Category: Miscellaneous

A place for random thoughts.

Short Story: The leap not taken

The wintry twilight was closing in and the ferry to Manly heaved and rolled past the Heads. Back when Ned was a junior clerk, he had stood with the other fellows, feet astride, balancing on the outer deck as the ferry dipped and rose through the swell. It had been a matter of pride not to hold on to anything. Older now, he still took the ferry from the city and his cronies from the office still congregated outside, their hats and caps jauntily tipped back on their heads. But Ned sat inside, his winter overcoat buttoned up, his fedora hat tilted low, to keep the worst of the chill off his exposed ears.

As the ferry approached the wharf, the wind was rising and the waves pitched and tossed. Anxious to get home, passengers folded their newspapers and rose to gather close to sliding doors, packed in so tightly they swayed as one.

All eyes were fixed on the ferrymen standing outside on the deck. Broad shouldered, cigarettes lodged in the corner of their mouths, they looped the sodden rope through their hardened hands, ready to lasso the bollards on the wharf. The tide was low and the wharf loomed high above them, casting the outer deck into gloom. The echo of the seething waves rushed through the pylons barely visible in the darkness under the wharf. Until the ferrymen secured the boat, they couldn’t heave the gangplanks into position. The young lads waited, one foot stretched up to the rail, ready to leap up to the wharf, too impatient to wait for the gangplanks. Over the grinding chug of the engines, they called out, urging each other on, one eye calculating the distance, the other on the women still inside. ‘See, I’m not just a boring office clerk in the city’ their actions boasted.

As the boat rose, the ferrymen cast their ropes.

Missed. With a thwack the sodden ropes fell back against the gunnel.

The ferrymen cursed, coiling back the heavy ropes.

Behind the sliding door, Ned checked his watch. The 144 bus would be leaving any minute. He peered through the salt-misted window, watching his fellow clerk Frank jostle for position with the young lads on the outer deck. He tutted under his breath. When he got home he would tell his wife about Frank’s delusions of youth. That might liven her up a little. Marjorie seemed—he didn’t know quite how to describe it—a bit down. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. Or the last time she’d cooked something other than macaroni cheese. A chap wasn’t asking too much was he, to have some variety in his dinner?

Marjorie used to like taking a trip on the ferry. From their back verandah they could see out toward North Head. If the water was rough they’d see the ferry rolling and heaving its way into Manly and they’d walk for half an hour to get down to the wharf and buy a return ticket just for the fun of it. How her face had lit up when they’d done that. She’d tuck her arm in his and chatter the whole way home, sharing her thrill at her new life by the sea, so far from her life back on the family property in the dry flat plains.

Perhaps Frank felt him staring, for he turned to look back, grinning and lifting his briefcase by way of a wave. Or was he mocking him? Everything was a joke to Frank. It made the hours in their office cubicle very tedious.

Nettled, Ned set his jaw and edged forward between the other passengers. Stepping outside, the wind blasted him full in the face threatening to lift his hat. He clamped one hand on top. It wouldn’t do to lose it. That wasn’t the sort of story that would make Marjorie smile, not when the cost of a new hat would cut even further into the housekeeping. They’d hoped he’d have been promoted by now, but old Simmons had intimated that perhaps at the end of the financial year, but the financial year had come and gone, and nothing had been said.

Again the ferrymen threw.

Again they missed.

Again they swore.

Silhouetted in the lights from the wharf, Frank was up on the rail, one hand on the floor of the upper deck for balance. ‘Watch me’, said his grin.

The ferry lifted with the next wave and Frank teetered for a moment, as the lads jeered, ‘Come on grandad, show us what you’ve got.’

Ned watched as Frank—a suited, hatted Nureyev—hung suspended mid-air.

‘He’s not gonna make it!’ shouted one of the onlookers.

With a crash, the waves sucked back and the distance between the ferry and the wharf doubled.

Ned, along with the other passengers, leaned over the rail, searching for any sign of Frank in the churning foam.

Then the water surged again and the ferry rolled towards the wharf.

He held his breath waiting for the boat to roll back away. For one dreadful moment, only Frank’s bowler hat was visible in the foam. But then his briefcase followed, still gripped tightly in his hand. And then his head emerged, spitting a spume of water from his mouth.

The lads bent double laughing and the other passengers cackled in relief.

Once more the ferry yawed away from the wharf and Ned leaned over the railing, trying to catch sight of Frank.

