn out of its holder, to skid across the beach, plough into the water and follow, at great speed, a course towards the opposite bank, until it sank.

An exasperated Harry scurried along his bank, skidding on mangrove mud and tripping over mangrove roots, all the while scanning the waters, hoping above hope, that the line might snag, and the rod float to the surface, somewhere. It was never going to happen. A trophy grunter had just stolen his best rod, and he wasn’t going to give it back. Day four after the full moon, and the fish were on the bite!

Watching all of these goings on, from a vantage point atop a dead she-oak, was one of Australia’s favourite raptors, a White Bellied Sea Eagle. His keen eyes were perfectly focused on the plastic packet of bait that lay, beside the site from which Harry’s rod had been ambushed. Harry’s day was about to be checkmated.

While Harry was making his way back to his fishing site, hoping that handline fishing might bring some element of joy to his day, a feathered drone swooped down, talons perfectly angled. In a micro-second, with only a whoosh of wind, bird and trophy were accelerating, out of view.

The whoosh stirred Rusty, who immediately exploded into a fit of hysterical barking, even though he didn’t have a clue what he was barking at. The barking caused Harry to look left, right and centre and, finally, up … and up there he saw the concluding paragraph of a Fishy Tale, that would probably be best shared, with the Fairies!

A MODERN DAY FAIRY TALE by Malcolm W

Once upon a time, in a faraway land called England, people who were labelled as working class often lived in rented homes called council houses. They were often cold and damp and were situated on housing estates where all the houses looked the same, and few people cared about their gardens.

Once upon a time there was no such thing as mobile phones. Some people lived in a house with phones that were plugged into the wall; some lived in houses with no phones at all. If these people needed to phone someone they would walk to one of the red phone boxes that were situated in a nearby street and put money into a slot to use a public phone. If children wanted to talk to their friends they would have to go to their houses or make plans to meet elsewhere.

Once upon a time there were no personal computers. Children had to learn things from books. They wrote everything out with a pen or pencil, and if they made a mistake they had to use an eraser to rub it out or screw up the paper and start again. They were not allowed to use calculators in school to help them do their schoolwork, even if their parents could afford to buy them one. They had to use their

heads to do calculations or write it all down on paper.

Once upon a time many people did not own a television, and if they did the screens were small and the pictures were black and white. They usually had a radio on which they could listen to stories or music. Children read books and comics or played board games and card games to amuse themselves in the house.

Once upon a time many families had no car to drive the children around in. They walked to school or rode there on their bikes. Some lucky children were able to take advantage of a school bus to ferry them to and from school. If they played sport on the weekends they walked or cycled for short journeys or jumped on a bus for longer

trips. During school holidays many would go on bike rides looking for adventure. Some of the naughty ones would listen to their parent listing places where they were forbidden to go, and then they would go there.

Once upon a time children would visit a local park where they would play on swings, slides, roundabouts, and see-saws set into concrete. They often went home with cuts and bruises from falling off. They would climb trees, play cowboys and Indians, play with dolls, and make their own fun.

This is not actually a fairy tale, because that is the way life was for many children in the not-too-distant past. I know this to be true because this was my childhood, and a happy one it was too, because we knew no other way of life; and you can’t regret not having what doesn’t exist yet.

ONCE UPON A TIME by Robyn B

Once upon a time. What can that even mean she wondered? What can sit upon time, above time? An almighty being, an omniscient narrator?

She could see that time was woven into everything. Inextricable, it stretched backward and forward, it was the warp and weft woven into everything, A fabric that became the backdrop for everything, perhaps slowly suffocating, or perhaps always unravelling. As the threads that bound and tied everything together were pulled out, until great gaps of nothingness slowly appeared.

Perhaps the once is only there at the beginning, she thought, before it became lost, or before it consumed everything in its path.

Devious too. The once upon a time had long ago planted in her a belief in fairy tales, in happy ever afters, in new possibilities.

What did she really think might be possible? The heroine was always there at the centre of the once upon a times, and draped in that mantle of goodness and unending adversity, she had foolishly seen herself as just that.

She didn’t move. She just sat and looked at the blood on her hands, and on the floor, and saw that although he no longer breathed, the story had not ended. She would always be who she was, who she was in a story that really had been, and would continue to be, scripted elsewhere.

