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Lucky Arthur
by Sandy
Smareglia
The dawn chorus woke me in the middle of a frustrating
dream. In the dream I couldn't find my car, so this noisy
disturbance was, in a way, a blessing. I silently rolled out
of bed, so as not to disturb my husband. It was luxurious to
have time alone, over that first coffee. Gently closing the
door, I crept past the children's rooms, let the dog outside
and put some coffee on to brew. I was just about to relax with
my steaming cup, when I heard a commotion in the back yard.
Arthur, our miniature black Poodle
was being bombarded by two Mud Larks (or Peewees, named after
the sound they make). Going to defend his doggy honour, I
found a fluffy grey blob, on its back and covered in ants, but
very much alive. "The parent birds must have lost this
one", I thought. My whole family had watched the birds
building their nest in the Leopard tree that summer, and heard
the hatchlings calling. The question now was - was he
pushed or did he jump?
Not knowing the answer to that,
or what else to do, I picked up the pathetic fluffy bundle and
removed the ants. I warned the children, who' d been woken by
the ruckus, and were now gazing in wide-eyed awe, not to be
optimistic for Lucky Seven's survival. They reminded me that
there had been six animal Luckies before him who we had helped
overcome some calamity or other!
The kids raced to look up Mud
Larks on the internet so we'd know what to do with this small
bundle. Then, armed with their new knowledge, they wrapped
Lucky Seven in a flannel, and gently placed him in a cardboard
box, lined with strips of newspaper.
Meanwhile, I rang a Veterinary
assistant and was advised that the best policy was to return
the hatchling to its nest. Unfortunately Lucky Seven's nest,
skillfully made with mud, was too high for us to reach even
with a ladder, so it seemed we'd have to care for him.
Apparently, even though the parents squawk loudly, it is
unusual for them to feed fallen chicks. Lean mince was deemed
best for this insectivore, so we gave Lucky Seven moistened
mince on a skewer and an eye-dropper of water, several times a
day, for the next week, until he progressed to a mixture of
ground dog biscuits, boiled eggs and mince, and lastly, to
meal worms. (The latter grow into some kind of beetle;- if not
purchased for the consumption of little birds, that is.) Lucky
Seven was now being fed on demand, but at least he gave us a
break overnight. I was learning to jump when he squawked and
had started wondering what we had gotten ourselves into!
More optimistic daily for his
survival, we named him Lucky Arthur since his white
"eyebrows" meant he was a boy, and because Arthur
the dog hadn't actually eaten him. He progressed to a cage,
learned to stand on a perch, and his feathers grew. Quite
handsome for a Mud Lark, his mother still seemed interested in
him when we put his cage in the back yard. We watched him
building up his "pecs" for flight, but when put atop
his cage, he seemed in no hurry to venture forth.
Upon advice from a bird rescue
carer, we put small holes in the bottom of an ice-cream
container (for drainage), lined it with dry grass and then
nailed the ice-cream container to his parent's Leopard tree,
above the level usually reached by cats and dogs. I then
carefully placed Lucky Arthur inside while the kids hid in a
little tent 'hide' and waited to see what would happen.
Finally, his mum fed him. Success! Lucky flew down with his
mum and started foraging for insects. After this happy event
the Mud Larks vanished for a week. We worried until we heard
the hungry squawks emanating from the backyard and found that
Lucky Arthur had miraculously returned with his mum now
dancing to his tune instead of me.
Now he has returned to the
'wild' backyard and when we hear Lucky Arthur's own
contribution to the bird chorus we feel a glow of pride at his
rescue. In fact, he recently returned to the Leopard tree with
his own mate and the pair has been diligently feeding their
own offspring. We know it is Lucky Arthur by his large size
and loud "peewee" calls. However, we're crossing our
fingers that his offspring are better at balancing than he was
and that we don't have to rescue another Lucky (Eight) this
year!
OOH! by
Sandy Smareglia
"Ooh, I must just tweak these flowers",
Mrs. McPherson gestured towards the pottery urn on the
rosewood table, "to be careless about small matters,
leads to carelessness in greater ones." After some
vigorous jostling, the wayward stems were made to stand to
attention in the urn, petal faces now turned rigidly upwards,
like troops awaiting inspection, "That's better - unless
one has order, Janice, one's life is chaotic." "Yes
Mrs. Mac", replies Jade, knowing that the older woman
hates to be called that, but also annoyed at the criticism of
her flower arranging and her use of the name 'Janice' - 'I'm
much more of a Jade,' she broods to herself. "I'll start
on the pews, Mrs. Mac", Jade calls over her shoulder, but
receives no reply.