The ferryman gave him a shove. ‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, heaving the rope up to the wharf to loop the iron bollard at last.

Ned waited, heart pounding, as the ferrymen roped and made the ferry fast. The gangplank thudded into place at his feet, and he was pushed forward by the press of passengers. Even now, with the ferry tied up, the rise and fall of the water skewed the gangplank this way and that. He fought to stare down to the water as the gangplank groaned and creaked under their feet. There! Behind the barnacled pylon, a hand. Then in the shadows, bowler hat back on his head, Frank emerged, clumsily swimming his way to the next pylon.

Reaching the safe stability of the wharf, Ned picked up his pace. Wouldn’t want to miss his bus – Marjorie would have dinner waiting.

A sploshing sound from behind caught him mid-step. Frank had made it to the beachside pool and climbed the stairs to the street. His suit was sodden and his wet footprints tracked along the concrete but, with a flourish, he lifted his dripping bowler in acknowledgement of the scattered applause of his fellow passengers.

When Ned arrived home, he told Marjorie all about it as he forced down the macaroni cheese. He’d thought to amuse her. When he finished, she didn’t comment, just rose to clear away the dishes.

He made one last attempt. ‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me doing such thing, now would you?’ he snorted.

Her hand brushed his shoulder. ‘No, you would never do such a thing,’ she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

________

Short Story

This short story was tucked away in a drawer for a long while but I figure it’s time to drag it out into the light of day. Hope you like it!

The Essentials

Miss Solly locked her bag into the lower drawer of her desk and clipped the key on the chain about her neck. She removed the dustcover from her computer and folded it into three before tucking it out of sight. She exhaled slowly. Mr Alexander Svaric, today’s applicant, would be here any minute—or should be, if he had any chance of being appointed. Brandon & Co Detective Agency had to find someone suitable soon or they’d be out of business and thirty years of her working life would disintegrate to a one-line resumé item.

Three floors below, Alex Svaric pushed his way past piles of uncollected mail by the doorway. He had heard glowing reports of the agency—all the biggest clients and the best jobs—so he’d expected lots of chrome with piped music in the elevators. Instead, he gasped his way up three flights of narrow unrenovated stairs. The musty smell increased with each level. Fresh air hadn’t filtered its way into this office block since last century.

Outside the door to the agency, he smoothed his hair and adjusted his tie. Mentally he rehearsed his pitch. His police training had been cut short when he was head-hunted for an elite unit in the armed services. Now it was time for fresh challenges. That was it—snappy tone, positive, forward looking—it didn’t do to dwell.

On entering, Alek’s second disappointment was the receptionist. He’d pictured a chatty blonde who’d appreciate a break and would give him some ideas about what might go down well with the boss. Women thought him handsome—though he knew that was mainly to do with his height and build. His nose had been broken so many times that, these days, he shot for rogue-like charisma instead of pretty boy. The job would be his in a heartbeat. Nice of him, really, to give Brandon & Co the opportunity to have him.

The woman behind the desk would have been fifty on a good day and, by the look on her face, today wasn’t that day. She peered over her bifocals by way of a greeting.

“Alek Svaric’s the name.” He flashed a grin. “You’re looking at the agency’s next best detective.”

The gargoyle surveyed him for a long moment. “Our next detective, or the next best one?”

“Ha.” The smile slid off his face. “I’m due to meet with your boss, Mr Brandon, at nine.” He emphasised ‘your boss’. Put the bitch back in her box.

She inclined her head toward the chairs.

He sat.

And sat.

Rapid-fire clicks came from the old dragon’s keyboard. Every so often, the clicking would stop, only to be replaced by the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty, then ten o’clock came and went.

Might as well check his emails while he waited. He foraged in his pocket for his phone. The damn suit must’ve shrunk; he didn’t know why he’d bothered getting it cleaned. He slid his butt forward on the seat of the wooden chair, sucked his stomach in and eased his hand into the pocket. The tips of his fingers fumbled with his phone—it was chunky and heavy. He needed to update—if he got the job, that is.

He stabbed at the screen. No signal.

No internet reception? How did this place get its reputation?

Perhaps the office was shielded in some way. He stared at the stony-faced woman—when she wasn’t tapping like some demented woodpecker, she was sliding the mouse. Then she’d pause and flick her thumb, slip and slide, another pause, another flick—right-click this time, her wrist jerk barely perceptible. Yes, she was on the net, all right. So that made sense—security conscious, with restricted internet access only.