There would be no happy

ONCE UPON A TIME by Valda

A little girl in a small country town in New Zealand, collected dolls from strange countries. She was intrigued with their unusual clothes, and how different they looked with their various shades of skin. She read books about different countries and their peoples. One day she vowed she would travel to one of these distant countries.

Many years later, this girl stepped off an overnight flight from Australia, in a DC6 aircraft, onto a tarmac in the main town on the north coast of New Guinea; where a blast of hot air engulfed her. Her petticoat stuck to her and her stockings acted like an electric blanket.

Passing through immigration she was greeted by a mass of dark coloured people speaking in strange tongues. Women were sitting on the ground on woven mats, with red lips and teeth from chewing betel nuts, and surrounded by piles of betel nuts to sell. Bare breasted, and many with suckling children, they looked furtively at this strange white girl. Many had elongated earlobes, a sign of beauty where after, initial piercing, larger pieces were pushed into the lobe for further extension.

‘Misses, Misses’ called some men who were holding beads for her to buy. Dressed only in dirty lap laps with bodies covered in strange tattoos, they looked quite threatening.

Suddenly a man dressed in a white tropical safari suit bustled through the crowd. ‘Sorry I’m running a tad late,’ he called. This was her new boss for this adventurous life she had chosen in this primitive country, much to the displeasure and concern of her family.

Day one was an introduction with a trip to the highlands in this strange country. Flying in a small piaggio aircraft around mountains covered in mist, flowing rivers, and villages tucked in valleys, before landing at the rugged frontier town of Mt Hagen where men who had watched this strange balus (aircraft) come into land, pushed forward to see the white misses. With bones pierced through their nostrils, penis gourds and arse grass covering their privates, she was overwhelmed both by the odour of pig grease on their shining torsos, and their frightening appearance.

Women sitting behind the men had nipples hanging below their waistline which she learned later was from feeding the piglets, the prized assets of villages. Standing around and staring out of curiosity, were small children with extended bellies, known as ‘pig bel’ from eating undercooked pig meat.

Her new and exciting life in this primitive country had begun. Flying in a DC3 aircraft early morning, over active volcanoes, lush hills, with villages perched in clearings of the forest, their smoke curling from cooking fires. No roads and only an odd walking track could be seen.

These early morning flights had passengers travelling south, or dropping supplies for small outstations and occasionally emergency landings, picking up very unwell people for medical treatment.

A highlight for one small community, was the weekly airdrop to a mission station on the southern tip of New Britain Island. Here, after reducing altitude, and circling twice to alert the villagers, mail was tossed from the cockpit. A dip of wings and the flight continued.

Natives who flew, would bring live chickens on board, as well as fruit and vegetables all piled into bilums. They would have to be instructed in basic pidgin English on how to fasten seat belts, and have it explained to them that the cutlery and plates the food was served on, were not to be kept. They were always terrified on take off and landing and calling out in fear in their 'place tok.'

Occasionally a coffin would need to be collected from an outstation to be taken to the deceased person's home village. On landing to collect the coffin, wailing from hundreds surrounding the airport could be heard. If a head man, police man or someone of importance had died, a formal procession would carry the casket covered in fronds, to the luggage area of the aircraft.

An unexpected trip over the Owen Stanley Range to the country’s capital in Papua was of concern flying over 9000 feet in an unpressurized aircraft, carrying only enough oxygen for the crew. This mountain range had claimed so many lives from small aircraft crashes over the years.

The weather could change quickly and when the cloud cover would not allow landing at the predetermined destination, an alternative airstrip would be found. Often to New Ireland, where an all weather airstrip had been made by the Americans during the war.

It was never clear where one would spend the night, which added to the adventure. A night at a plantation manager’s home where visitors were few and far between was a highlight for both the host and visitors, or perhaps a basic hotel room, with a rush to a local Chinese shop to have a clean outfit made.

This beautiful, rich and raw country, inhabited by tribes of warring people who spoke over 800 different languages, with their strange customs, continued a prehistoric lifestyle into this modern age.

ONCE UPON A TIME Dreams came true.