'Silence can be used to wound
just as easily as words. Once my student grant comes through,
I won't have to work here any longer. What's an atheist doing
in Church anyway? The lies I told to get this job! Not to
mention my genuine baptismal certificate, courtesy of Mark's
new publishing program and the library's top-notch printer. If
all the stuff they preach here is true, I'm sure to have
signed up for a place with eternal damnation. That reminds me
of an old Dave Allen sketch', Jade thought. She'd bought the
second-hand DVD from Ebay for her Pop. They used to watch it
together, before he was sent to the "home". In the
sketch, the Devil (aka Dave Allen) was castigating the newly
arrived sinners with the prospect of the eternal gnashing of
teeth. When one elderly lady says that she doesn't have her
false teeth with her, the Devil replies - "not to worry,
teeth will be supplied!" Pleased with her reminiscences,
Jade uses her scrubbing brush to attack the wooden pews with
renewed vigour.
Catching sight of Janice's
smirk, Mrs. McPherson can't help but feel outraged. 'How can
the church be so desperate that it needs a young trollop to
perform the Lord's duties? If not for my arthritis', she
excuses herself, 'I'd get rid of Janice and do the job
properly myself!'
'Does she think I don't know?',
ponders Jade, 'She judges me as worthless, but she's never
taken the time to get to know me. Doesn't she realise that if
I had her money, I'd dress better? St. Vinnies retro. stuff
isn't so bad, and at least I'm trying to better myself with
education - all she can do is sniff and bully a few poor
flowers into submission! Well, it won't work with me.' Jade
finishes her work, pulls the doors to, behind her, and then
locks them with the heavy keys. Jade hands these to Mrs. Mac
who is sitting on the shady bench outside, impatiently waiting
with her palm outstretched.
Jade returns for the Service,
since it "wouldn't do" to be seen as anything less
than devout. Mrs. Mac is in front of her, as they exit the
amenities section. 'At least this congregation had the money
to put in modern plumbing', Jade thinks, 'since they were
flush with funds!'. Mrs. Mac swishes regally through the door,
which Jade politely holds open (but for which she receives no
"thank-you", save for the benevolent smile engraved
upon Mrs. Mac's lips.) Unfortunately, Jade notices, Mrs. Mac's
skirt hem is trapped inside her figure-control panties, and
her rotund bottom and varicose veins are on display for all to
see. She reminds Jade of a Bottacelli print she has seen
somewhere. Jade does not tap Mrs. Mac on the shoulder to tell
her of her wardrobe malfunction. Likewise, being nice (or
hypocritical), no-one else acknowledges this faux-pas, either.
Mrs. Mac walks slowly down the centre aisle, towards the
Church Organ she will soon be playing, acknowledging with a
gentle tilt of her head, the respect the whole congregation so
evidently feel towards her. She can sense it radiating from
them as their rapt attention causes some of them to turn to
gaze upon her passing form. 'The Janices of this world think
they know it all - how to get attention, but I know that true
talent will always shine', Mrs. Mac reflects.
Cindy Rella
by Sandy
Smareglia
Cindy raised her limpid caramel-coloured eyes to meet those
of the jury members, "Why would I harm my husband? All
I've ever wanted, since I was a little girl, was to be
married".
The jurors stared at the woman
who had finally lifted her eyes towards them. Cindy had kept
her eyes downcast throughout the entire summation of the
prosecution's case.
"Why would I have
willingly harmed my husband with a stiletto shoe? I normally
only wear low-healed slip-on shoes", she confided
earnestly, as she delicately creased her pretty brow.
Her defence attorney,
resplendent in a suit which emphasised his triangular frame,
leant towards his client and asked, "What, in your own
words, led to the tragic events on the night in
question?"
"Well, your Honour and
Members of the Jury," Cindy took the whole Court in with
her childlike gaze, "On the night in question I was the
happiest girl in the world. I had married my charming husband,
a prince among men, and I was ready to celebrate this
momentous occasion with the world. So, sure, we had all been
drinking toasts to the bridal party, and it was such a large
wedding party. By the time we had made the speeches, we were
all feeling merry. I'm normally a teetotaler, so I think the
French champagne hit me more than anyone else
there".
"Yes, I can understand
that, as I'm sure my learned jurors will also appreciate. You
were, prior to your recent marriage employed as a cleaner I
believe?"
