WRITING GALLERY - NOVEMBER 2025

THE MUCH MALIGNED PUSSYCAT
by Melinda

     People have been telling fibs about me for quite a while now. And, I have to say, it gets a bit hard to take. In the beginning, I gave my neighbours the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they had made an innocent mistake here and there. You know, something half seen, but misinterpreted. But with the sheer number of accusations, it takes all my resolve to maintain a generous attitude.
    Let me give you some context. When in the distant past, some five years ago, we moved into our suburban oasis, a coven of cats would regularly assemble outside our loungeroom window. Some were quite attractive, others had a more flea-bitten, world-weary nature. The ring-leader of the coven was a large, very attractive, grey, long-haired feline called Glam; named on account of being so glamorous. Other cats deferred to her beauty and intelligence. Generally, their meetings proceeded without incident, but from time to time there’d be a bit of a skirmish involving hissing, arched backs, spiky fur and screeching.  As a quieter, more demure feline, I stayed well away.
    A few months passed without major incident. The coven meetings continued. However, news soon arrived that a terrible tragedy had befallen Glam. She’d been taken by a pack of dogs. Her parents, The Sullivans from next door, were grief-stricken. We all grieved. It was a terrible way to lose Glam. As the days passed fewer cats visited our lounge window. And, without the glue of Glam’s firm leadership, the coven quickly dissolved. For a few months our garden became a quiet haven which I enjoyed immensely.
    But soon new backsdoor neighbours arrived with their dogs, chooks, kids and heaven knows what else. And all hell broke loose. The constant noise. The fighting. The neighbourhood was on edge. That’s when the stories started. Mrs Mason accused me of provocatively walking her fenceline causing her dogs to bark incessantly. Mr Pauling accused me of parading up and down in front of his security camera at 3am causing his phone to start sending audible alerts. These things aren’t even possible. I’m home every evening by 7pm and tucked up in bed soon after.
    But the wildest story, one with clear malevolent intent, was that I had pooped on Mrs V’s lawn. An appalling lie. And, though it’s true that I hail from humble beginnings, I have acquired quite a cultured sense of propriety, and I am extremely discreet.
    It has been a mystery to me why a seemingly reasonable group of neighbours would choose to propagate such terrible stories. It has been a difficult time, but I have always had the support of my mum and dad who have stood by me during this bleak chapter.
    Well, let me tell you what happened yesterday. In the early evening it all became clear. I was strolling in the front garden when my doppelganger appeared. An attractive, but very naughty tortoise shell cat; five or six years younger than me and rather larger. Elwood enjoys the evening hours and mostly sleeps by day, is full of youthful bravado and is certainly capable of provocatively walking fences to tease dogs, capable of toying with security cameras after midnight, and capable of pooping on neatly kept front lawns. Due to his preference for the night hours, Elwood went unnoticed in the neighbourhood when the backsdoor crew arrived.
    If I were a lesser cat, I might plot and plan against the neighbours, or against Elwood, and then end my tale with a proverb like ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’ However, being the generous, courteous feline that I am, I believe that, unlike Elwood and his lot, all cats who are well-brought up encapsulate the Italian proverb, ‘Happy is the home with at least one cat.’

NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED
by Valda

     My mother’s horror was obvious when, aged 18, I announced I was going to Australia for a year, on a now antiquated steamship, with little more than my one way fare. Years later when I decided to go to New Guinea to take up a new job, "not with all those savage tribesmen who eat people," she cried. Well there were some savage people, and I married not a savage, but an adventurous and very good looking one.

     In our retirement, I had managed to convince him that this cottage surrounded by acres of wet rainforest in the remote Whyanbeel Valley in Far North Queensland was perfect. As we sat on the deck with a cold wine, I marveled at the glimpses of the  blue winged Ulysses butterflies flittering amongst the trees, the guttural sound of the Wompoo pigeon, the squawking of the orange footed scrubfowl and the distant howl of the dingoes.

     "This is pretty special," I say as I glance at him. He is not so joyous with his legs painted in betadine as a result of the lawyer vine on the way to the water tank on the hill.

     "How’s your finger? And the neck, is it OK?’ he asks with a touch of sarcasm.

     How the scorpion managed to get into the bed and bite my finger was unknown.

     "It really was your fault for leaving the head of the paralysis tick in, requiring a 30 minute midnight trip to the Mossman Hospital," I retorted.