THE WHITE NIGHT by Valda R

On board a small luxurious French ship in Tahitian waters and traveling alone, I did not know what to expect. The guests, from many countries, but mainly American and French, were all well traveled and dinner conversations revolved around their latest cruises and the ones planned. Should they go to the Antarctic or perhaps the Arctic Circle next year? Some had been to both. When I was asked what I had planned, I managed to confidently say I would probably concentrate on small ships on the Great Barrier Reef, without expanding that meant the Keppel Island Ferry, or mentioning I would have to sell my house to join them. Yes it was lovely to have fresh flowers in my cabin, feather down bedspread and pillows, room serviced twice daily and chocolates on bed at turn-down time, but not sure that I was thinking about my bank balance when I booked this cruise.

Daily events were posted the night before and night three was the White Night on the upper deck, for which you had to register, and were admitted only if all dressed in white. Sounded exciting and fun with a four piece band playing on the deck with the lights of Bora Bora sparkling in the background.

As the evening progressed people were throwing themselves with gusto into dancing, and they appeared to be having a wonderful time, thanks to the constant rounds of free martinis. I must mention here the average age of passengers was 70 plus.

Suddenly a loud call of ‘Jesus’. I immediately gazed skywards. Was this the second coming? Had I inadvertently joined some religious sect where I knew no-one, and was surrounded by a sea of white? He wasn’t up there and the crowd had hushed as a blood-curdling scream was emitted. I glanced over to see a man covered in blood, and the woman beside him, who appeared to be his wife, with her new white linen dress also covered in blood. Those nearby had splatters of blood on their pristine white attire. OMG, had someone been knifed? Was I in a Dracula movie, or perhaps an extra in my favourite TV show ‘Death in Paradise’? A waiter appeared with a white towel that suddenly changed colour. The staggering victim was led away and the whispering began.

Should I head back and lock myself in my cabin? Yes, that is what I did. I didn’t know these people and it was all too bizarre. Contemplating later, I knew that being on blood thinners would cause a severe bleed and with the age of the victim that was probable. I was beginning to think like Miss Marple, but didn’t seem any closer to solving this dramatic mystery. I knew there was a Russian family onboard and I had met Alex from Ukraine on a shore excursion but didn't think this was related.

After a sleepless night, at breakfast in the La Veranda restaurant, I learnt that an American woman close to the victim and dancing just as wildly, had slashed the back of his hand with her giant diamond ring. No doubt her cabin was on the top floor complete with a balcony. Who would have thought what an effective weapon a diamond ring could be; if one could only afford it.

The injured elderly man required several stitches from the onboard Doctor and was kept for observation overnight in the ship’s hospital and as they were concerned about infection. He was evacuated the next morning and flown in a small aircraft to Papeete.

Later, when the accused walked in, it was whispered she was wearing only a heavy flat gold ring embedded with rubies.

Soon I was on my return flight. Insult occurred when I had to walk through the Business class section to get to my seat at the very back of the aircraft, when many who were continuing on to a New Zealand tour waved to me, as they settled into their lying positions at 2 am in the morning.

I then felt annoyed and wished I had spoken up and improved the conversation at dinner by mentioning that those on board could probably save a small African country from starvation. When dining with a French group I should have mentioned the devastation of Mururoa Atoll in 1995, and the subsequent bombing of the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland killing one crew member.

I now think I may just keep my cruising to local waters where the one way fare is $25.

WATERFUN by Ron Day

I stood on the diving board at my local swimming pool wearing my new bright red budgie smugglers and a splash of suntan lotion. It was a long, long time since I had done this.

I had been a reasonable swimmer many years ago but age, stomach and wrinkles all pressed their way forward, each trying to be seen as the most debilitating feature. Together they branded me as last year’s champion, this year’s terrible mistake.

I looked around at the disinterested crowd. Some were sound asleep, their noses buried in a thick towel. Others were chatting aimlessly to their neighbours, trying to impress with endless accounts of job opportunities lost or partners ditched.

One young thing yelled, ‘Look at that old bugger on the board. Bet he falls off.’

A few titters complimented the remark, but someone called, ‘Don’t be rude. You’ll be his age one day.’

Someone else chimed in, ‘Bet she dies early from rude impoculation.’

A few small cheers and a little laughter showed some people liked his comment.

I smiled and lifted my hand to the people who had supported me. That doesn’t happen too often, I thought.

Well, I said to myself. Time to take the plunge.

I began bouncing up and down, trying to get some response from the board. I needed all the help I could get so I jumped up and down more vigorously.

Bugger. It’s a stiff old board, I thought. Just like me.

I lurched sideways. It’s twisted too, I thought. This will not end well.

