Our Writers' Publications

The following stories were a class exercise in "Writing Animals" - it is interesting that most of the animals wanted to leave their owners! The exercise asked writers to read the first typed opening lines, then to continue with the story, fold and pass on. I have tried to make the stories as readable as possible.  OOTA writers who attended on Friday, 20th March will perhaps recognise their part in the writing.  Enjoy!

WRITING ANIMALS

Possums, et al

In our sunny world I wish only for a garden sofa where Possums is nestling beside me. I will cuddle her close. And with your letter on my lap, and another ready to write, I will tell you how lucky I am. Lucky to have the companionship of Possums, Curly, Arabesque and Napoleon, lucky to have good friends to write to, while surrounded by my silky, furry friends, soothing themselves in the sun.

    ‘You may get sunburnt,’ the fellow from the river says. ‘It’s a boiling day.’

    Why, I’m always out in the sun, while they stop to find shade and drink tea. It’s my river too, but they still try to tether me away from it.

    I have a burgeoning desire to make my great escape. It’s long overdue, and I know my legs can out stride theirs. Better still, if I do this loaded with their most precious and important goods, like their fishing tackle, I can smash them against a tree. Rid of them at last!

    I suddenly fly up into the nearest tree where two of my magpie mates are sitting. They laugh, when they see what I’m holding; Mrs Brown’s priceless watch, the one I nicked from the towel, before she went into the water.

    I plop the watch into a hollowed knot, high up in the Salmon Gum. Perched up there, I have an excellent vantage of Mrs Brown’s house further up river.

    A paw nudges me awake.

    “I guess I was dreaming, Possums,” I say, ruffling the fur on the back of her neck. “Such a strange dream. You had three companions with odd names. And that was before you transformed into a packhorse toiling in the sun.”

    Possums gazes back at me with her old soul eyes. I know what’s she’s thinking – ‘pull the other one.’ Then I can’t imagine why I saw myself as a thieving magpie, especially up a tree – and who is Mrs Brown anyway?

    My dear Joyce,

    You really have taught me a new way to see the world – to feel it – to hear it through the voice in my head that never stops. I loved ‘Ulysses’ and wish it would have gone on forever.

    To my darling wandering eagle, from your affectionate

    ‘Penelope’ Bloom xx

                                                                              

Grip

We do worry about him. Last winter he ate several coins he’d buried in the garden. At the moment, we are very shocked and grieved to discover that Grip has swallowed a portion of white paint that we used on the shed last summer. It could be affecting his vitals. Yesterday afternoon he was so ill, foaming at the mouth that we sent for the vet, who promptly attended and administered him a powerful dose of castor oil.

    The castor oil slipped easily into him, but now we are concerned. The first instance passed without a problem, then everything slipped easily out, as we smiled. He looked much better. But other things keep on slipping out, and we were worried it might never stop.

∞

‘That bitch shoved the spoon full of castor oil in so hard,’ growls Grip, ‘that she scraped skin on the side of my mouth. I’ll give her slip, slipped, slipping. It felt nothing like that. That’s why I’m determined to escape. I’d prefer not to slip out at first – but bite her hard on the arm, shriek at her and then bolt.

    I can’t stand her. She is such a micro-manager; always looking over my shoulder, watching my every move; watching what I eat, when I sleep, when and where I crap.

    I’m leaving! Those two give us animals a bad name. Ever since I met Jack and his mother I’ve been having trouble going to the toilet.

    I suppose I will just have to do it on their best rug. Her favourite, expensive hand-woven silk carpet. Then she and Jack might consider my needs and let me out.

    Here I go, right on the middle flower design, the pale pink, beautiful oriental petals. Vastly improved with a splash of yellow, I would say. Perhaps later - a touch of brown.’

                                                                             

The Camaraderie of Dogs

Thinking is not enough. Nothing is. There is no final enough of wisdom, experience – any fucking thing. Only thing can resolve conflict is love, like I feel for my team: Fletch, Ruski, Spooner, Midge and Calico. Pure love.

    He should never have been allowed to be on the ice on his own, just with us dogs. He might have had all the book know-how possible on running a pack, but that’s no use if you do not understand dogs. We’ve all got our own personalities. And if you don’t love us, we are not going to give our life for you.

