My stepsister, Carole, and I were the same age and when we were 15 years old, we had some lovely times together. Like the times we were supposed to be learning typing at the evening college and learned to play poker at a friend’s house instead. I had won a pocketful of pennies and halfpennies, and my pocket was bulging with them the night we ran back to the college to catch the bus and found Mum and Dad waiting for us. We had nothing to say on the way home and the typing lessons ceased forthwith. 

Unbeknown to our parents, when Mum and Dad went out, leaving us to babysit our younger brother, we invited a few friends around and innocently danced the evening away. This ended abruptly when Carole’s partner failed to catch her hand and she hurtled backwards, crashing into the record player. A couple of weeks later, the damage having been discovered, we both acted innocent and looked in bewilderment at the resultant destruction. 

I think it was the best time we had together, in spite of our naughtiness, or maybe, because of it. 

By Margaret Irwin 

It didn’t occur to me I was different from other cats until my boy, Joe, began to read a story about a dog who taught himself to read and talk. I learned by mimicking Joe’s voice. 

Joe kept my secret, and when he reached adulthood, we moved to study law. After graduation we ran a one-man practice, me his secret partner. He did the face-to-face, and I did the research and some of the calls. 

We were at the height of our game when the pandemic hit. Joe was among the first to fall ill. I begged him to let me call someone, but Joe said he’d spent his life protecting my secret and since that meant isolation, there wasn’t anyone to call. I lay on his chest reading to him until his chest rose no more. 

You may think cats unfeeling, and, after reading this you still might, but I tell you it hurt. I’d lost my friend, familiar, colleague… but I needed to survive. If his body was found I’d be taken to a shelter. I’d worked too hard to end like that. 

As I looked down at his ashen face my spirit roused. I idly batted the virtual reality gaming device we’d often played in, forming an idea. I could use his body scan to create an avatar, like a phone filter, and use that to conduct conference calls from home. Normal practice, thanks to the pandemic and it worked. 

During a call, I noticed the faces on the screen twist in shock and confusion. I peered at the tiny box that showed my video feed. Instead of Joe’s (my avatar’s) face, my own peered back at me. I pounced on the power button. 

Once my avatar was reinstated, I called again: “Sorry about the last call. My phone does this cat filter… A malfunction or something. Then I knocked coffee on my keyboard…” 

“Didn’t you just say you were on your phone?” 

“I…” 

“I’ve organised for the Police to see you’re alright.” 

I maintained my poker face until the call ended. When the knock on the door came, I panicked and scrambled into the garbage shoot. I was spat out just another stray. 

Months later I sat watching a young girl holding a bewildered puppy by the cheeks. 

“C’mon! Speak! I won’t tell!” 

She gave up and resumed reading a book. I’d recognise that cover anywhere. This was my chance! 

“Hello.” I rubbed up against her. 

“You talk?” 

“You can’t tell anyone, or they’ll do nasty experiments on me.” 

She glanced at the book about the talking dog that would confirm my fears. “I won’t.” 

“Even to your parents?” 

“They died, and Grandma’s old.” She sobbed. “Social Services say I won’t be able to stay if she can’t remember to answer the phone and pay the bills.” 

“I can help with that.” I purred. 

It turns out being part of a family wasn’t a bad way to spend your days, after all. 

By Catherine Pratt 

Date: 16th December

What a day! All I can say is the pressure was on. Major panic in the production line. Blue ducks! Seriously? I did tell Santa that Mac was colourblind. I had to do a back shift to sort it out. Santa said he trusted me to fix the problem, but I think he thought flattery alone would work for me. First thing tomorrow I’m going in to change my time sheet to include overtime rates.

My specialty is attaching wheels to toy cars, trains, skateboards etc. I admit it’s not rocket science, however it does require some thought. While I repainted the ducks to the appropriate sunny yellow Santa let Mac work at my station. Mac upended the tray of wheels all over the floor. Susie was walking past carrying a stack of boxes, trod on the wheels and let’s just say now she has a pair of crutches and is on worker’s comp. Mac apologised profusely and quickly gathered up the wheels and returned them to the tray. Unfortunately, most were in the wrong slots. When I finally got back to my station there were cars with skateboard wheels and bikes with car wheels. I just couldn’t believe it. Mac sat there looking at me grinning proudly.

“Everything has wheels,” he said to me. I was speechless.

Mac’s real name is Macaroni which certainly fits. He’s a bit of noodle. Lots of shape on the outside but hollow on the inside. I will have to sort out the wheels tomorrow. Another long day. I appealed to Santa quite forcefully that perhaps a great job for Mac would be using the hose out the front to water the snow. Santa didn’t look impressed.