I struggled to stay on the board and not fall prematurely onto the cement edge of the pool.

Time to go for it, before it does me in, my aged brain suggested.

I did a stiff little run, bounced on the end of the board and dived. The twist in the board sent me sideways so instead of the classic sweet dive and entry I was looking for, I tumbled over and over entering the water on my side. The resulting huge splash doused those who were close to the edge.

When my head came up out of the water, I could hear a torrent of loud, rude comments and curses. I took a deep breath and dived back down, swimming underwater for a distance.

At least down here I can’t hear them, I thought as I swam to the deep end of the pool. I used to be able to stay under for about 4 minutes.

Suddenly, I was hit by a huge compression wave as several large bodies hit the water.

What is happening? I wondered, question marks whizzing around my aged grey matter.

Three large males quickly swam to me, grabbed me by whatever part of my anatomy they were close to, dragged me up to the surface and swam with me to the edge of the pool. More hands reached down from the path around the pool, grabbing what ever bit or bob came to hand.

I was pushed from underneath and dragged from above, up out of the water and thrown unceremoniously onto a patch of lawn. Someone who seemed to have a faint idea of what to do, adopted a kneeling position at my head and began counting and pounding my lungs hard in a regular motion.

‘Twist his head to the side,’ yelled someone who thought he knew what to do. ‘We need to get the water out.’

The person behind me grabbed my head and gave a mighty twist that almost took my head right off.

‘Ouch!’ I shouted.

‘Well, he’s still alive,’ said one of my rescuers.

‘Course, I’m bloody alive, you twit. I was enjoying a quiet swim when you lot decided I shouldn’t stay in the water.’

‘We thought you were drowning, mate. Just trying to look after you,’ he said sheepishly.

I relented. ‘Thank you for your superb rescue attempt. I really am very grateful. Now, can you help me stand up?'

Some pushed and the others pulled until I was vertical again. My head was swooning because of the rapid movement from lying down to standing.

I noticed a mixture of rueful looks on some faces and titters on others. Was I that humorous? I wondered.

Suddenly a woman rushed to me from just outside the rescuing crowd waving a towel. She bent down to wrap it around my loins. I looked down in surprise.

Suddenly I realised I was standing there as naked as the day I was born. Where were my brand-new bathers?

One of the men spoke reluctantly. I think we must have dragged your togs off when we grabbed you,’ he said apologetically. ‘Just a minute. I’ll send some of the kids down to get them.'

‘Hey, Tom, Dick, Harriet, or whatever your names are. Two dollars to the one who brings back this guy’s bathers.’

We were caught in the wind of the small bodies racing past us and diving into the pool. A tidal wave jumped from the pool over the path as the bodies all hit the water at the same time.

Before long a small face with the widest smile I had seen in a long time jumped from the pool and ran to me with my colourful swimmers in her hand. The older guy handed over a two-dollar coin with a smile. ‘Well done, Jeanie.’

I looked around me. There were no changing rooms near, so I jumped around on one foot trying to pull my swim wear over my raised foot while I tried with little success to keep the towel around me sufficiently to maintain decency. It was too difficult, so I threw away the towel and pulled up the shorts as quickly as possible. They had obviously seen it all before the woman had brought a towel.

I thanked the rescuers again and hobbled slowly to my car. It had been a big, big day! I didn’t imagine I would ever have the courage to return.

THE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE by Malcolm W

James was usually good at keeping out of mischief, but if he got caught misbehaving he had two younger brothers to blame for causing the trouble. It was a girl who finally caused his biggest problem. Her name was Elaine, and she lived just down the road from him. They would smile and wave when they passed in the street, but he could never pluck up the courage to ask her out. As a pupil at a boy’s only school he found it hard to talk to girls, if he did he usually ended up saying something stupid and wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

To make matters worse, three brothers he didn’t get on with lived next door to Elaine. The middle one also had a crush on her. One night, at the local youth club, the brothers approached him. Unlike James and his brothers, these boys seemed to go everywhere together.

“I hear you’ve got the hots for my brother’s girlfriend. You’d better butt out” said the eldest boy.

“She’s not his girlfriend, I’ve never seen them together, and I’ll chat up whoever I want.”

The boy stepped forward and poked him in the chest. “We’ll be waiting outside when the club shuts. We might have to change your mind on that.”