He put his phone away.

Eleven o’clock. Had she even let the boss know he was there?

He cleared his throat. Before he’d uttered a word, the beady eyes were upon him.

“Mr Brandon has been delayed.”

“I’ll come back another day,” he said, standing. Why didn’t she tell him this two hours ago?

Her stare lasted for what seemed like a full minute.

“You could try that.”

It was a dare. Leave now and kiss the job goodbye. Well, he’d show her; he would wait. He’d been in a lot of waiting rooms over the last twelve months. Maybe it’d be for nothing, but he’d be damned if he’d give up.

With each tick of the clock, the sides of the room pressed in further. No paintings on the walls. Just wood panelling, interrupted by mottled glass partitions. Gold lettering on the door to the right of the reception desk— probably Mr Brandon’s office. The office on the other side was unoccupied. Behind the glass he made out the blurred shadows of cardboard boxes piled in a discarded heap. An office of his own, that’d be the way to go. But a job in an agency this well-known would have a shed load of applicants. Most private investigators only got casual work—that was the way of things these days, but the advert had said permanent full-time and it had appeared for weeks now. So, were they being picky, or did the other applicants think better of the deal after they’d seen the place?

One o’clock. What he’d give for a drink. He was parched. Dehydrated, no doubt, from last night. God, he’d put a few away. He’d settle for water now though. He ran his furry tongue across his teeth, imagining how it would feel to stick his head under a tap and let the water flow into his open mouth.

With the image, came a responsive twitch from his bladder. Don’t think about it. He wasn’t going to put his hand up like a kid in class and ask the schoolmarm to be excused to take a leak. Think about something else.

The typing stopped. The woman removed a plastic container from behind the desk. She snapped the lid open, took out a small plastic fork and speared a lettuce leaf. The leaf disappeared into her jaws, two crunches and the fork dived again. He was almost grateful for the diversion. Finished, she rose and walked briskly through a small doorway at the far end of the office.

There’d be a toilet in the office washroom, he thought. This was his chance—he’d duck out and be back before she knew he’d gone. He was half-way to his feet when she returned.

Fed and watered, the snow-queen seemed—or perhaps he was imagining it—marginally less ice-bound. It was worth a shot.

“So, how would it be,” he asked—no grin this time, keep things respectful, “if I left my resumé for Mr Brandon to look at when he’s free?”

Her expression was placid.

Encouraged, he continued. “I’m sure he’s eager to fill the position, given the time it’s been vacant.” He paused, indicating the empty office with the cardboard boxes. “You could give me a call or email and let me know when he’d be sure to be available.”

She nodded, picked up the phone and pressed a button.

The door to her right opened a crack. Mr Brandon was the sort of man who would pass unremarked in a crowd. He had lips so thin that, when he talked, his mouth movements were only visible by a wandering line like an old cartoon character.

“Come in, Mr Svaric. At last, we meet.”

When five o’clock came around, Miss Solly could still hear the men’s murmured voices from behind the partition. She draped the dustcover over the computer, unclipped her key and retrieved her bag.

The selection of candidates took a long time, she thought, but, as Mr Brandon always said, there were three criteria that made a good detective and every one of the criteria had to be met to meet the agency’s standards. Punctuality and persistence, of course. Third, there was flexibility—things didn’t always go according to plan in following a case.

The handle turned and Mr Brandon ushered the candidate out of his office. Mr Brandon’s thin lips creased into an upturned crescent moon.

“Mr Svaric will be joining us from tomorrow, Miss Solly. I leave the arrangements to you,” he said and disappeared back into his office.

Despite the news, Svaric’s body was tense.

Miss Solly jerked her head toward the door. “Conveniences on the ground floor; first left down the hall. We’ll see you tomorrow—nine o’clock sharp.”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. Walking fast with his thighs clamped together, he bolted for the door.

Mr Brandon’s three criteria for selecting a detective were all very well. But, Miss Solly mused, stakeouts were often long, and people being followed could not be relied upon to stay in one place long enough to allow for comfort stops. It was her fourth criterion that was the clincher.

Thought provoking reading

As much as I love reading fiction, sometimes you crave something that gives your brain more to chew on. Here are three non-fiction books I enjoyed during 2024.

