The shelves were bursting with cans of almost everything imaginable: the purest air from southern oceans, sparkling water from ancient underground springs, and even sunshine from Australia. She wasn’t sure what she wanted until she found it. For years she’d joked she’d make a fortune if she could can a toddler’s energy. Now someone had. She loaded her basket and dashed home. If only she’d read the small print. She was soon cartwheeling across the lounge room, star jumping on the bed and preparing to fly like superwoman. If she did, or didn’t, fly, she’d be committed for sure.
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Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Rubber Duck, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
Ever since I read the prompt, I’ve had Ernie from Sesame Street singing Rubber Ducky on endless repeat in my head. I’m so sorry, but sharing is something I do, so I just have to share it with you too.
I’ve continued the nonsense with a nonsense story, so that probably requires two apologies in this post. Oh well. Enjoy anyway!
Muddy Footprints
“Aargh! Who just walked all those muddy footprints through the house?” said Farmer Jo.
“Not me!” said the animals in unison, displaying their best innocent faces. “There’s no mud on my feet.” They lifted their feet to show.
“It definitely wasn’t me,” said Rubber Ducky, “for I have no feet. See.”
“Then I suppose it was Mr Invisible. Again,” sighed Farmer Jo.
“It was,” chimed the animals.
Farmer Jo scoffed.
“It was me,” said Mr. Invisible, gradually materialising before their eyes. “Sorry.”
“What?” said Farmer Jo. “So, you do exist. You’re not just in my imagination. That’s a relief.”
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Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Parents of Adult Children, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
I didn’t think beyond a son or daughter, as Charli suggested. I stayed with the daughter. However, I want to assure you that the daughter in my story isn’t my daughter, and it definitely isn’t/wasn’t me. It’s really just a cliqued daughter who is probably not really like any daughter you know.
Mother and Daughter
One
You are my everything, my world, my universe.
Four
I only want to be with you. No one else will ever do.
Eight
You’re the best in the whole world.
Thirteen
You’re mean. Everyone else can.
Fifteen
I hate you.
Eighteen
I’m an adult. You can’t tell me what to do.
Twenty-one
It’s my life. I’ll do what I want.
Twenty-five
How can I get Bubs to stop crying?
Twenty-nine
Will you babysit?
Thirty-three
Can you help with sport?
Thirty-eight
Please talk to her. She won’t listen to me.
Forty
I wasn’t this bad, was I?
Sorry, Mum.
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Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Message in a Feather, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
There was nothing unusual about the morning as Sarah scoured the beach for treasures. Nothing unusual until …
The feather. Iridescent black, shimmering blue and purple, it sparkled in the sunshine. It stood upright. Like a flag. Like it had been placed there. On purpose. But Sarah and her aunt were alone on the island. Not another soul for over five years. No other footprints. Sarah frowned. And what was the feather from? They’d only ever seen white birds. Was it a sign?
“Aunt Sophie!” she called as she ran. Then, from nowhere, an enormous black bird swooped …
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Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Complaint Received, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
We don’t have beavers in Australia and I’d neither heard, nor heard of, a beaver slap before. However, we do have:
A Very Funny Animal
It isn’t quite a beaver, though it has a beaver’s tail,
A freshwater-living mammal, much smaller than a whale.
It’s something like an otter with body dressed in fur.
Its bill and feet are duck-like but it has a poisonous spur.
It burrows into riverbanks to lay its eggs therein.
It swims around in waters while having not one fin.
If you come across it, I urge you not to scream.
It wouldn’t ever harm you. It’s just a monotreme.
Its name can be quite tricky, but you’ll learn it without fuss.
So try:
Or –
Or – nith – or
Ornithorhynchus.
(Apologies to C.J. Dennis for this poem poorly modelled on his wonderful Triantiwontigongolope which you can read in full here.)
You might know this creature better as the platypus.
The poem, although it is 99 words, isn’t really my response to the prompt. It began more as an explanation of my response which follows.
When Europeans first arrived in Australia, they had never seen anything like the platypus, which is an egg-laying mammal, or monotreme. The first scientists who studied the platypus, thought it was a fake, made up of the body parts of several animals. I hope I’ve captured its uniqueness in both my poem and my story.
You may enjoy this video about the platypus. My story Impossible Creature follows it.
By the way, we have neither otters nor beavers in Australia.
Impossible Creature
The day was magic with the sunlight and laughter of summer holidays.
They were resting on the riverbank when a splash broke the spell. “What was that?”
“A fish? Must’ve been big.”
“It was a duck! I saw its beak before it dived.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s an otter. Ducks don’t have fur.”
“Can’t be an otter. Their tails aren’t flat. Gotta be a beaver.”
“Duh! There’s no beavers in Australia.”
The surface broke again.
“Look! Webbed feet. It is a duck. I told you.”
“But not with that spur.”