As a member of the school rugby team, James was no stranger to a bit of biffo, but three against one wasn’t good odds. He had no friends there to back him up.

“You don’t scare me” he replied, with no real conviction as they walked away laughing.

James tried to convince himself the boy was bluffing, but finally decided to get away early just in case; and headed outside.

“Going somewhere?”

James looked at the eldest brother towering over him. Using his rugby skills, he side-stepped the boy and took off. He was outstripping them easily, but he thought about his dad’s advice if caught in such a situation. He turned a corner where a row of shops was in relative darkness; and ducked into a doorway. He heard his pursuers come round the corner and as they approached he stepped out, tripped the eldest boy, jumped on top of him as he hit the ground and thumped him. The boy yelled for help, but his brothers deserted him.

James left the boy lying in shock on the pavement and strolled home feeling smug. Dad’s advice had been good; if outnumbered in a fight, go for the biggest one, and the rest will back down; good old dad.

Later that night, as James watched the television, his dad answered a knock at the door.”

“James, come here.”

He was confronted by his bruised attacker accompanied by his dad.

The man looked him over, turned to his son, “Is this the boy who attacked you?”

The boy nodded.

“Your sons all tried to beat me up” said James, sensing humiliation for his enemy.

He smiled smugly as the man muttered an apology and dragged his son away.

“Good boy’ said dad when he heard the story.

The next day Elaine spotted him in the garden as she was passing. “Hello James, I heard you got into a fight over me.”

James could feel his cheeks burning. “Er, yes I did. I was surprised to hear you were going out with one of them.”

She laughed. “You must be joking, they’re an obnoxious bunch of brats. I’ve been hoping you would ask me out.”

“We could go out if you like” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

A week after his first pleasant date with Elaine, he encountered her brother walking down the street with three other boys. They stopped in front of him, barring his way.

“I hear you’re chasing after my sister.”

“We’re going out, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t like you, and I don’t like that you beat up my best mate.”

James shrugged, “He asked for it.”

“I reckon you’re asking for it, and we won’t be so easy to beat.

James sensed he needed a different tactic for this lot and put a hand in his pocket for something that might get him out of a sticky situation. He had long dreamed of owning a flick knife or switchblade as the Yanks call them, but they were banned in England. Instead, he had taken to carrying a large folding pocket-knife, an exotic looking weapon with a tiger on the white handle. To impress his friends he had told them it was a forbidden flick knife. With a practiced sleight of hand he would pull the knife out of his pocket with a finger on the blade and it would spring open as if it was a flick knife.

He had never dreamt of pulling out the knife in anger, but the situation was dire, and it might be time for a bluff. After the obligatory exchange of threats and counter-threats he whipped the knife from his pocket, snapping the blade open. The boys gasped and stepped back. “I’m not afraid to use this” he drawled in his best adolescent John Wayne voice.

The gang looked at him, and at the ugly looking blade.

“Don’t be stupid, you couldn’t get us all with that” said the brother.

“I don’t need to; I’ll just get you.”

Elaine’s brother looked at his mates. “He’ll keep, we’ll get him when he’s not expecting it.” They turned and walked away.

James snapped the blade shut dropping the weapon into his pocket, sucking in breath as he slammed the blade closed on one of his fingers; a red stain spread around the pocket as it filled with blood.

Mum took him to the doctor to get the finger stitched up; dad confiscated the knife. Elaine never spoke to him again, and James figured that was probably for the best.

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE THAT? by Julie S

We were very lucky as children to live in a beachside suburb of Melbourne but also had a holiday house in the country in the spa district of Victoria. At every opportunity we were bundled into the 1930s Nash and we headed off to the country. Mum and Dad in the front seat with the two youngest children, four across the back seat, and my older brother on the floor along with suitcases and whatever else was needed for the next few weeks. Excess suitcases were tied on to the running board and amazingly we never lost one. The trip took most of the day with us first heading off along the beach road with its very posh houses, then along the beautiful boulevard that took us into the city with its wonderful cacophony of trams, paper boys, pedestrians everywhere, flashing lights, beautiful shop windows, a wonderland of excitement for a small child.

