A COLLECTION OF STUDENTS' CREATIVE WORK Compiled by Field of Words
JANUARY 2018
Editor Eileen Herbert-Goodall Publisher Field of Words Contact Email: entries@fieldofwords.com.au
Web: www.fieldofwords.com.au Field of Words
The copyright for stories and memoir in this collection/anthology is retained by the author/s. First publication rights have been granted to this collection/anthology.
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The Shearing Shed by Maxene Cooper
Nostalgia can be so overrated, I thought as my 4WD navigated ruts and potholes scattered across the dry dusty track leading to the old shearing shed. Why not leave memories as they are? No need to drag them into reality. My mind drifted back forty years, remembering the thrill of hot Christmases spent on the land. I was only ever here for school holidays. That was when I got to know Dad. Admired his strengths, wanted to do what he did. Was cut by his rebukes and taunts, wanted to run away and hide. The 4WD rolled to a halt under the towering eucalypt that served as a sentinel. As I peered through the windscreen at the skeleton of the shed, I became aware of the buckled and twisted corrugated iron blown from the roof during numerous storms, and the leaning timbers that could no longer support the iron sheets. I stepped out of my airconditioned cocoon ready to explore the decrepit building. A memory surfaced of what was supposed to be an auspicious day.
I was so excited to be spending my school holidays working as a roustabout for the annual shearing. In all my ten years, I had never been paid to work. This was big! A truck rolled into the yard and across to the row of small huts. The men had arrived. They unloaded their swags and started settling into the shearers’ quarters, their home for the next two weeks. I would have liked to hang around and listen to the stories, smell the ‘baccy’, and dodge the beer bottle tops they pegged at me. The pre-shearing drinks and yarns were legendary. But I had something more important to do. Dad wanted my help. We had to get things ready at the Shearing Shed. We drove the bone-jarring army surplus jeep along the dusty track, me jumping out to open the gates on the mile-long trip. I had to drive the sheep into the holding pens while Dad oiled the flywheels.
The Shearing Shed by Maxene Cooper
‘It’s important to have the sheep settled in the holding pens the day before,’ Dad said. ‘Makes them eager to be shorn and back out into the paddock.’ I didn’t think I’d like to be a sheep. Crammed into a small pen all night, no food, then next morning getting dragged along on your bum by a big burly man to have all your coat cut off. Just as well it was summer. I loved going to the shearing shed. The rusty, low-pitched tin roof provided shade over the timber floor, worn into grooves along the well-used pathways between holding pen and shearers stand, classing table and wool bins. No walls were needed, just rails up to my waist to keep the sheep in, humans could come and go as they pleased. The smoko area was a fire pit, under the roof’s extension to the side of the main shed. This is where Dad boiled the billy. A bunch of tree stumps circled the firepit, providing a place to sit while you sipped the strong, black tea. It was old, dusty and comfortable. ‘Check the top gate is shut, then go ’round the back and drive all the sheep up,’ Dad instructed as we pulled up under the towering eucalypt. I leapt out of the jeep and ran into the shed. I slipped the latch over the twin uprights, securing the gates from swinging open and releasing the captive sheep before they were shorn. I slipped under the rail and out the back. I knew not to run to the sheep, so I walked along the fence line to the far end of the shed paddock. Dad and Trevor had mustered these sheep into the paddock earlier that day. They would be mustering a fresh group every day while the shearing was on. The shed paddock had trees for shade, and a trough of bore water. The sheep were grazing on the green shoots, newly sprung from the ground after last week’s rain. Their long fleece was grey and matted. Grass seeds peppered their coats.