"That is correct, since
Daddy re-married; my life had just been drudgery. You said I
was 'employed', but the fact of the matter is that I was
nothing more than a slave! My so-called step-family treated me
worse than a servant, and Daddy didn't, or couldn't, protect
me from them. It was like he was under Ursula's spell."
"You and Ursulla, your
stepmother, did not get along I understand."
"That is correct. It's
hard to like someone who makes you a slave in your own
home."
Here Cindy gracefully
sobbed into a silken hanky, and then calmed herself and
continued, "I couldn't believe it when my two
step-sisters turned up for the wedding! As you know, they were
definitely not invited; they even tried to steal my betrothed
from me! I had to invite my stepmother, for poor Daddy's sake,
but no way was I going to invite those two! Well when they
turned up uninvited, I admit it - I saw red!
I tuned to my husband and
demanded that he have them removed, and do you know what he
said? He said 'Stop acting the Princess and do it yourself!' I
ask you, is that any way for a gentleman to speak to his wife?
I think not. In a rage I took off my shoe. You must
understand, I usually wear soft-soled slippers, I'd forgotten
completely that my charming husband had had these stiletto
shoes blown from glass in Venice, especially for me, as a
wedding present. Do you know, they fitted me perfectly! I'll
never wear them again now, of course. The left one is
completely shattered. I had no intention of harming my husband
- I never wanted to be a widow, it was the heat of the moment.
The champagne went to my head and unfortunately my glass
stiletto went to my husband's. I never meant to hurt
him!"
Cindy once again broke down in
sobs, but more heart-wrenching this time. She had finished her
defence plea and, providing her waterproof mascara did its
job, she could turn her anguished face once more to the
jurors. Her defence attorney silently applauded her
performance, and started planning how to utilise his fee,
after Cindy was acquitted. Cindy meanwhile, was planning the
first few chapters of a book she planned to write about how to
marry your Prince Charming, although admittedly, it wouldn't
be 'happily ever after' for the Prince.
A Loyal Friend is like a Rare Jewel
by Margarita Escalón
A loyal friend is like a rare jewel, oh so difficult to find; the best God-given gift that comes to my mind.
As the jewel radiates its light from different angles; so does the loyal friend because… in her/him is:
The light of wisdom when offering advice
The light of charity overlooking mistakes
The light of peace when troubled with pain
The light of comfort when tears flow
The light of true joy with your success
The light of hope when all seems lost
The light of prayer when hopeless and helpless
The light of knowledge in sharing sweet Jesus
So when it is found you cherish and guard him/her with great care; you are forever thankful to the
Lord that he/she is always there!
(copyright 2002)
Empty
Chair by
Liam O'Reilly
Tom looked at the empty chair in the corner. It looked
lonely and neglected. He liked that chair; it had served him
well through the years. He had picked it up rather cheaply at
a sale. He couldn’t quite remember where. When he first got it
and brought it home, he slid around his little office from
computer to desk and sometimes out the door into the next
room. Like a kid with a new toy.
But now he had a different set of wheels. His wheelchair
was a necessity. He never felt like a kid with a new toy, even
on the first day he sat in it. His old legs were the problem.
He could stand and shuffle a few steps, but not for long, or
for any distance.
“Hi, Tom, are you there?”
It was Margaret, the Home Carer.
“Yes, Margaret, the door is open”
She came on most days during the week. She helped him take
a shower and tidy up the house. She also did a bit of shopping
and made some meals, which he could heat and have in the
evenings. Tom pushed over to the bookshelf and got the papers
ready for her to sign before she left. Accountability – very
important.
Margaret floated into his little office. She was a good and
pleasant lady who took up a lot of space.
“Good morning, Tom, how are we today”.
Tom always found this question difficult. He knew how he
was, but how on earth could he know how she was? He had
decided long ago that this was a kind of medical lingo to be
used only in some situations. So he always answered for the
‘I’ and not the ‘we’. She seemed to accept that and never
pushed for a complete answer.
Tom had mixed feelings about the help provided to him by
government and council and various volunteer organizations. He
certainly appreciated the services provided but at the same
time he resented the dependence that was being built up. He
felt his dependence growing like a cancer and he seemed unable
– or was he unwilling- to try to halt it?
Margaret was busy cleaning and vacuuming the different
rooms.
“Are you ready for a shower, Tom?”