“A furry duck with spurs. Someone’s playing tricks. But who?”
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Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Two Can Keep a Secret, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
Like adults, some children can be better than others at keeping a secret. It may depend on how interesting the secret is and what the consequences may be for telling it. Regardless of age, people often have a desire to share a secret, at least once. And that’s okay, as long as the next person swears they won’t tell. I’ve eavesdropped on a couple of children with a secret to share. I can’t tell you what their secret is though, as, you know, it’s a secret.
Do you want to know a secret?
‘Wanna know something?’
‘What?’
‘A secret.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Billie said I couldn’t tell anyone, but you’re not just anyone. I’ll tell you, but you mustn’t tell anyone. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Josie bent close and cupped her hand around Daisy’s ear. ‘Swzh, swzh, swzh.’
Daisy giggled and automatically swiped her ear, accidentally hitting Josie on the nose.
‘What d’you do that for?’
‘It tickled. Tell me again, but don’t tickle this time.’
Billie loomed over them. ‘Hey. What’s going on?’
‘Um. Josie’s just telling me something.’
‘Um. It’s not your secret.’
‘It’s another Billie.’
Josie kicked Daisy, purposefully.
‘Why’d you do that?’
How could I write a post about secrets without sharing this wonderful song?
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Beyond the village, where trees grow thick and tall, lives an old woman in a tiny cottage. Self-sufficient with her gardens, chickens, and one milking goat, she rarely ventures far.
By day, she whistles as she works. When darkness falls, she locks the doors, bolts the windows and draws the curtains. Then the beast arrives, landing heavy-footed on the roof. Soon the monstrous grunting, growling, screeching and hissing begin. She covers her ears and rocks, humming calming songs without effect. Eventually, the beast retreats. The night grows quiet and still, and she sleeps, awakening at daybreak, another night survived.
…
This story was inspired by a cute Australian marsupial, a brushtail possum who just happened to be outside my window making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I read Charli’s prompt. I didn’t have to go far for inspiration.
While you can listen to a little of the brushtail possum’s repertoire in this video, it is only a fraction of what I heard.
Although they are totally harmless to humans, the sound can be terrifying, even when you know what it is. It sounds like the creature from the black lagoon standing at the door wanting blood. The first night I heard one, maybe almost thirty years ago, it totally unnerved me. I went from window to window trying to find out what was making the sound that seemed to envelop our house. I had no idea what it was. The next day, a little sheepishly, I phoned the museum and informed them that I’d heard noises I could not explain. The fellow said, “Did it sound like this?” and mimicked it exactly, though not quite as loudly. When he told me what it was, I was greatly relieved. Although they are not big creatures, they make a hell of a noise on a tin roof.
You can find out a little more about this very cute Australian in this video.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate your feedback. Please share your thoughts.
Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Impossibly Blue, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
We are told to write what we know, and I am not a dog person. I’ve never owned a dog though both my children and their families now do. I’m currently trying to complete a story for this year’s Story Angels Anthology that has ‘Tales from the Bark Side’ as its theme. It took me ages to get a story started and I hope I can complete it to my own, and the judges’ satisfaction. Fingers crossed.
The last time Charli included a dog in the prompt, I didn’t submit. This time I’ve followed the prompt into the desert with Australia’s own native dog. I’ve gone for a type of information-packed free verse, not really a flash fiction, but there I went. I would’ve liked more time to work on it. Perhaps I still will. But this is it for now. I hope you enjoy it.
Desert Dog
Dingo
wild dog of this vast land
of forest, scrub and plain
no stranger to the desert
with golden fur and quiet white feet
a bushy tail and pointed ears
and long sharp teeth
Australia’s largest mammal carnivore
apex predator
been here 4,000 years or more
nocturnal hunter
with howls that rip the night asunder
call the pack in
or warn intruders away
marking territories with body scents
curious but shy
beautiful but dangerous
lean and mean
unpredictable
opportunistic hunter
hungry scavenger
do not coax it in
be ever wary
treat with caution
lest you become the dingo treat.
I think the Azaria Chamberlain story in 1980 made the world aware of the Australian dingo. It was a story that rocked the nation, not to mention its effect on the family. Although dingo attacks on humans are rare, they do occur, particularly if campers welcome them to their campsites and feed them, particularly if they are hungry and particularly if campers do not treat them with sufficient caution and respect. They may look like domestic dogs, but they are not domestic. They are wild. As recently as a week ago, a young girl was attacked by a dingo on K’gari (Fraser Island). However, many more people die by drowning and car accidents than by sharks, and even fewer by dingoes. Be cautious but not afraid.
Thank you for reading. I appreciate your feedback. Please share your thoughts.
Note: The collection of stories made in response to the previous prompt Impossibly Blue, including mine, can be read at the Carrot Ranch.
Norah Colvin 