Stories

The stories found on this page were all written in 2020. More stories written in 2018 and 2019 can be found on the World War I and II page.

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Birthday

by Ilse Zipfel

“Hi, it’s me in Paris with family.”
“Check time scheduled for train tickets to see us next day!”

It was a long track my neighbour and I had walked through thickest forest floors to seek out slightest gurgles under mossy rocks.
Up on hills overlooking fields of healthy meadows criss-crossed by rushing narrow waterways we navigated this forests’ life-giving pure cold springs.
I felt to understand pristine nature is life, and we belong, and now see how trees live and give according to seasons.

Interruption via mobile phone.

Two days later would be another birthday, my seven 0.
Who wants to stand up at four in the morning, organise the long car drive to be on time for the first ICE train from Freiburg to Paris?
Me, I confess, eating at least half a dozen apples on the way to there.

Oh by unbelievable wow my son’s family pick-up at Gare du Nord
was a long wait to be: An hour delay for me to pace heroically the noisy halls of this huge train station.

Sharing over lively next days and nights were lived getting children
enthused visiting Notre Dame Cathedral before lining up to the Eiffel tower for instance.
Hide- and- seek: let parents do supervision I smile.
Friends surprised driving over from Zurich to be with us.
Our times together were filled with delicious food preparations, walks and storytelling, some understanding of our long and excruciating European history, our hopes toward intelligent peacefulness.
I discovered our apartment was directly opposite Madame Curie’s
former Pechbrenne laboratory; we discussed its times, development,
great and greatest minds, uses.

We travelled back by car to my Black Forest families and friends.
A distant world.
And peaceful.

©Ilse Zipfel, 2020

published 22 June 2020

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Compassion


by Greg Every

What a first world problem it is to contemplate the meaning of compassion in preparing to create something to read at a writing group.
Unable to define the term I had to look it up. One definition was understanding the suffering of others and wanting to do something about it.
I find that I am able to acknowledge the suffering of some others but that is not the same as understanding their suffering. Wanting to do something for the suffering of others is one giant leap and another thing altogether.
During my corporate career, I was a person with little empathy for others. I was awoken from this selfish coma one day when a social worker from the Western Suburbs called on me seeking support for a program he was running.
He was a man with compassion. He did understand the suffering of others. And he wanted to do something about it. He worked to help street kids and in particular to dissuade them from using the drugs that were putting their life at risk.
As he explained it to me in these words: ‘What I am doing is trying to make sure these kids are alive tomorrow.’ This comment shook me up quite a bit.
Alive tomorrow? How could this be happening in our suburbs. But I was told it was.
Les Twentyman told me how it really is and about the real-world that he lived in. A world where homelessness, suicide, drug abuse, imprisonment and sleeping rough were common. Les understood the sufferings of others. He more than understood. He wanted to do something about it and society is better because Les Twentyman has compassion and is the personification of it.
We gave Les what he wanted, which was a not unreasonable sum of money for his cause.
I was reminded of Les and his compassion when one of the Coles Myer directors, who was seeking a $25,000 donation for a major opera company, called in.
He seemed surprised when I told him that I was not prepared to offer him a donation for his cause because if I gave him $25,000 there were five community support groups I could not provide $5,000 to. Or 25 groups to which we could donate $1,000.
Later, as a president of the Rotary Club of Beaumaris, I was placed in the position of deciding which causes to donate our meagre funds to.
Would we sponsor a Peace Scholarship with the hope of helping make the world a safer place.
Or a cause which supports international emergency disaster relief. Was it to support Rotary’s goal of helping eradicate Polio? Or was it best to spend our money on supporting the training of indigenous health workers so they could help their communities.
In his own unique and perceptive way Les Twentyman helped me to develop some compassion where little had existed before I met him.
I can’t help alleviate the suffering of others but I can, through Rotary I believe, help a few.

©Greg Every, 2020

published 24 June 2020

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Street

by Juliet Charles

Just her type. Tall, dark and … not quite handsome – interesting. Well, not even really tall – and the dark hair was definitely thinning; he was more solid than slim. But there was something. She did find him attractive. He lived in her street; indeed, passed her driveway often enough. Their paths crossed endlessly when she was walking and he was returning from work. That he worked, she deduced from his rather crumpled suit; and coming from the station, he was obviously a commuter. She admired the fact that he left his car home; undoubtedly due to environment awareness.

Once they both attended an auction two streets away and he stood alone at the edge of the crowd smoking a cigarette. She was a smoker then too! What a coincidence! Obviously, he was curious about neighbourhood activities. Another tick. She wondered, not for the first time, if he was married. And cursed her shyness and lack of confidence. Why didn’t she smile and say hello? Chat even. But what if he didn’t want to speak to her and she was rebuffed? No, better to save your dignity.

One day she was having coffee in a neighbouring suburb. And he was there – with a woman. Clearly his wife from their body language. Desultory chatting over newspapers; companionable silence rather than animated chat. Obviously not new lovers. She was relieved really. She had saved herself the embarrassment of making contact.

And so it went on over the years. It became rather awkward. For they never acknowledged each other beyond an occasional tentative smile from her and a similar response from him. No matter how often she changed her route, or the time she walked, it seemed so did he! Once they nearly collided, negotiating a corner. She thought more than once, that he might think she was stalking him! The thought was horrifying but darkly comic.

