Archive for the 'Fiction' Category

Short fiction #44 “Galahs”

An Australian parrot called a Galah

An Australian parrot called a Galah

The flock of galahs must have numbered three hundred, perhaps even as many as four hundred. Their pink breast feathers were shining brilliantly in the evening sun as they wheeled together as one against the deep blue sky. Their screeching could be heard many hundreds of metres away, and as they flew overhead, the flapping of so many wings sounded like a wave washing over me.

With much squawking and flapping of wings the flock settled on the powerlines near our driveway. Several of them couldn’t decide where to sit and they began circling around the others looking for a spot to perch.

The setting sun accentuated the beautiful pink feathers as they began to quieten and settle. A few noisy individuals spoiled the calm evening air.

A passing cyclist disturbed the flock which ebbed and flowed as one on its way the settle for the night in the trees up the hill from our home.

Peace at last.

All rights reserved. Copyright 2015 Trevor W. Hampel

Notes: although I have classed this under “fiction”, an incident like this actually happened to me about 5 years ago which prompted me to write this piece as a writing exercise. Above I have posted a recent photo of a Galah.

You see more photos of birds and read more about them on my other site Trevor’s Birding here.

 

A troubled people

 

I have been planning on writing this article for a few days now, but world events have overtaken me. I just have to write this. The idea for this post started out being a review of a book – and I will do that, but the underlying story is much, much bigger. I was just going to write a simple, straight forward review of a novel for young people, but the news headlines of the last few days shout louder than any review.

The people of Syria are experiencing something I can never imagine. War in recent times has ravaged their beautiful country and continues to do so as I write. It is daily in our news broadcasts. I don’t know enough about the politics of the conflict to comment, but I do appreciate the massive humanitarian crisis which has developed over recent months, culminating in very recent events.

None can forget the image of the drowned body of a small boy on the beach. His family was one of millions attempting to escape the war zone. Many are heading towards European countries by any means possible. The scale of the tragedy is unimaginable. I cannot imagine a body of refugees the size of a large part of the Australian population migrating in part on foot with only a few hand-held possessions. I cannot begin to imagine what they are going through, the terror they must feel, the sense of dislocation, and the utter hopelessness of their actions. We cannot sit idly by and ignore their plight.

Only minutes ago I checked the news, and this morning the Australian Government announced that we will be accepting an additional 10,000 Syrian refugees into Australia. While this is good news, I feel that it is pitifully short of what we could, and should be doing. Double, or triple that amount would be more like it, in my opinion. In the same news bulletin the government announced that it is giving the go-ahead for our planes to join forces in bombing raids on Syria. I, like so many others, despair at news like this. This is not our conflict. Surely Australian involvement can only cause more suffering?

Book Review: “Zafir” written by Prue Mason. (Published by Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 2015.)

“Zafir” is another in the highly acclaimed series of novels in the “Through My Eyes” series for young adults. This series aims to tell first hand accounts of war zones through the eyes of children caught in conflict. Zafir, a young boy caught in the start of the conflict in Syria a few years ago, grapples with what war means to him, and how it impacts various members of his family. Not only are immediate family members injured, some are arrested and imprisoned without trial and many in the close, loving family are displaced persons in their own country.

When Zafir is on his way to school he sees a body dumped from a moving car. He is concerned that nobody stops to help and he is told to forget he ever saw it. The conflict he feels as a result, and the rapidly deteriorating situation politically and socially, brings a nervous uneasiness into his life, and the downward spiral into his family’s displacement begins. Add to this is the conflicting spiritual influences in his life and we observe his whole world collapse around him – literally due to bombing of his home, and metaphorically with the arrest of his father.

This is a fast moving, intense story which feels like an action movie, reads like an adventure story, confronts the reader with the reality of war and mirrors today’s newspapers and television news broadcasts. Highly recommended.

Further reading:

Short fiction #43 “The Proposal”

The Proposal

Doris sat like a stone statue on the park bench. She’d been waiting now for over an hour, wondering when David would arrive for their date. She was starting to feel cold; the sun had almost set and there was a chill in the breeze. She had not dressed adequately.

She looked at the young couples walking arm in arm across the grass, along the paths and around the lake. Several couples were lying in the few sunny spots still available; at least one couple was in an amorous embrace. Far too passionate for public display she had been thinking, but her eyes could not stray far from staring at them. She longed to have a passionate embrace from a loving man.

David seemed to be the perfect answer: tall, dark, handsome – actually he was none of those things, but she loved to fantasise. There was no harm in dreaming. Besides, he was good looking, almost handsome. David wasn’t dark either; in fact, he was almost grey all over his considerable head of hair. Distinguished; that would be a better description. And tall – he was barely a centimetre taller than her, and she had never been called tall. ‘Squirt’ her brother had unkindly referred to her when they were growing up all those years ago.