Wifedom by Anna Funder, Penguin, 2023

Anna Funder has the gift of transforming highly detailed research into a readable whole. Her thesis in this work is that the writer George Orwell and his biographers have largely overlooked or discounted the important contribution of his first wife, Eileen O’Shaughnessy.

As a well-educated women Eileen worked in a variety of jobs during their marriage while at the same time working on Orwell’s drafts, typing and retyping, proofreading, and providing feedback. In particular, Funder argues that one of Eileen’s poem (‘End of the Century, 1984’) written in 1934 dealt with a similar futuristic vision as Orwell’s novel ‘1984’, and that the writing style of his novel ‘Animal Farm’ can be seen as reflecting Eileen’s own wit and humour.

There are of course contrary opinions to that of Funder and, while it’s hard by the end of the book to have much sympathy for Orwell as a man, I think his quality as a writer is undiminished. For me the most compelling parts of the book were the descriptions of Eileen’s courage during their time in Spain during the civil war, and her physical labours and deprivations during their time living in the cold countryside. For a clever and skilled woman who could have taken other life paths, it was hard to understand how she could throw herself on the pyre of his success. He was indeed very fortunate to have her.

Into the rip by Damien Cave (‘How the Australian way of risk made my family stronger, happier … and less American’), Scribner Australia, 2021

I ran across this book through a short YouTube clip from an interview with the author.

The book is part memoir, part commentary on the author’s experience on moving to Australia from America with a young family. Since the family lived near the beach, they were intrigued by the Nippers program run by Surf Lifesaving Australia. Risk, particularly with regard to their children, was something to avoid in their previous life. In Australia, risk was the very thing that their children were being introduced to. The book is a quick and easy read, and offers a fascinating glimpse into ways our distinctive Australian way of viewing the world.

The only plane in the sky: The oral history of 9/11 by Garrett M. Graff  (full cast recording (15 hrs), Octopus Publishing Group, 2019

Every September since the events of 9/11 we are provided with documentaries and memorials. Each year I swear I’m sick of it, but I find myself drawn to it. I think many of us remember where we were when it happened. Watching the events unfold on live television broadcasts seared these distant events into our consciousnesses.

‘The Only Plane in the Sky’ (2019) is an audiobook collection of 500 oral accounts collected in interviews by author, journalists, and researchers on a two year project. The interviews were condensed and edited for clarity, but remain uninterpreted: pure oral history. For the audiobook, in order to achieve the highest audio quality production, the accounts are narrated by actors selected for similarity with the original speaker.

The collection is large and too much to absorb in a continuous way. I still haven’t listened to them all, but the chapter segmentation is easy to follow and I found I could dip in and out to follow where my interest lies. This collection isn’t for everyone, but it is a fascinating resource.

GenreCon 2023

The GenreCon 2023 program is now out! I’m very excited to take part in one of the panels at the 8th ‘GenreCon’ coming up on 18-20th February 2023!

GenreCon is hosted by Queensland Writers Centre and takes place at the State Library of Queensland (with some sessions available online).  The program is their usual fabulous mix across genres: sci-fi, fantasy, horror, historical fiction….

The panel I get to contribute to is on the topic ‘Putting the Sci in Sci-Fi’ and is on Saturday 19th February from 2.30 – 3.30 pm. Really looking forward to meeting many favourite authors at the event, including those on the panel: Bryn Smith, Garth Nix, and Jay Kristoff!!

One hundred ways to get writing …

Start a new page, take another step, ask for help, think again, try again

Take a break, sigh, breathe, lie on the floor, try again

Consult a book, click a link, sketch a diagram, dot some points, try again

Clean the bath tiles, go for a walk, sit, do a jig, try again

Type a word, sharpen a pencil, write a list, make a spreadsheet, try again

Sleep, waste some time, tell a friend, tell a stranger, try again

Dunk a tea bag, brew a coffee, eat a biscuit, eat another, try again

Do a course, watch a how-to video, analyse a show, review a book, try again

Join a group, attend presentations, offer feedback, listen to critique, try again

Write ‘the’ as many times as it takes to get bored, write rubbish, free associate, write a paragraph for a genre you hate, try again

Write more rubbish, make a folder called ‘crap’, make a folder called ‘ideas’, fill the folders, try again

Identify a book you love, pick a paragraph at random, read it aloud, ask yourself why it works, try again

Write a paragraph in the style of a favourite author, do that again for an author your spouse likes to read, do it again for a different author, and another, try again