Once through the city we were in the western suburbs. Again, a wonderland, but this time with the exotica of newly arrived migrants from Italy and Greece. The smell of coffee and garlic filled the air and the babble of foreign language was a thrilling mystery. With the city well behind us we stopped at the small town of Bacchus Marsh to visit the Comfort Station [again very exciting as at our house this facility was known as a lavatory]. Ablutions over, we were then treated to the luxury of an ice cream in a cone. Back in the car we headed along the highway and through the Pentland Hills. At one stage the road had a very steep descent and appeared to run straight into the Pykes Creek Reservoir. To ward off the terrified screams of her seven little Australians our mother would do all sorts of things to distract us. We would sing, someone might recite a poem, and we were told to look out the side windows to see if there was anything of interest there. How many sheep are there? What are they doing?

Eventually we arrived. Hooray. The house was an old mining cottage with three bedrooms, a lounge and a kitchen where our meals were cooked on a wood burning stove. Mum and Dad had one bedroom and the other two bedrooms had bunks that were jammed in but were used only for sleeping, and there was a bathroom with an indoor toilet (hooray). The garden was huge and Dad, with a pick and shovel, was able over the years to create a thing of beauty. We kids were in three groups – three seniors, two middluns, and Mike and I; the juniors. This suited us fine as it meant that we didn’t have to do heavy jobs around the place and we were pretty well left to our own devices. We would frequently be gone for the day, off exploring in the bush. We leant over mine shafts, ventured into abandoned mine tunnels with only a small torch to light our way, waded through creeks, stuffed ourselves with blackberries and wild apples, and so long as we were back home in time for dinner no one seemed to care. From the creeks we would bring home tadpoles which we hoped would turn into frogs when we put them in the fountain in the front garden. We could never understand why the tadpoles so very quickly disappeared.

We often took ourselves off to the local pool which had been dug out in the middle of a creek which now flowed through. No lifeguards or lifebuoys were there to help if someone were in trouble but I do not remember anyone drowning. Occasionally a snake would drop into the pool and that would very quickly see it emptied of swimmers. On our way home from the pool one day I managed to stand on a big black snake which I’m sure got as much as a fright as I did. To this day Mike swears I levitated with my legs running full pelt.

Our trip to the pool was taken on tracks through the bush which occasionally was on fire. Kids were allowed to join the adults in putting out these fires; we would be given a wet sugar bag and told to beat out any flames around the edges. The fires then were slow burning and whilst they were a regular summer event I don’t know of any houses being burnt. Our own house was scorched once but never burnt. You see, my mother was a deeply religious woman who always had a bottle of holy water on hand. If a fire were approaching, she would take the holy water and sprinkle it around the house while chanting some sort of prayer. This of course saved it from burning.

On a recent trip back, we saw so much had changed. Where once there were open paddocks, trees that the sheep climbed, and a road running down the steep hill to the reservoir, there were now rows and rows of house which all looked the same, as well as the usual array of fast-food outlets and a supermarket. The road had been re-aligned so that it was no longer so steep and it skirted the reservoir half a kilometre away. What once was rural is now outer suburban Melbourne.

Well, you may ask, tree climbing sheep? Why do you believe that? Because my mother told me so and we all know a mother never lies to her children.

WHAT PRICE PARADISE by Elaine O

Once upon a time I was a struggling writer. My biggest struggle was to find time to write. But now an opportunity has presented itself and I’m not about to miss it. My excitement builds as the shore of the island looms. At last, a chance for some intense writing time. I step ashore, wave the water taxi off, then turn towards the cabin – my sanctuary for the next three days.

I'm too impatient to start writing to unpack, so I shove the cold food into the refrigerator and turn on the laptop. Words swirl in a frenzy to be released, and my fingers can't keep up with the flow. When hunger interrupts, I wander out to the veranda and stare, spellbound by the vista before me. The calm sea is ruffled by a gentle breeze. The sun touches the top of the ripples, creating the illusion of a million hovering fireflies. I breathe deeply, savouring the fresh clean air, tinged with just a hint of salt and the musty scent of wet seaweed. The only sound is the song of birds and the gentle lap of the waves.

Alone at last. I still can't believe my luck at having this opportunity for some alone time to finish my novel. I look longingly at the gleaming white sand and promise myself that I will walk there later.

A quick bite of lunch and I return to my laptop. The day passes unnoticed. Night has thrown its dark cloak over the island before I lift my head again. My excitement at the direction my story is taking, draws me back to the laptop after I have eaten. Later, I crawl into bed when my eyes refuse to stay open any longer.