Finally she saw David limping towards her. ‘What happened to you?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it.’

‘Try me.’ She stared at his leg as he gently rubbed a sore spot. ‘I might just be convinced.’ He didn’t see the smile on her face.

He groaned. ‘I can’t believe the day I’ve had.’ He paused, as if gathering his thoughts.

‘Try starting at the beginning,’ she said. ‘It sounds like it might be an interesting story. Something for us to laugh at in our old age.’ She giggled nervously. The withering scowl in response told her it was time to shut up and listen.

‘I was trying to sleep-in after the long movie I watched last night,’ he went on, ‘but the late cup of tea I made myself had other ideas.’

Picturing the situation she wanted to laugh, but caught her automatic reflex just in time. ‘Mmm…’ It was best to let David go on with the account. She didn’t want to hinder the flow of his story.

‘In my hurry to get out of bed my feet got tangled in my underwear.’ He sighed. ‘I’d carelessly left them on the floor just where there was a distinct possibility of potential tripping.’ With dramatic arm movements he attempted to demonstrate how he went sprawling across the bedroom floor. ‘No harm done really, except for badly bruised knees and a pair of glasses smashed on the wardrobe.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘That’s not good.’

‘Not good?’ he said. ‘It went downhill from that point on. I managed to find my way to the bathroom without an accident and back again to the bedroom without further incident.’

‘That’s good.’

‘No – it gets better – or worse. I knew I had a spare pair of glasses in the chest of drawers. Upended every drawer on the bed and couldn’t find them. Took me an hour to put everything back again.’ David gave a deep sigh. ‘Managed to find something suitable to wear and made it out to the kitchen. When I went to get the milk out of the fridge I saw my spare glasses on top of the fridge. Have no idea how they got there, but finally I could see again. After a fashion.’

‘That’s good.’ Doris covered her mouth with her hand, determined not to giggle, and certainly not laugh. ‘So all that drama made you late for our date?’

‘No – that was just the beginning.’ He rubbed his knees, then his elbows and finally he gingerly felt his head. ‘Mid morning I had to walk down to the pharmacy to get my blood pressure medication. Stopped at the newsagent next door instead. I wondered why the girl laughed out loud. No respect from today’s youth.’

Doris realised that her shoulders were ready to give away the fact that she was also on the verge of laughing. ‘So she kindly directed you safely to the pharmacy?’

‘Yes – and no.’ David frowned at the memory. ‘She took me to the door like she was leading a two-year-old, patted me on the shoulder and said, “There ya go, dear.” I hate being patronised by young people in shops.’

‘Me too. My butcher calls me darling. Hate that.’

‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I forgot that there are two steps up into the pharmacy. Made the first one, missed the second – and over I went.’ He gingerly rubbed his chest. ‘Think I’ve possibly broken a rib or two.’ He watched young couple who were still caressing passionately. ‘They were very good in the pharmacy. The young girls there helped me up, sat me down and took care of my script and all. Good service.’

‘So all of that made you late?’

‘No. As I came out some fool had left his dog tied to the rubbish bin. With these old glasses I didn’t see the lead and over I went again, this time cracking my head on the bench seat next to it. Gave me a whacking headache.’

‘So, did you go to the doctor to get checked out for concussion?’

‘No way. You need to be on death’s door to get to see the doc – and then you have to wait at least three weeks. No – I went home. And I made it without further incident, thankfully.’

‘That’s good.’ Doris was beginning to shake. She wasn’t sure whether it was from the cold – or suppressed laughter.

‘That’s not the end of it,’ he went on, ‘for lunch I wanted to heat up the leftover sausages from last night but instead of setting the microwave for 2 minutes, I pressed 20 instead. Burnt them to charcoal.’

‘That’s no good. What did you do then?’

‘Had to deal with the fire brigade.’

‘What? Why?’

‘The smoke automatically set off the fire alarm which alerted my neighbour. When he saw the smoke billowing from my kitchen window he called the brigade. I sure had some explaining to do.’ He paused.

‘But the firemen understood, I hope.’

‘Yes – they were great. I was that aggressive woman who caused all the problems.’

‘So there was a fire woman in the crew?’

‘No. She was the television news reporter. Another rude young upstart.’

‘So all that held you up and made you late.’

‘But that’s not the end of it. When I went out into the garden to check whether the vegetables needed watering, I tripped over the hose. My helpful neighbour had tried to use it on the house before the firies came, and he just left it there. Of course I didn’t land on the lawn – I had to land in the fish pond. Got soaked all over. If I’d drowned I’d have sued my neighbour.’

