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    Timber!
    Timber!
    Timber!
    Ebook208 pages3 hours

    Timber!

    By David Vernon

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    About this ebook

    Arms, legs and breasts were thrust through the bars and the desperation caused Mr. Fox to stumble back, muttering, “Good God!” before being accosted on the other side and pinned by dirty arms to the bars and his waistcoat pocket was explored by boney fingers. Fortunately Mr. Fox had displayed some forethought and left his pocket watch at home, but he still seemed genuinely surprised by the molestation.
    “Geeeeeet back!” one of the sailors yelled and swung a bat at the limbs, which receded quickly after the crack of wood on iron.
    — from “Mr Fox and the Button Girl” by C.J. Dainton

    Don was dead. The kookaburras were laughing. The two events were not correlated nor even causal. It just was. Just like the mist was rising over the small lake, the sun was catching the dew-laden spiderwebs and making them shine like silver platters at a banquet and that there was a crisp eucalypt-damp-grass smell rising from the ground. Nature was celebrating the start of a new day and obviously cared nothing for Don’s predicament. But neither did I for that matter.
    — from “Don and the Kookaburras” by Michael Wilkinson

    Thirty-seven award-winning short stories from Australian and international authors are showcased in this entertaining and thought-provoking anthology from the Stringybark Short Story Awards. An open-themed award this collection of stories covers topics from romance to murder, humour to horror and everything in between. Dive in for some wonderful literary treats!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Vernon
    Release dateJun 22, 2018
    ISBN9780463504888
    Timber!
    Author

    David Vernon

    I am a freelance writer and editor. I am father of two boys. For the last few years I have focussed my writing interest on chronicling women and men’s experience of childbirth and promoting better support for pregnant women and their partners. Recently, for a change of pace, I am writing two Australian history books. In 2014 I was elected Chair of the ACT Writers Centre.In 2010 I established the Stringybark Short Story Awards to promote the short story as a literary form.

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      Book preview

      Timber! - David Vernon

      Timber! — thirty-seven award-winning stories from the Stringybark Short Story Awards

      Edited by

      David Vernon

      Selected by

      Kathy Childs, Kathryn Collins, Julie Davies and David Vernon

      Published by Stringybark Publishing

      PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

      http://www.stringybarkstories.net

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright: This collection, David Vernon, 2018

      Copyright: Individual stories, the authors, various.

      These stories are works of fiction and do not relate to anyone living or dead unless otherwise indicated.

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the editor, judges and the author of these stories.

      Contents

      Introduction

      Graduation Night — Kerry Cameron

      Things that Kill — Jon Presswell

      Lofty — Dan Staniforth

      The Escape — Kitty Gardner

      Missing in Action — Roger Leigh

      Two Nights at the Carrington — Stephen Knox

      The Jam Tin — Mark Scott

      Big Trouble — Lilian Cohen

      Hugo’s Second First Day — James Hart

      The World’s Greatest Mesmerist — Ted Witham

      A Man Misplaced — Paul Maxwell Taylor

      Fizzy Drink — C.F. Benham

      Warm as Ice — Kerry Cameron

      Country Life — Victoria Mizen

      Maisie, Maisie — Kitty Gardner

      Don and the Kookaburras — Michael Wilkinson

      A Sky the Shade of Pastel Blue — Alexander Somlyay

      Future Past — Bruce Blackford

      Tin Thimble — Nikki Reid

      One Week to Harvest — Victoria Mizen

      The Last Waterhole — Deanne Seigle-Buyat

      Soundscape — Chris Moss

      Scars — Holly Bruce

      Night Moves — Claire Johnston

      Left Over — Judy Tait

      Mr Fox and the Button Girl — C.J. Dainton

      The Invisible Boy — Ian Martin

      Timber! — Gabrielle Gardner

      Exposure — Holly Bruce

      An Impossible Jewel — Natalie Parsons-Clair

      Her Other Life — Fin J Ross

      A Little Cheeky — Barry Rosenberg

      Homecoming — Elizabeth Ottosson

      The Run — Pia Riley

      Lonely Stretch — Martin Lindsay

      A Fly on the Wall — Michael Kelly

      Going out for Coffee — Julia Archer

      The Stringybark Short Story Award 2018

      About the Judges

      Acknowledgements

      Other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

      Introduction

      — David Vernon

      Timber! is Stringybark Publishing’s thirty-third short story anthology since we commenced our short story awards in 2010. We could not possibly have imagined back then that our competitions would become so popular, nor that we would still be going strong eight years later. Over that time we have published short stories from some of Australia’s best fiction writers but we have also published many first-time authors. We are proud that we haven’t just published established writers but given a leg up to many authors, who might otherwise have had their work slip into obscurity. Our judging system is a blinded one so all authors compete on a level field. The judges have no idea of the name, sex, age or location of the author whose story is in front of them. Each work is judged solely on its merits.