    ‘Here he goes, calling us “bloody dogs”, again. Yet we are trained for the job, loyal, hardworking. Now we are slipping and skidding on ice, because he’s so lazy, and hasn’t clipped our claws.

    It’s so exhilarating when we finally get going, when we can see the frozen lake stretching ahead, feeling the camaraderie of each pair’s harness. But I hate it when the driver slows us down – hate the bit, burning in my mouth.

    That’s when the cold sets in. The steam rises off my fur and my exhaling breath billows like cumulus. Far better to be travelling fast and furious.   

    There’s no hope for us. He continues to call us names, but he’s the dumb animal. Now he’s drinking whiskey like  Shackleton, the drunken bum swilling it down. He should be left in a pasture of snow.

                                                                             

The lapdog

Gertrude Stein’s large unwieldy poodle stretched and jumped up on her lap. ‘You know Alice, listening to the rhythm of his water-drinking makes me recognize the difference between sentences and paragraphs that paragraphs are emotional and that sentences are not. What do you think?’

    Grrr, growled Alice under her breath.

    ‘Puddles likes sitting on my lap. She feels comfy and safe. She should have a biscuit now and a lick of tea. You know mostly, of all the poodles that I’ve previously owned this one is especially inspirational when she snores. It’s grammar with no full stops.’

    If she keeps licking my hand, that’s it, thought Alice. It’s all very well Gertrude petting her and feeding her bits of this and saucers of that, but while she’s writing those poetry epics, I’m the one that has to feed the pompous pisser.

    Stupid woman! I always thought Gertrude was in love with me, but all I do is clean, cook and brew tea, while that pampered pooch makes more demands on her time. A scratch here, a cuddle there. Jump up and keep me warm Puddles. Dah! The next time the dog jumps up on my bread board, I know what I’ll do.

    The truth is I am also getting worried about Gertrude. She wants to feed the dog baked beans. Baked beans! He’s not a vegetarian.

    I don’t intend to stay here and take this treatment. Oh, no! I remember who I am, and where I come from. I haven’t forgotten the Boronial Hall and the silk-lined basket I had for Tiddles. I was overjoyed when Gerty asked me to move in with her, but hurt when she forbade the cat. I guess he did scratch her legs until they bled.

                                                                                

Horses for Courses

At half past, or thereabouts, the Topping family were talking about me. They weren’t sure whether I should run in Saturday’s race. Anthony Topping, just said, ‘it’s just horses for courses. Firecracker will be well enough. He won the Essendon last week and Fritz thinks he’s over the flu.’

    I heard other incoherent expression which were supposed to calm me down, but I felt agitated. ‘Horses for Courses’, indeed!  It’s five furlongs for fools, or donkeys. And as for the flu, I’m sure it was that pill the strapper slipped me before the race.

    Mind you, it was a good pill, what a kick! Anyway we should be okay for a win today. That’s if I can say upright. I do feel a bit wonky. I’ll just have a bit of a lie down.

    As if Anthony Topping can sense the moment I drop off for a nap. He won’t stand for it. He doesn’t abide anyone having any pleasure. Someone put a lemon in his mouth when he was a kid and it’s soured him for life.

    I’m going to drug him next time he reaches for the pill bottle. I’m going to latch on to his face, so hard, that he will have pain and reach for the medicine cabinet. I’ll have swapped the pain killers for my tranquilizers. Then I’ll get a nap in.

    You know the saying, All the well laid plans, yadah, yadah! All of a sudden he turns sorry and sentimental. It’s the drink. You can’t drink seventeen whiskies and suffer no consequences. He falls to the floor, rolls up in a foetal position and starts wailing. I couldn’t leave him like that so I went up to him and started licking his cheek.                                                                                

Pangur and the Mosquitos

My feeble eyes fixed on Pangur, his shining eyes watching me climb the wall. Was he hunting for me or was I there ready to entrap him? I rejoiced, pleased at last that my mind could fathom this problem.

    Sure his powerful legs could probably hold me down, and those jaws, solid muscle stretching all the way back to that menacing tail. But with little working as a functioning reflect, I knew I could outsmart him. Brain against brawn. The base, dumb animal was not going to get the best of me, even if he was as stubborn as me.

    Never, ever underestimate a mosquito. They can deliver many a nasty disease. That was my plan. To invite an army of them. I could attack Pangur by letting them out of the jar. Some might hide in his hair. Come night time, when Pangur was asleep, I would let rip. They might buzz around him, duck and dive into his mingy mane; attach themselves and penetrate the bastard.