The Shearing Shed by Maxene Cooper
Unhitching the gate leading to the shearing shed ramp, I circled the mob, waving my arms just like I’d seen Dad do—I brought my arms up level with my shoulders, then whooshed them quickly down, like I was trying to flap my wings. Accompanying this was a constant patter of encouragement to get the sheep moving. ‘Come on then, get on in, let’s go, up you get.’ To my surprise, the sheep ambled towards the open gate and started walking up the ramp. It was all working so well. The sheep were skittish. They huddled together as they ran up the ramp, some of them leaping over an invisible obstacle, causing those following to do the same. It looked so funny as each sheep in turn jumped over the same imagined obstruction. I laughed out loud, which seemed to spur the sheep on, causing them to run and leap all the way into the holding pen. ‘Maxene,’ called Dad, ‘sweep out the classing bins while I finish up here.’ ‘Okay, Dad.’ I grabbed the ancient broom and swept away old fragments of fleece from last year’s shearing. I was glad Mum couldn’t see me. She would want me to sweep up around home. That wasn’t fun, not like this. The wood on the classing table was reflecting the late afternoon sun into my eyes, as if it were calling me. It seemed to be shimmering. I reached out and touched the table’s edge. Lanolin from the fleece of thousands of sheep over the years had seeped into the timber grain until there was just a liquid look to the old table. The table was a deep rose colour, made from a giant red gum tree felled nearby a hundred years earlier by my grandfather. ‘Finished?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, puffing out my chest.
The Shearing Shed by Maxene Cooper
‘Clear that fallen branch away from in front of the jeep, then we’d better get home for tea.’ I ran out to clear away the offending branch, then froze as my fingers reached out, ready to grasp the wood. But it wasn’t wood. It wasn’t even a stick. The brown snake was dead, prodded and poked into the shape of a fallen branch to fool an unsuspecting ten year old. Peals of laughter circled my head as I clambered into the back of the jeep, trying to get away from...what? The snake, or Dad’s laughter?
With laughter still echoing around in my head, I turned my back on the flywheels of the shearing machinery, once so lovingly tended by Dad, now rusted and still. Never again to power the blades. Instinctively, I scanned the fallen timbers around the car, before escaping from the ruins of yesteryear. I allowed myself one last glimpse through the rear view mirror as the dust consumed the old shearing shed. Yep! Nostalgia sure is overrated.
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The Reflection by Brad Davies
I love seeing you smile…is all I could think in this moment, on this wonderful day. The nervous tension that I felt earlier has now subsided. The ceremony is in midflight and, whilst I am aware of what’s happening around me, the voice of the celebrant is only background noise and I now realise hard this damn bench seat is under me. This makes me chuckle, thinking about where my mind takes me and the silly things I focus on sometimes. Then I sense how incredible the surroundings are today. I’m outdoors, adjacent to the beach near my home, and the sun is warming my neck and shoulders on an almost cloudless spring day. Beneath the kind voice coming from the loud speaker, I notice the faint sound of children playing at the water’s edge, the waves casually rumbling to a halt on the sand and the occasional squabble of seagulls, probably fighting over food thrown to them by a beach-goer. It’s a perfect day for a wedding. I look up to see a truly gorgeous bride only a couple of metres in front of me reciting her words of love and commitment to the man of her dreams. She radiates pure joy and it’s so lovely to see. She’s so happy and this is an amazing experience to witness, because the bride is my daughter. But, if I am being totally honest, I mostly feel relief. I’m relieved that we are here today and enjoying such a wonderful occasion, one that we can deeply enjoy. You see, it wasn’t that long ago when things were very different. Her teenage years were particularly hard and there were plenty of times when I was scared of ‘what might be’ for my little girl. As a parent, I had often felt like I was failing and it’s only as I’ve gotten older that I realise many parents often feel the same way. But I didn’t
The Reflection by Brad Davies