      As we deliberately choose judges who are from different backgrounds, have different skills and different interests, we can guarantee that there is a diversity of stories presented to you for your enjoyment. However, we can also guarantee that you won’t like all of them equally — some you might find quite challenging and that is the joy of anthologies — you never know what is over the page.

      We received 249 entries in this competition and we are delighted to present to you both the winning and the highly commended stories for your delectation. On behalf of the other judges, Kathy Childs, Kathryn Collins, Julie Davies and our wonderful sponsor, Corporate Keys, we hope you relish these tales.

      Happy reading!

      David Vernon

      Judge and Editor

      Stringybark Stories

      Graduation Night

      — Kerry Cameron

      Alan takes the quietest breath he can and peers out into the dim corridor. A pool of muted light from the nurses’ station spills onto soft green carpet down the far end. It catches erratically in the lowest tiers of tired tinsel that fail to convince anyone that Christmas in July is really a thing. The night is quietly still. He eases out of his doorway and turns away from the light, clutching the cold handrail as his slippers slowly shuffle around the corner to Iris’ room. He is not surprised to find her already waiting for him, her warmest dressing gown snug up to her chin against Young’s winter chill.

      Well, here you are then. she whispers, her eyes searching his face, You sure about this?

      I am, he nods, once, firmly. Iris takes his arm and together they slowly tread deeper into the dark, down the long hallway towards the dining room. When they eventually arrive, Iris pushes open the door for him and his eyes are drawn immediately to the table by the big window, the coveted one with the best view over the cherry trees, upon which four tiny candles are throwing out a defiant glow of cheery yellow. He smiles at the cheek of it, at his irreverent, faithful friends and their determination to mark this occasion with whatever ambience they could scrounge.

      The twenty or so steps to reach the candlelit table take him about three minutes. Iris is patiently beside him, her steadying hand under his arm. Sixty years ago he’d won the 100 yard dash at the Bribbaree Show in his work boots and twenty years after that he was still light enough on his feet to come second in the Farmers’ Relay, barrelling down the track while Nancy bounced in the wheelbarrow, hooting hysterically at the other wives in their chariots and shrieking up at him to get a bloody move on. The year he turned seventy, he told the young blokes he was retiring from the camp drafting, to finally give them a fair crack at the annual trophy. He’d said it was because his horse was getting too long in the tooth and he couldn’t be arsed training yet another one, but mostly he’d wanted to retire on his own terms, before the deepening frowns from the officials became anything further.

      That last day at the Show shines clear in his memory, everything aglow with the warm afternoon sun dancing in the dust. Nancy was still alive then, her big, raucous laugh reverberates in his brain while the echo of cold beer haunts his tongue. Those young fellas would barely recognise him now, he’s still only halfway to that bloody table. But while he’s humbly grateful for Iris at his elbow, he’s determined to do this under his own steam. Making his own decisions.

      Val and Snow wait by the table, which is set just for one. Alan raises an eyebrow at the candles and then looks pointedly at the smoke detector overhead. Snow smirks scornfully and pats his walking stick with affection. The smoke detector is sporting a recent and significant dent.

      He finally reaches the table and eases into the chair with a sigh of relief. Val squeezes his shoulder. Good on you, Alan she whispers warmly, You made it. There might be a glimmer of tears behind her glasses and he frowns at her, touching a finger to the corner of her eye. No crying, Valerie, you promised. Oh get away, she huffs, kissing him brusquely on the cheek. I’m allowed to be proud of you. You haven’t walked that far in months.

      She is right. His advancing and irascible cancers have stolen his voice, are ruining his lungs, and are steadily encroaching on his locomotion. The time is near when he will be both mute and immobile, which is why they are all here.

      So this is it, mate. Snow murmurs with a twist in his smile. Happy graduation. The last few years haven’t been the easiest, but we’re the better for sharing them with you. He reaches into the pocket of his robe and draws out a hipflask. Val wanted champagne, but I haven’t forgotten this is your favourite.

      He takes Snow’s proffered hipflask, unscrews the top and inhales deeply. The pungent whisky vapours hit the back of his nose and his eyelids close in pleasure. He hasn’t had a drop since his diagnosis and the hot slide of the liquor into the pit of his belly leaves a trail of velvet fire.

      Aaah.

      And Val sweet-talked her grandson into getting your favourite meal. Iris whispers, as Val reaches over and removes the metal dome covering his plate with a flourish.

      Nestled on the china, two halves of a spiny lobster gleam orange and cream in the candlelight, the juicy tail meat carefully pre-shredded into soft, small pieces his tattered throat can manage. He is deeply moved and feels a lump rising in gratitude at their extravagant kindness, silver pricking at the back of his eyes.