     We did settle in and loved this life, despite the wild pigs ploughing up our patch of newly planted bananas and the four letter words that followed. But then the rains came, and came, and came. Communication out, creeks swollen and mosquitos rampant.

     "Perhaps we should move," I suggested.

     We bought a small acreage with a tropical fruit orchard and began massive renovations, cutting out walls, building an outdoor toilet obscured by tall pink torch gingers and a large swimming pool. A tropical paradise, until the other residents moved in, drawn to our beautiful fruit. The newly insulated roof provided a fine home, and we were introduced to the native, protected, large white tail rats, with teeth like razors to chew through the wiring of our TV, telephone and lights.

     "Wake up," I elbow him at midnight. "The cage has gone off."
    He climbs through the manhole to retrieve the screeching rats with white tails protruding through the cage. "Catch," he calls as he drops the cage to me - which I almost drop in terror.

     "It’s 6 am. We need to catch the early ferry over the river," he mutters crankily.

     Then followed many early morning trips of 17 klms plus over the Daintree for release, to ensure no return. Eventually, tired from these constant trips, the next captures suffered peaceful drownings in the local creek.

     This is a sensible move," I say a few years later.

     This remnant rainforest acreage and our pole house with views out to the Coral Sea and overlooking the small town of Mossman, was unexpectedly home to the large, beautifully patterned monitor lizards who climbed the poles with ease, to settle over the beams of the deck of our outdoor living area.

     "Look at these beautiful creatures," we would say to our guests who after gazing upwards, would hastily drink their coffee and make their departure.

     The worst happened one night when the screen door into the bedroom hadn’t closed properly and I felt a cold large creature slide over my arm and chest. My scream brought him running. "Look at the floor," I cried hysterically as I pointed to the floor where a large black Night Tiger tree snake lay curled.

To be continued …

YOU CAN'T HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT
by Julie

     To celebrate their respective 50th birthdays John and his mate Sean decided a canoeing camping hiking trip in New Zealand would be a terrific challenge and hopefully an adventure to remember.
    Their trip started with a four-day hike along the Milford Track where they walked through valleys carved by glaciers, past thunderous waterfalls, over the alpine mountain pass, and were privileged to enjoy an extremely rare sighting of the Kea, an alpine parrot now on the endangered list. At the end of each day they cheated by staying overnight in comfortable lodges with hot showers, good local food and a comfortable bed.
    They spent three days sea kayaking in Milford Sound exploring the fiord and encountering dolphins, ducks, fur seals and in the distance a whale. Again, they enjoyed the comforts of lodges after a tough day.
    A side trip to the Glow Worm Caves at Te Anau where thousands of glow worms light up the cave ceiling like Van Goghs Starry night, was a welcome break from the strenuous activities of the past.
    But it was time now for some serious adventure.  They had heard of a secluded grassed and sheltered area at Doubtful Sound accessible only by canoe or kayak. So, packing their gear for the next three days into a long, wide kayak off they set. After paddling for nearly two hours there was a very cruel change of weather. Fierce winds accompanied by sleeting rain caused the men to very quickly become chilled and wet.
    Fortunately, they had with them their Soto Amicus camping stove which they lit to provide a glimmer of warmth. The howling wind soon sent a massive gust which caused the stove to fall and set fire to the canoe.
    The resultant destruction goes to prove, “You can’t have your kayak and heat it.”

SOMETHING ABOUT COOKING
by Sallie

ADMONITORY TALE
by Cindi

   'BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR'

     “Press conference,” he thought despairingly. “I’ll tell them the truth! They’d have laughed fifty years ago but they might believe me now.” 

     Ten years of retirement had already passed, when, fossicking quietly by himself in dry rocky terrain, he’d found the bottle, urn, whatever it was. Carefully rubbing the encrusted surface of his beautifully shaped find, his heart had lurched painfully in his chest when the Genie had appeared, looking exactly like the fairy storybook illustrations, but somehow tired and sweaty.      
    “One wish,” he had said impatiently, “and don’t tell anyone; they’ll think you’re crazy!”
    “One wish it is, " he’d replied steadily, and being wise in spite of shock and disbelief, he’d wished for perfect health. His arthritis had been playing up all morning over the rough ground and that had seemed a sensible response to the ridiculous situation.

     Time moves on, of course, only too literally. He’d outlived his dear wife, and lonely, there had been four more; all dying sadly or painfully of various afflictions. He’d loved them, suffering with them and caring for them all to their bitter questioning ends. It had left him resolutely stoic, but empty, chary of ever loving again. Women in his pre-Genie age group didn’t last long enough and although he was fit, trim and strong, he was too old to appeal to young women who tended to need wealth to cushion the deal. He had not chosen youth or wealth or fame. Perhaps he had not made the wisest choice after all.