An invitation arrived in her letterbox for a street party at No. 28 just before Christmas, with instructions to bring food, drink and a chair. She brought the first two – she wouldn’t be staying long. The party was at the end of a long u-shaped drive and she met many people she had never seen before – and she – a resident for over 20 years! And then he walked in. Plucking up courage, she hovered on the perimeter of a small group until the right moment. ‘Hi’ – she said brightly. ‘We’ve passed each other on the streets so often that I thought it was time we met. ‘Hello, I’m Adrian and this is Meg’. For the next few minutes they all chatted animatedly. She volunteered her work details. ‘And what do you do Adrian?’ ‘I work for the Government’. Just – that. She waited – smiling, face upturned. But that was it. Embarrassing. The topic changed and she drifted off. After meeting more, mostly 40-something neighbours, she scuttled off with her pink plastic wine glass to her little house at the other end of the street. She was appalled. Why did she babble on like that? Why did she feel a need to impress?

Next day she was at the Supermarket buying a paper. He leaned in to her with a lovely smile and said what a great night it was, wasn’t it? She agreed. No, he didn’t remember the names of the hosts either. ‘I just call everyone Mate’. He touched her on the shoulder and they parted. Driving home, she saw him on the street with his shopping bags. Should she pull over and offer him a lift? No, she swiftly decided, that would be definitely creepy! She drove on.

She didn’t see Adrian for a while. And then Covid 19 hit. Enforced isolation provided just the incentive to walk more – and further. One day, returning from a long trek to the beach, she saw Adrian approaching. She greeted him and he stopped and smiled. Then, socially distancing between the footpath and the gutter, they chatted about all kinds of things – how they were filling in their time – wasn’t YouTube great? – Opera, ballet, plays? Adrian was working from home and, needing constant breaks, was walking 20,000 steps a day. She was duly impressed!

Two days later they met again. Really, given his habit of walking three times a day, it was no wonder! This time the subject turned to travel. ‘Well, my sister’s gone back to England now. She was here for four months catching up with family. You met her at the Street party – Meg’. ‘I thought she was your wife’, she said. ‘No, I’m divorced’ he replied. She quickly turned the subject back to travel. ‘I think I’ve left it too late to walk the Camino Way – I’m too old’, she blurted. ‘Of course you’re not’ he said. ‘You’ve got heaps of time – and you’d be fit enough. You don’t have to do it all, just part of it. Ah – I’ve got photos of when I did it – let me know if you’d like to see them some time’.

And she thought she just might. It was a different slant on ‘come up and see my etchings’.

©Juliet Charles, 2020

published 24 June 2020

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You really don’t get it

John Maddick


Hi everyone.
If I hadn’t sworn not to on my kitten’s grave, I’d tell you what Skye told me she did with her new boyfriend. But don’t worry. She’ll tell everyone when we start back at school.
Meanwhile life continues pretty much the same here at the MacMillans’. My sister didn’t break up with her boyfriend after all. She said she never did, but her door was shut for day after day, like I told you, and only mum allowed in, and a pathetic mewling sound coming through our wall.
We had a brief holiday from mum and dad’s arguments a couple of weeks ago. Dad took Mum for a dirty weekend up to Tooborac. He said it wasn’t why they were going: it was to try some Heathcote Shiraz and to celebrate us (meaning me) being grown up enough for them to leave us at home for the weekend (and do our own washing and do their cooking for them once a week without any increase in pocket money).
Anyway, they came back, and for a week they were making calf-eyes at each other and talking about doing things in the garden. Dad said he’d paint the picket fence, which has been ‘primer pink since we paid those men to install it a year ago, Eric’. (That’s my Dad.) They came back through hills with giant grey boulders that reminded them of some replayed TV show they’ve been watching on 72, because dad won’t pay for Netflix. Mum said she’d like to bring a piece of it back and stick it in our front garden, which Mum said is boring, just a lawn with a driveway down one side.
Well last week she went off riding with her bike group – can’t she see that she is past lycra? – and while she was away two massive trucks pulled up in the street. One of them had a pull-out crane, and the other some big grey boulders. It was Dad’s mate Rusty who he met at a Richmond match. The two of them stood out on the nature-strip admiring Rusty’s pull-out crane, and then he climbed into the cabin and the crane lifted the boulders over the picket fence onto our front garden. I knew that was not a good idea. One of the boulders was humungous, as big as half a car.
When Mum got home she threw a spaz, just like I knew she would. Out on the front porch, where all the neighbours can hear. Dad looked surprised. ‘But you said you wanted a piece of that hillside. Can’t you see it now?’ He is such a nerd.
‘What if I don’t like it?….. Can you get it back where it came from?’
‘Oh Marcia, (that’s my Mum), You don’t realise. I was just so lucky that Rusty happened to be bringing his crane past to get it serviced just when his mate Dusty was bringing his low-loader back empty from Echuca, and he knew a farmer from the Richmond cheer squad…’ He really is a nerd. He thought he had won the argument.
‘Well what if I did like the boulder, but wanted it over in the corner of the garden?’
‘I’d have to ask Rusty to bring his crane over.’
‘So, you could get Rusty to bring his crane over when Dusty is going back to Echuca.’
‘No,’ says Dad. ‘You don’t realise how tricky the timing of it all is. I’ll probably have to pay Dusty to make a special trip. All right. That’s what I’ll do.’
‘No. Don’t worry about it.’ She turns to go inside, and then throws out ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
She’s right. But such a bitch. I won’t be like that when I get a boyfriend.

©John Maddick, 2020

published 24 June 2020

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The Fly

by Leon Webber

I am a fly and I irritate humans by flying in their eyes, nose and ears. Maybe I could be called an ‘eyes, nose and ears specialist’. 

When I land on a cup or plate, they wash them, or when I land on a piece of food, they throw it away. They are not quick enough to catch me which irritates and makes them more annoyed.

I do object to the use of chemicals to kill me. It is against the law to use chemical weapons and nerve gas, plus an inability for humans to live together peacefully in spite of belief in a kind and forgiving God. It will be just a matter of time before they destroy themselves and leave the world for us flies to enjoy peacefully.

We will have the last laugh.

©Leon Webber, 2020

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