Birdsong competes with the soothing, relentless sounds of waves lapping the shore, as I open my eyes to my second day of peace and solitude. The sun streams through the window, touching my shoulder with its early morning warmth – tempting me to step

out into its rays as I am. I am not seduced by its temptation. I bear the scars of the last time I succumbed to its allure without preparation.

Donning sunscreen and a hat, I stroll down to the water's edge. The waves are a little higher today. A stronger breeze drives them towards me. The wind lifts my hair and cools my cheeks. The scent of wet seaweed rises to meet me when I walk through the mass deposited like a decoration on the edge of a plate on the high tide line. Seagulls circle around me looking for their early morning meal. Today they will have to compete with a hawk. He swoops for his breakfast. Fish jump and swirl trying to avoid his razor- sharp talons.

The bleached sand massages my bare feet and squeaks as if in protest of my invasion. Waves rush to meet me, caressing my feet, welcoming me to walk in their cool embrace. As I wade, words churn in my mind, falling into ordered sentences as the next chapter of my novel forms.

Back in the cabin, I scoff a breakfast of fruit and coffee – impatient to get to work. I shove the dishes in the sink and smile because I can. No one is following me around expecting me to do more. I am loving the freedom from routine the island has given me. The laptop sings its welcome song and my heart sings with it as I open the file. My fingers fly over the keyboard in a desperate effort to record the words before they are forgotten.

Occasionally, I pull myself from the world of my story to drink in the peaceful sounds of nature. I sigh with contentment. A smile plays on my lips as I return to my novel.

The next time I lift my eyes and return to my island retreat, the horizon is blushed with crimson as the sun announces its time of rest. My stomach growls its displeasure at its neglect. I rise and pad into the kitchen, searching for something that will keep it quiet. As I arrange my repast on the solitary plate, I realize that something is missing from this evening routine – my partner.

Suddenly, loneliness washes over me, stealing the pleasure that the day's solitude has delivered. I reach for the mobile phone, the need to hear his voice now urgent. Solitude is fine in small doses, I decide. The phone is dead! Frustrated, I search for the charging cord. It is nowhere to be found. In my haste to get away, I forgot to pack it. I

sigh. It looks like I won't be talking to anyone until the boat comes tomorrow afternoon.

I try to bolster my mood with the thought of all the writing I will get done. But when I try to go back to my story, my mind is blank, and I sit chewing my lip anxiously. I decide I need an early night after today's marathon effort. However, sleep escapes me. I toss and turn all night – missing human contact.

A very different morning greets me as I struggle to wake. Windows rattle as rainsqualls buffet the panes. I lay staring at the water running down the glass like giant tears. I feel like joining in. I reach for the radio – the need to hear a human voice overpowering. The weather report adds to my gloom. The cyclone that was hovering

over the north has changed direction. The edge of it is now assaulting our coast and the eye is heading our way. I curse my stupidity at not listening to the radio since I arrived.

Loneliness falls around me like a dark cloud as I realize the boat won't be coming for me today. The time when it will return stretches into an uncertain future. Salt spray, snatched by the howling wind, combines with the rain to make the window's tears as salty as ones that run down my cheek and into my mouth.

I wander over to the window and watch the angry sea pound the shoreline. Yesterday's gentle soothing sound replaced by a thunderous roar. Sand dunes melt under the onslaught, laying bare the Pandanus roots. The trees lean towards me as if begging me to help save them from the briny ogre. My tears increase as I see them

succumb to the relentless pounding. One falls towards me as if in a last effort to be saved, but its tenuous hold on the land is broken and I watch as it is sucked into the ogre's mouth. Another victim of the Storm God.

Will I be next, I wonder as the sound of rattling roof iron joins the cacophony of the nerve-racking noise. I turn from the window in the vain hope that doing so will make it all go away. Maybe writing will help settle me. The lights flicker as I turn on the laptop. Panic washes over me like a cold shower. What if the electricity cuts out? I can't be in the dark.

Then it happens ... the room is plunged into darkness. An involuntary cry of despair escapes my lips. I rush to the window. My fear of darkness is quickly replaced by terror at the sight before me.

She Oak trees bend almost horizontally as if bowing to the Storm God – their foliage already sacrificed to his mighty force. Ever the writer, I think, If I do get out of this, think of the story I’ll have to tell.

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