    Work, company, old friendships, brothers and sisters, had all gone with time. His kids, well, he had outlived them too and his grandchildren also. Great, great grandchildren it was now, with less and less in common and no inheritance expectations, they ignored his hopeful communications.

    He was the oldest person he had ever heard of and the only conversation anyone ever had with him was to ask the secret of his long life, and he had cultivated a force field repelling all seekers for interviews on the subject. Until now, he thought.

    His clear mind was fuzzy on only one subject; his original interactions with the Genie. What had he agreed to? Had there been a time limit, and surely there had been an implied threat? Ah, well.

     “In the morning,“ he promised himself. It doesn’t matter how insane I sound, it might even be fun after so long, and settled down to his usual night of perfect repose.

     “No staying power” said the tired Genie as he gently sank the old man into his last sleep. “Happiness is the only choice. I wish I’d understood that when it was my turn.”

STATING THE OBVIOUS
by Malcolm

     When we were handed the topic of proverbs for an assignment it stumped me for a while. A well- known proverb states that “actions speak louder than words,” so why should we need to write about them? It is also said that “a picture paints a thousand words," so I thought perhaps I could just find a good photo to show instead. In the end I decided it was ‘’better to be safe than sorry" so I decided to sit down and write. After all, they also say that "the pen is mightier than the sword,” although these days I don’t use a pen, I just type it into a computer. 

“Practise makes perfect,” I guess, so the sooner you tackle these things the better it will be. 

It should have been easy for me, because my Welsh grandmother was fond of quoting proverbs, although the best sayings she had were just made up. She once clipped an uncle around the ear when he was sat on her coffee table. “The table is for glasses, not for asses” she scolded. 

  She was only small, but she had a fiery temper, and some of her sayings would have made fine proverbs. 

As a kid, our dad had a few favourite proverbs that he would reel off when he was scolding us. "Beggars can’t be choosers,” he would say when we moaned about doing some chores. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” was another when we rebelled against tasks we were given.”

One of my Dad’s brothers was a union official, and he was very vocal with his condemnation of his bosses, which I thought was very brave. Then one day a promotion came up, with a healthy wage increase. My uncle applied for the job, which he got, and he ditched the union and became a company man. “How did he get that job?” I asked my dad, “he was always bagging his bosses.”

Dad smiled, “the squeaky wheel always gets the most oil.” After he explained it to me, it became one of my favourite proverbs.

I am now president of the local Landcare group, and I use one of his favourite sayings often. When I ask a volunteer to work where I can see them, and not wander off, they will sometimes say, “so why do you sometimes wander off alone to work?” I tell them, “do as I say, not as I do.”

I find some proverbs just state the obvious, such “Time waits for no man”, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too," "Rome wasn’t built in a day,” and “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.” On the other hand, I’m hoping some of the others do ring true, such as the one, “Practice makes perfect;” for which I saw the meaning, 'consistent effort leads to mastery.' Perhaps it means that one day M J Wells with H G when it comes to writing, but I might be living in a “Fool’s Paradise”.

PROVERBS
by Robyn

     I am so PRO verbs. So into doing. And verbs are there to cover every occasion, every activity.

     But as I sit, I stare with growing (uh oh its there again) animosity at the blue tacked pieces of paper on the wall above my desk. The growing to do list, the never satisfied shopping list, and the gym timetable, with suitable classes highlighted for easy selection, form an uncomfortable alliance. Incessant combatants waging their war against me. The sneakers and lycra at the ready, the potplant yellowing, gasping silently for attention, and the timer announcing that the muffins might now be ready, even edible. All add voices to this conflict.

     So much doing needing to be done. Calling to be done, CORRECTLY. There’s stitching in time, journeys to begin with a single step, chickens perhaps now ready to be counted, eggs to take out of the single basket, Rome needing to be built, giving to be done, definitely no receiving, greasing wheels, leading horses. You get the picture. There’s a story, or a 1000 words, being told right there.

     I contemplate a verb less existence.  But alas, even the sedentary ‘be’ or ‘am’ can’t extricate themselves from the verbal bind. Can I turn deaf ears to the verbal demands? Is it even possible?