discuss it. It was difficult to discuss ‘failures’. And when you’re deep in the life-cycle of parenting a child that lives with a clear lack of self-regulation, it sometimes feels like your world is caving in, that you’re hopeless and even helpless. She grew up living between two homes as her mother and I ended our marriage when she was very young. Given our different parenting skills, she found the contrasting rules and temperaments difficult to manage. The constant changes must have been so difficult for her to process. Such challenges were no doubt exacerbated by developmental issues, particularly her ADHD. This condition meant she found it difficult to self-regulate and reflect. Of course, navigating her ADHD also proved challenging for us as parents; we were constantly trying to balance our efforts to understand her with society’s expectations of ‘doing the right thing’. The road she’s travelled to this day had been pretty tough, much tougher than her sister’s. It’s not like she went without anything. In fact, she probably had more opportunity and ‘stuff’ than most kids would ever enjoy. She always had a roof over her head, great food to eat, nice clothes to wear and even her own pool to swim in, but she still struggled with the deeper things that matter to humans. Things like selfworth and inner strength seemed to be unachievable goals as she battled with low self-esteem for so long. Things came much easier to her sister who didn’t struggle with friendships, social settings, personal worth, or the ability to learn, which caused any sibling rivalry to be a one-horse race on most occasions. Most things were a challenge for the beautiful bride, and living up to the ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ comments, didn’t do much for her pride either. She never felt like she was worthy enough, for anyone. She fought for everything. Yes, she’s a fighter. She naturally confronted, questioned, rebelled, ignored, even lashed out at anyone who enforced a level of control or authority over her, so
The Reflection by Brad Davies
parenting her was a very difficult task. Her tone of voice was always full of frustration, hurt, disrespect or disdain, which often caused a household battle of wills. In hindsight, it was more about how she truly felt inside…of herself. And that really saddened me. I always wished I could try again to help my dear little girl get to a better place. To make it easier for her. But no matter what I did, I never seemed to succeed. Yet after all this sadness and difficulty as a child, today it’s a different story. Her willingness to fight ‘tooth and nail’—to work for everything she wanted, along with her sheer dogged-determination—became her greatest strength. As she matured, she transformed those traits that had once made her a difficult child to parent into skills that were an asset to her career, her friendships, her new husband and, no doubt, my future grand-children. She will readily accept a task that’s important to her and nothing will stop her from achieving her goals. It’s this determination that helped create the capable adult I see before me today. One who is now so successful...and her life is only just ‘starting.’ The welling in my eyes makes it difficult for me to see the kiss. The kiss that has sealed the day and put her on a new path after all the years of challenges we had faced together: father and daughter. But I manage to wipe them away in enough time to see her looking up into the eyes of her beloved, as his wife. She’s no longer the weak and confused little girl she once was, but a proud, confident and capable woman, venturing into the world to create new chapters in her life, where my role will be less important. And I couldn’t be happier. She deserves a great story. She gets to write this one herself and I know it’ll be good. She’s earnt it. So, now I think it’s time for me to sit back and enjoy the view, to watch the story unfold from more of a distance and take some time to breathe, easily, finally. It’s been
The Reflection by Brad Davies
a crazy journey up to this point and I’m looking forward to what is yet to come, for both my girls. They’re amazing people; different in so many ways but still beautiful, independent and perfect as themselves.
Clapping and cheering enters my consciousness, bringing me back to the wedding, specifically the moment when my daughter and her new husband start to walk back down the aisle, concluding the formalities of the day. She takes only a few steps and stops nearby, leans down, cuddles me and whispers into my ear the sweetest words a father can hear, ‘I love you dad. Thanks for…everything.’ I look up at her and all I can do is smile and say, ‘I’m so proud of who you are my darling girl.’ She stands, takes a few more steps but stops, and glances back at me. As we make eye contact again, she says, ‘I love seeing you smile.’