      Now, now, none of that. Val says softly beside him, You know he goes fishing all the time, it was no trouble at all. This is a blatant and outrageous lie, they are four hours inland from where Val’s grandson lives on the coast. He rolls his eyes at her but is grateful for the moment to regain his self control. To show his gratitude, he spears a forkful of tail meat and slides it into his mouth. He’s only had lobster twice before in his life, but he was so enraptured that both occasions featured last summer during reminiscences on the balcony just outside, when he was still able to converse with words. Now, the rich, buttery flesh melts on his tongue, the fullness of the flavour amplified by the preceding months of bland mush he’s been given as his throat lesions spread. This is perfection, he tells them, by raising his fingers to his lips and kissing them with sincere intensity.

      The dining room’s grandfather clock begins to gently chime. Eleven pm. Soon, the nurse will begin hourly rounds and he doesn’t want any of them found out of bed, irrefutably complicit. He looks up at them calmly, meeting their eyes in turn. We talked about this, remember? No speeches and no fuss. He raises Snow’s hipflask in salute and they lift imaginary glasses in response.

      Life well lived, mate, rumbles Snow. Top of the class. Val leans to kiss him gently on the forehead while Iris squeezes his hand.

      Snow limps to the window and slides it fully open. The night is still so the bitter cold seeps in slyly, but the temperature drop is immediate. Alan loosens his robe a little, exposing his nightshirted chest. He frowns gently at his stationery friends and points at the dining room door with his chin. Get out of here, you lot, you’ll catch your deaths.

      See you in the morning, Alan. Iris says softly, a wobble in her voice. They both know he won’t be capable of recognising anyone by morning, but he also knows she will continue to watch over him as he wanes, and will reassure his children and their families that this is what he wanted. Iris, your husband was a lucky man.

      The door closes carefully behind them and he is finally alone in the rapidly freezing room, the candles now slightly guttering. He manages another small morsel of lobster, savouring the richness and hating to waste it, but knows he will not be able to swallow any more. The cold air steals deeper into what is left of his lungs and he takes another sip from Snow’s flask to ward off a coughing fit. He will be found soon after his bed is discovered empty, and the dismayed staff will immediately bundle him up warmly and call the doctor. But as the unyielding cold settles deeply into his ravaged chest, he can already feel his final consciousness slipping away. There is no flashing of his life before his eyes, no distant echo of Nancy’s laugh calling to him. He is quite alone, at peace with the thousands of choices that have piled up over the decades and led him eventually here, and he’s ready for this final graduation. On his own terms.

      Kerry Cameron is a marine biologist who lives on the north coast of NSW with her husband, two teenagers, one dog, two horses, two cows, nine chooks and a billion shrill cicadas. She enjoys writing short stories as a creative break from the rules and regulations of science papers. Kerry has previously been published in seven Stringybark anthologies. She has won two competitions (Malicious Mysteries [2013] and Red Gold [2018]) and came second in The Road Home [2012].

      Things that Kill

      — Jon Presswell

      Monday morning’s pep talk was outdoing itself. Even an outsider could have guessed this one was special. The old boy was dribbling again and he kept thumping the table, not uncharacteristically, but this time he was on track for a personal best.

      The pressure must be on from above thought Andy. He glanced at his own sales figures, scrawled hastily in the margin of his diary. He was okay by a country mile but a few of the others were finding surprises in their fingernails and fresh fascination with the floor.

      He decided to again check his trouser cuffs for fluff but the sound of his name curtailed this endeavour.

      Are you listening this time, Andy? was the enquiry.

      Yes, was the half-lie. He had been listening largely to the tone, not the content.

      And?

      A range of replies came to him, all of them insolent, but there was no point starting this week like the last. All over it, he said. Already there. He glanced about the room seeking a baton change from the anxious faces and got it as another was singled out. He returned to his dry cleaning.

      We’re all dead if we don’t reach our targets, said the old boy.

      Man, the heat is on, said Terry as they scurried down the corridor to their respective offices. Mate, we have got to bring this one home or we are all dead. Andy glanced at him, but said nothing. Sydney will kill us, added Terry.

      Andy peeled off into his office and slumped into his chair, switching on his laptop. There’d be more emails waiting than tears in a poker machine. If he looked.

      Moments later Terry was back. He popped his head in the door and asked for a minute. Andy waved him in.

      You aren’t going to like this mate, said Terry. He looked like he had burnt his lips with a fresh chilli. Mate, he said. Have you got headroom for a friendly journal?

      Bullshit, said Andy. How much?

      Bit under fifteen?

      I journalled you last year. You still owe me.

      Terry winced. You have the blue-chip accounts mate and besides, it’s just play money now. Just the bonuses are real, we all know that. Credit a couple of minor sales across to me and I will live to fight another day. Come on mate, I am dying here.

      Andy waved him out. Okay, mate. Whatever. Fuck off.

      Thanks, mate, said Terry. "You have saved my life. You know I’m neck deep in this Europe trip with Jules and the kids. Latest news is her mother is coming too. I am shelling out big time on

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