      AI helped me out with this quandary … time saver right there …clearly espousing verbs as the go to requirements in the very act of living; existence impossible without them. Brick wall.

     Ok, so if I have to remain PRO verbs, much better than the alternative it would seem, the next tactic is a major scale back.

     A selective approach; come up with an alternative PROverb stance, mantras that might allow me to sit back in a defended apathy. And certainly not view that lack of movement, that rudderless ship as hesitation, which would announce me lost.

     So instead, a selective list of PROverbs, decreeing a somewhat static but PROverbial mode of being that I can safely rest my laurels on? Only a couple to start with because haste makes waste. I smile smugly, because there is a way, and my name isn’t even Will.

     I munch on an apple feeling better already. Good things come to he who waits,

     So, a penny for your thoughts?

 ...

     A word from everyone’s sponsor: bloody AI

     No, life cannot be fully described without verbs, as verbs are essential for expressing actions, states of being, and continuity. While you can create phrases or sentence fragments using nouns and adjectives to refer to life as a static concept (e.g., "City life," "A lifeless body"), verbs are necessary to describe the ongoing, dynamic nature of existence itself, which is constantly changing, growing, and happening.

ONE MINUTE TO MIDNIGHT
by Paul

      ‘Why do you hesitate, dear?’ Hester glanced at the rising moon.    ‘The hour fast approaches. We must be done before the watch’s midnight bell is rung.’

     Varya closed her eyes, wanting to believe. She tried to imagine what it might be like. What he might be like.

     Tall, certainly, with careless, wind-ruffled curls— and dimples, yes, he would definitely have dimples at either corner of his broad mouth … and he would be loving and kind and so very brave…

     ‘Princess?’ the old woman snapped, her tone a shade short of insolent.

     Varya started, unprepared. Hester held the round, silver fruit tray that usually sat atop the harpsichord, except now, instead of grapes it held a very large, green bullfrog. The creature’s throat pulsated, and stared up at her with overly large eyes, as if it was wondering where all the grapes had gone.

     ‘One kiss is all it will take, my dear,’ Hester’s voice dripped honey now, as she advanced. ‘One kiss will unlock the spell. You do trust me, don’t you, dear?’

     ‘Of course, you have been my one true voice since my father insisted that I marry.’

     Hester nudged forward, ‘Then you know what you must do.’

     Varya bent forward, but at the final moment turned away, her lips rolling in, recoiling at the imagined touch of the cold, reptilian skin against her warm, perfect princess lips.

     One kiss. Surely I can do this? I’m strong. A princess. She steeled herself, pursing her lips, coming closer. Varya opened her eyes. The creature was on the tray beside her cheek. It gave a massive burp, releasing foul air.

     She jerked away, hand covering her mouth, retching. She shook her head. ‘I cannot.’

     Hester’s face twisted, the tray trembling in her rheumatic fingers. Her voice burnt like acid when she said, ‘Twice you have refused. Refuse once more and the spell cannot be undone. Your prince– your soulmate– will be trapped there. Forever! Listen again to the ancient words.’ She brought out the scroll, reading from the inscription, emphasising the final words, ‘“You and he will be together. Forever.” Imagine it, with the one you truly are matched with.’

     Varya trembled. She’d been horrid, her tantrums childish as she rejected each suitor her father had presented.

     Is it possible that this creature’s gruesome shape truly conceals my soul mate? Surely the cards and Hester’s crystal do not– cannot– lie?

     ‘Happiness throughout your lifetime.’ Hester whispered into Varya’s ear. ‘One kiss and he’ll be yours…forever.’ Forever floated between them, carrying hope, love and promise.

     ‘The hour, princess. I fear the watchman’s steps are approaching to ring the midnight bell,’ Hester whispered, her voice tight.

     Varya took a breath and holding it, jerked forward to briefly touch her lips against the cold, slimy skin. Her body shuddered with the contact.

     Hester dropped the tray. It clattered to the floor and the frog jumped clear.

     The room appeared to expand, but then Varya realised it was she who was shrinking; her body morphing. Above her Hester was laughing, but it was not the cackle of the crone, rather the lilting sound of a young woman. When she looked up Varya thought she must be dreaming because she was looking up at herself, where previously the old crone had stood.

     Varya tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but all that came from her throat was a deep, forlorn croak. It was answered by the very large green bullfrog sitting beside the silver tray.

     He was looking at her with wide, adoring eyes that promised her a forever.

DON'T COUNT YOUR CHICKENS BEFORE THEY HATCH
by Trevor