    The next night I opened the lid. There was a flipping and a flapping from Pangur’s tail. Some of the mosquitoes lay on the ground like squashed currants on the dust jacket of a fable. You can flatten mosquitoes but you can’t extinguish the collective consciousness of the race. Resistance is futile. And all the while the little parasites are doing their work.

    Pangur has been driven mad and run off into the bush. I guess I have given him a bad time. All this talk of squashed currants, extinguished consciousness and parasites is doing my head in. I’ll have to get my own head sorted or I’ll go mad.
                                                          
The Desert Gang

‘It’s funny about love,’ Sophia said.  ‘The more you love someone, the less he likes you back.’

    ‘That’s very true,’ Ned observed. ‘And so what do you do?’

    ‘You go on loving,’ said Sophia threateningly. ‘You love harder and harder.’

    The camel looked across at Sophia and licked on another cup of rum.  Sophia was with the handler who kept on feeding rum down the camel’s neck.  She guessed both of them would be as drunk today as always; retching and swearing, swaying and fighting. There was no redeeming feature about alcohol.  She felt that Ned, Jamal and the camel would be better off dead at this point.

    Sophia wrapped up her possessions, unstrapping the rifle and canteen from the side of the animal. Both men snored on the ground where they lay, collapsed dead drunk to the intimate world. Sophia headed for the Kelly hut. She knew it would be deserted, but hoped that she might find some beans, tinned meat and meal.

    She climbed on the last good horse and looking back noticed that cockroaches were crawling in the vomit of Ned’s beard. She noticed that someone had been sick over rocks and on a tree trunk. Both slept on – a marriage made in heaven.

    Sophia spurred the horse on, singing with joy. A hosanna of praise for their stupefied “marriage made in heaven”. But she knew that Ned’s life was never that simple. The meek shall inherit the earth, she thought, but only if you toe the line, not rob and plunder at gunpoint. Certainly not drown your sorrows in the demon drink.

    She hurried away from their bush corner at a fast gallop, and didn’t stop.

How to Get Rid of a Lover or Something the Cat Got Rid Of

I shall never forget the indulgence with which he treated me. My master used to go out and buy me oysters. I recollect one day he made the servants venture into town for some fresh salmon. Other days it was small blades of snapper or a selection of seafood, including crab. To his satisfaction, I purred and rubbed myself against his shoulder. ‘Hodge,’ he would say, ‘you’re a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed.’

    And no doubt I was, the finest with my long, soft fur, my gentle paws that massaged with finesse, and my general air of superiority. I was spoilt, but only to the degree I fully deserved.

    I do watch my owners with wonder. Such dills! The missus entered me into the Royal Show. She’s grooming me to win first prize. If only she’d lavish some of the attention onto herself. She’s hideously frumpy.

    Still, they spoil me. Let me sleep on the missus’s bed.  Let me eat from her plate. Let me walk on the kitchen table and benches.

   After all this, the missus went and spoilt it. She kept picking up this nasty man while Tom was at work– a boyfriend or whatever he was supposed to be – Darling Gareth, she called him. I can’t see what she sees in him. Every visit he smells so doggy, Must have a pack of them at home.

    Every Wednesday, I’m being ignored by the missus when Gareth is around. All lovey, dovey. It’s nice when he’s away but as soon as he turns up like a bad penny, there’s nothing for me, zero, zippo, zilch.

    I have devised a plan. I am going to make Darling Gareth disappear.  I have mixed a glass brew that will have him embarrassed in the bedroom.  It’s not poisonous. It’s only iodine sulphate (which incidentally makes his beer really frothy!).

   I got the idea from a short story by Cate Kennedy. I once heard the missus reading it to Gareth. It was called   The Testosterone Club.  Well, she laughed and laughed, and doggy-boy thought it was a disgusting idea. But it sounded like a popular way to get rid of someone and if it worked for the female protagonist in the story, I knew it would work for me.  So high five Monica (the lady in the story) and have a very, flaccid day Darling Gareth!

Copyright (c) 2015
This work belongs to the writers of the class @ Writing at the Centre and OOTA members and the work is subject to copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be produced by any process without the permission of the author(s) @ writingatthecentre@gmail.com