Look back at your ‘ideas’ folder, list the ideas in order of ‘do-ability’, in order of challenge, in order of excitement, try again

Explore the internet for writing competitions, identify a match with any of your ideas, write the deadline on a post-it-note, stick it somewhere you see every day, try again

Rough out some ideas while telling yourself you’re ‘not really writing’, start writing out some sentences and paragraphs among your rough ideas, keep filling in the blanks, smarten up the rough draft so the sentences make sense, try again

Ban yourself from looking at the damn draft again for at least a few days, congratulate yourself with a treat of your choice, write something that ‘doesn’t matter’ just for fun, go back to your rough draft, try again

Bring your draft to a critique group, read your work while someone reads it aloud, underline where they stumble in their reading, keep notes on the listeners’ feedback, try again

Re-draft, re-draft, re-draft, put it away for a day, try again

Submit, breathe, rest, smile, keep trying.

Great News!

Just wanted to share my good news — I’ve been offered a publishing contract for my sci-fi novel, ‘Grey Nomad’! It’s with Booktopia Publishing (who have expanded from being mainly an online book retailer to publishing as well). After getting a legal contract consultation, I signed on Friday — so lots of champagne this weekend! 

I’ve put up a few posts about this story before, and I’ve kept working on it, encouraged by earlier drafts being shortlisted for the Brio Books Fantastica Prize in 2019, and for the Queensland Writers’ Centre Adaptable program in 2020. Lots of revising and great editing advice has got it to the stage it is now. I know that there’s still a whole lot more polishing to go, but what a joy to be able to undertake revisions knowing that sometime soonish (maybe toward the end of next year????) I’ll be able to share the story itself.

Whose view?

Whose view?

You’ll Thank Me One Day

Version 1 – John, the father’s point of view (written in 3rd person)

‘Let me hear you one more time.’ John took one hand off the steering wheel to wipe the sweat off against his trousers.

‘Jesus, Dad, not again. We’re nearly there.’

John glanced up to the rear-view mirror. ‘For Christ’s sake, Andrew. I told you to put it away.’

Andrew made a show of putting his smart phone in his blazer pocket.

‘And the earphones.’ John waited till Andrew, scowling, complied. ‘Right then. Periodic table. Off you go.’

‘They’re not going to ask me things like that.’

‘Oh, so you’ve done a private school entrance exam before then, have you?’

Silence from the backseat.

‘Well, have you? No. And if you get one of their scholarships, then you’ve got it made, boy. You’ll thank me one day, you know.’

(re-posted from piecesoftayo)

Version 2 – Andrew, the son’s point of view (written in 1st person)

[PING: koolkukumber WTFRU]

Kobe knows where I’m going. He’s just taking the piss because that’s what best mates do. I text back.

[handyandy Crap exam thing]

‘Let me hear you one more time,’ the old man says.

‘Jesus, Dad, not again. We’re nearly there.’

Dad’s eyes squint at me in the rear-view mirror. I know what he’s going to say.

‘For Christ’s sake, Andrew. I told you to put it away.’

See, right again.

[PING: koolkukumber WAJ]

I’d like to think Kobe’s calling my dad a jerk, but I know he means me. But, shit, it’s not my fault Dad wants me to go to a private school. Besides, there’s nothing Dad can do about it once I’m in the interview. All I’ve to do is look like I’m as thick as Kobe.

I quickly text back.

[handyandy FU]

I take my time stowing the phone in my pocket.

 ‘And the earphones. Right then. Periodic table. Off you go.’

‘They’re not going to ask me things like that.’

‘Oh, so you’ve done a private school entrance exam before then, have you? Well, have you? No. And if you get one of their scholarships, then you’ve got it made, boy. You’ll thank me one day, you know.’

Blah, blah, blah. The only thing I’d thank him for is if he STFU.

_______

I wrote these short pieces back in October 2020, when I participated in a great course on ‘Writing Conflict’ led by Cate Kennedy (see my earlier post inspired by this course on Conflict & Dramatic Irony). Another exercise that Cate set us was to write about a scene she described as, “A father and son argue in a car as the father is dropping off the son at school before an important exam”. Then she challenged us to re-write the piece but boost the conflict through altering one or more elements (e.g., changing point of view, increasing time pressure, restricting sentence length). I chose to play around with point of view, and I think it radically changed the power dynamic in the exchange. Which version do you like best?