Tomorrow I will need to do another back shift to catch up. I’m feeling very unimpressed and somewhat angry at the time of writing this despite Santa’s orders that all elves must be filled with Christmas spirit. I am exhausted and tired of cleaning up after Mac. I’m not happy at all but I can’t do anything about it because Mac is Santa’s nephew. Santa was very definite about Mac working on the toys with me.

“Listen Cheese,” he said, “I think you’ll be a winning combination.” I looked at Santa unconvinced.

“Mac and Cheese?” I replied doubtfully, “I can’t see that working out.”

One Christmas Eve not long ago

I was lying on the rug,

Eating Christmas fare, and feeling rather smug.

The sound of hooves upon the roof woke me from my reverie

“Whoa” came a cry. “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

Do you know what I did see?

Santa coming through the door,

And this he said to me.

This travelling can be tiresome –

Even Santa needs a break.

He stopped, and helped himself

To a slice of Christmas cake.

Put nosebags on the reindeer,

“It’s getting warm out here”

Santa loosened up his collar,

And reached for a beer.

“Before I leave,” said Santa, “I have parcels for your tree.

(That he had gifts for us had not occurred to me.)

He searched the sleigh. “Here they are!

I know you’ll use them carefully.”

When you see that box stamped Friendship

Beneath your Christmas tree

Count yourself as fortunate and blessed – believe you me.

It’s a gift that brings compassion – and responsibility.

It’s a gift not given lightly, when unwrapped it gives such pleasure.

It’s the same in every country –

A truly national treasure.

Pressed down and brimming over, always given in full measure.

Laughter – a tin of polish for dark and gloomy days

Take care you choose the proper one, wrapped in the correct way.

Make sure how you unwrap it – you do well to be suspicious

Laughter must be happy – it must never be malicious.

For cancer, and the refugees, I have boxes of support.

Small, but constant. They are all so heartened by the knowledge of this thought.

For all the disadvantaged (here Santa shed a tear)

We need more understanding, it’s in short supply this year.

Many gifts to many countries I deliver this Christmas night.

A reindeer whinnied. “Goodness!” said Santa.” I really must take flight!”

He cocked an eye. “This beer is not bad.

Can I take some? Is that alright?”

“Here’s a bottle of Christmas Spirit. All you need is a shot glass.

The glow you will receive from it just cannot be surpassed.

Gather families, gather friends, out in your Australian sun

And share it out amongst you.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

By Heather Veal

 

It’s spring, and mating time. We will often hear the thunder and squeal of a possum fight on the shed. The loser would retreat swiftly – we would hear him gallop over the tin roof. A loud screech, descending into a low growl, would signal a victory.

We got used to hearing these tournaments, so we didn’t worry when we heard running feet on our roof. I thought “that’s not a rat” and went back to the movie we were watching on TV.

Pandemonium!

The air-conditioning vent opened and revealed two pop eyes, and a quivering ball of fur. A young possum hung there, wondering, like us, what the devil had happened.

Rex jumped up, grabbing a protective cushion, and batted him down to the floor. “Don’t try to catch him! He’ll try to claw you,” I yelled. Even an experienced handler uses big leather gloves because of those claws.

The possum began a mad dash around the lounge room, keeping to the wall. Be-hind chairs, fire screen, under the lounge and then he headed for the china cabinet.

The mirror-back must have made him think “Ah, another possum!”. He tore to-ward it and wham! Came up with a bang (thank heavens for toughened glass!). Nowhere to go now but through the double doors and into the dining room. Another mad dash around the room. Two window walls made reflections, which stopped him again. A wedding, a graduation and two lots of parents fell to the floor as he ran along the sill (thank heavens they were only photos!).

Back into the kitchen. Up on the sink. No escape through this window, so he jumped on to the bench, knocking over a ceramic utensil holder, which smashed to the floor in a shower of spoons, ladles, whisks and more. (I had been trying to get rid of that holder for ages – at least that was something good!)

I was frantically drumming my hands on the servery bench to keep him away from me. I may not be a tree, but he could shim-my up me and tiger-stripe my face in seconds with those claws.

Back out to the dining room. Like a rat up a drain pipe. He tried to climb a corner but stopped halfway. Rex picked up a shoe and threw a perfect direct hit. No Ashes cricketer could have done better. Stunned, the possum shook his ears, spotted the open front door, and shot out into the darkness.

I looked up and saw my precious Japanese lady gazing serenely at me, as if to say “It’s OK”. She has stood on the side-board for over 40 years. I gave a sigh of relief as I realised she had not been broken.
Our cat sat outside, watching through the glass with yellow-green eyes. Perfectly still, I swear he was smiling.

By Heather Veal

(Readers are welcome to send creative writing of 500 words or less for publication in The Write Stuff column to editor@parkesphoenix.com.au)