Of course he was. Been ready since yesterday. He pushed
himself over to the bathroom and pulled himself up by the
support bars that had been installed there. Margaret hovered
nearby to help him get his clothes off and get the water
running at the right temperature. Tom could do all this alone
– would take a lot longer certainly, but he could manage. But
why bother, if the help was standing by? Should he resist this
help, or just accept? He felt his identity slipping away.
After the shower, the “meals on wheels” man arrived, and
Margaret was busy getting plates and cutlery from the kitchen.
Tom liked his kitchen and both he and his wife before she
passed on, enjoyed cooking meals and baking. He missed that.
Now the kitchen was rarely used. The fridge was the focus of
attention as meals and snacks were stored or retrieved
throughout the day.
“Can you come over here for me, Tom, this side of the
table”
This was another expression from the medical dictionary
that Tom had learned. The word ‘please’ was replaced by ‘for
me’. ‘Sit down for me’; ‘hold out your arm for me’; ‘can you
close your eyes for me’. He must get one of those
dictionaries; he could be missing a lot.
Margaret was now in the empty chair completing the paper
work.
“Is there anything else you need Tom, before I go. The
garden looks overgrown. I’ll see if I can get someone over to
tidy it up”.
Tom loved his garden, but apart from some pruning at the
right height there was not much he could do these days.
“That would be great’ he said “Thank you’.
Margaret stood up to go. As she made for the door, Tom
couldn’t resist it.
“Can you close the door for me, Margaret”. She did not
respond.
Tom was left with his thoughts. He was frail and somewhat
disabled. He needed help, but the ‘helpers’ presumed that he
was 100% disabled, and so built his dependency. Tom accepted
that his body was frail, but his mind was strong. This
distinction had to be made.
He looked at the empty chair. Unless he resisted this
dependency the chair could be a sign of things to come, a slow
progression — empty chair, empty kitchen, empty garden, empty
house, empty life.
He felt motivated. He would fight this takeover by the
well-meaning helpers.
His strong mind will take charge of his frail body.
Tomorrow he’ll work out a strategy to recapture his identity.
Remember Them by
Richard Meyer
I stopped walking and looked at the dead kangaroo on the side of
the road. As I looked, I thought of how short and meaningless was life on this planet. I thought of the millions of
lives lost in wars. We say 'we will remember them' but I couldn't
think of the name of one. We remember that they all died but their identity is gone. They are one amorphous mass,
far removed from reality. We don't remember them. We go on
regardless. I looked up the road and set off at a fast
pace. I was going bungie jumping.
From the Balcony by
Desley Melrose
The view from my 5th floor balcony was magnificent. One afternoon my brother's family were visiting and were watching the traffic on the busy thoroughfare directly below. Suddenly someone called out, "Quick Geoff, get Lucy down - she's climbing up the railing again". "Oh, my God, No!" She had toppled off. We raced out of the unit and down to the road below. There was no sign of Lucy. Then we heard a little whimper from under a car. We pulled her out. Incredibly she was not even bruised. But I'm sure she lost eight of her nine lives that afternoon.
Encounter by
Robyn Ashford-Martin
They flashed a look of recognition at each other, yet neither of them could recall where they had met before. The "Don't I know you from somewhere?" line seemed too trite to attempt so they remained silent while their minds whirled, sifting through the detritus of useless information, searching for the link that bound them.
Eye contact broken, they returned to their research in the arts section of the library. Almost simultaneously, they located the books they needed and joined the check out queue, eyeing each other, scrutinizing facial features until the revelation hit. "You went to Cav Rd High!"
Win by
Robyn
Ashford-Martin
The starter's pistol split the river morning air. Bodies rocked forward and arched back in unison, tendon sinews striving as they rowed towards their ultimate goal.
"You must beat Churchie at all costs," the coach's words reverberated in their ears with every punishing stroke. The lead changed with each dip of oars, first Grammar then Churchie then Grammar crossed the line ahead to triumphant cheers.
All oars went up, then one set crashed down, an oarsman collapsed. Spectators gasped as his inert body was carried from the water. His team mates held the trophy. "We won, but at what cost?"
Kaleidoscope by
Robyn
Ashford-Martin
She pointed to where she wanted to be, her face full of wonderment. Her Dad gently lifted her onto the saddle and wrapped her hands around the reins. He gave her a reassuring hug and stepped back to watch.
As she began moving, an expression of delight overtook her innocent face. She was transported into another magical world; a whirling kaleidoscope of light, colour and music. The gentle rise and fall of the motion intoxicated her with simple happiness.
He knew it would be forever etched into his memory. The day when Lucy first rode the carousel at St Kilda.