‘So you then had to change into fresh clothes.’

‘That’s right. And because I’d sorted through my chest of drawers in the morning while looking for my spare glasses I had trouble finding things. I’d been far too systematic.’

‘I know the feeling. Did the same with my pantry a few weeks ago,’ added Doris. ‘It was all neat and tidy but I couldn’t find a thing. Then I couldn’t find my glasses either. I found them three weeks later behind two tins of baked beans.’

David turned and looked Doris in the eyes. He gently leaned over and kissed her with a long and passionate kiss.
‘I think we should get married,’ he suddenly announced. ‘We seem so suited to each other.’

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2015 Trevor W Hampel.

You can read more of my short stories here.

Short fiction #42 “The hovering shape”

The hovering shape

Ursula screamed.
It was the sudden movement in the shadows in the corner of the room that shocked her. Her scream echoed down the corridor, alerting John that something was amiss. He dropped the book he was reading on the table and hurried towards her. She stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the shape hovering by the drawn curtains. Wide-eyed with quivering lips she was suddenly aware of John pressing close to her.
‘What is it?’
‘There – in the corner.’ She pointed with a shaking hand.
He peered towards the spot where she was pointing. ‘Can’t see any…’ he gently pushed her aside and calmly walked across to the shape. ‘Here boy,’ he said softly. With a waggling tail the mysterious shape morphed into a black dog as it came into the light coming from the corridor.
‘Meet Luther,’ said John as he rubbed the dog’s head. ‘I brought him home for you as a surprise. He was an abandoned animal. I got him from the Animal Welfare League. Why anyone would abandon such a friendly dog beats me.’ The dog raised itself until its paws rested on John’s chest. It tried to lick his face.
‘Surprise?’ You call that a surprise? Blasted animal nearly gave me a heart attack. Next time you do something like that – at least give me a warning!’

All rights reserved. © 2015 Trevor W. Hampel

Read more of my short stories here.

Review: “Bystanders” by Valerie Volk

 

Valerie Volk is a leading and much admired poet here in South Australia. Her well deserved reputation is rapidly spreading far beyond our state and will continue to do so after the publication of her latest book. This is her first major venture into prose, though she has had short stories published before.

Bystanders: echoes of Stories Past” has recently been published in Adelaide by Wakefield Press. It is a captivating collection of short stories based around well-known Bible characters. Volk took those familiar stories and has transformed them into new accounts from a very different perspective, that of the bystander, a witness to the events portrayed in the Bible from some of the minor characters our eyes tend to gloss over when reading the accounts.

I have read and admired all of Volk’s previously published books and admire her command over the English language and her exceptional gift of writing accessible poetry. It was then with interest I came to this book of prose. I had previously read and enjoyed other prose she has written and I was certainly not disappointed with this new offering.

However (why does there always have to be a ‘however’?) the early stories in this collection read like poetry; the prose almost begs to be read in iambic pentameter. Because I have read a large proportion of her poetry and I have heard her read her poetry in a variety of settings, I constantly heard her distinctive poetical voice in the first few stories. Many passages read with such a strong cadence I almost had to read them aloud. I speculated that these first few stories had been originally written as verse; after all, Volk has written verse novels before. I was so intrigued that I contacted her but she assured me that all the stories were only ever written in prose. Interesting.

The stories all shine a new light strongly on the events we Bible scholars have grown to love. To hear the intriguing and much-loved story of Queen Esther, for example, from the viewpoint of the vanquished Queen Vashti is a revelation. I have often pondered on the cruel twist life served this tragic figure and now I have had to recast my vision of her.

By way of complete contrast is the earthy tale of the soldier who was messenger to King David (story ‘Orders are orders’) during the time the king took Bathsheba as a lover. It is a tragic episode in the life of the great David and we witness the behind the scenes manoeuvrings which culminated in murder. In reading this story we hear the voice of a soldier well versed in the ways of life, men and the military life.  Volk’s writing captures his voice to perfection, drawing a truly memorable character and bringing new life to an otherwise well-known narrative.

These are just two of the 15 stories in this wonderful collection. The voices change from one story to the next which makes this such an intriguing and insightful new interpretation of familiar Biblical accounts.  As a bonus, the author has included over 20 pages of questions for personal reflection or group discussion.

Highly recommended.

Copies of this book are available in bookshops, from the publisher Wakefield Press or from Volk’s website here.

Disclosure: Valerie studied for her Master of Arts Creative Writing with me a few years ago. We are both members of a writers’ group in Adelaide and I regard her as a wonderful and encouraging friend, mentor and inspiration.

Links:

Valerie Volk, South Australian poet, writer, teacher