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Dog's Night by Meg Dunn
The wild dogs are singing tonight. Their sinister baying wakes me from my dreamless sleep. ‘Wake up Ruthe.’ I shake her shoulder buried deep under the covers. ‘We need to go after those bloody mongrels now.’ The clear winter’s night is getting ready to drop a doozy of a frost. I pull on my boots as the chilling howls echo across the narrow valley. Ruthie moves like she is under water. Pulling trackies over her PJs, she wraps herself in an old parka. ‘Why do you bother?’ Ruthie reaches for the spotlight. ‘I need to do something.’ I stuff a handful of cartridges into my pocket and take the .303 from the rack. Outside the cold bites. Ruthie gets behind the wheel of the old Jeep. Turns the key. The starter motor grunts then nothing. She tries again. ‘Pull the choke out.’ Still dead. I jump down from the tray. ‘Get out—hold this.’ I push the rifle into her hands. I pump the accelerator. The engine catches and I rev the old girl hard. She’s a bitch to start on a cold night. ‘Head down to the back paddock,’ I yell over the roar of the motor. ‘The sheep camp there and the dogs should be close by.’ I set the spotlight in its bracket and check it’s working. The gears grind in protest as Ruthie tries to double clutch the stiff pedal. The headlights show a ribbon of rutted track in the moonless night.
Dog's Night by Meg Dunn
I train the spotlight high up the mountain ridge. Red eyes reflect in the light. Sighting the rifle, my finger on the cold metal of the trigger, I briefly see a brindle dog as it fades into the surrounding undergrowth. Seizing the light, I scour the bush of ghost gums and boulders.
We hunt for an hour but the bloody dogs have outsmarted us again. The sour taste of defeat chokes me as I slide down and sit on the floor of the tray. We head home cold and empty handed. The next morning the ground is littered with dead and dying sheep. Some with their throats ripped out, others with broken legs and stomach contents open to the sky. The pitiful bleating tears at me, their creamy wool stained red. The stench of exposed flesh and rotting guts fill the air as the blowflies buzz in great swarms, laying eggs in the gaping cavities. It’s a battleground massacre between sheep and dog. Using the .22, I walk among the dying putting each animal out of its misery. Ruthie watches me, her face set hard. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Her eyes are glassy. ‘I know.’ I place my hand over hers. ‘The dogs will be here every night until there are no sheep left. It’s time to sell.’ It’s late as I sit by the fire. The dogs, they don’t disappoint but I’m not chasing them tonight. I ring the estate agent. He is visiting tomorrow.
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Layla by Ruth Kick
The dark evening sky, gave way to a sense of unease, as did the shaded windows of the old house. Birds hovered, flew in circles, swooping at my approach, as if in warning. The grey, ghostlike exterior beckoned, begging me to enter through the door, which stood slightly ajar. A curtain twitched on the upper level. The attic. Foreboding crept down my spine. The long grass inhibited me as if to say, go back— stay away, except I was propelled forward, ambivalent. Rain splattered against my upturned face. I stumbled on a fallen tree limb as I came within reach of the building, its wooden steps were uneven with rot, and hung broken beyond repair. I stared up at the front door. Water ran down my face, now mixed with tears. Would I find her? If so would she accept me? Was it her in the attic?
In my mid-fifties, our daughter Layla was born. It had been a thunder filled winter’s night, pierced with forked lightning. She slid into the world with gusto and an earpiercing howl, that would come back to haunt us. Her glossy black hair reflected our Celtic ancestry, but it was her intense blue eyes that set her apart. Layla became a wilful and independent child. Her first words were ‘I can do it’, so we let her. Looking back, it was our biggest mistake. She spoke her mind without fear and challenged us at every turn. Layla thought she knew it all, so for sixteen years we were beset by temper tantrums and mood swings.
Layla by Ruth Kick
The interior of her bedroom began to change, replaced with posters of half-moons, black birds and bats, wolves and skeletons and a hideous black glass skull, with piecing blue eyes. Black clothing and studded boots appeared and her makeup became dark and sinister. We were at a loss. Then one morning Mary announced, ‘Liam, I don’t know about you? But I can no longer cope with Layla’s mood swings and have made an appointment for us to see the headmaster after school today. I’d like you to come with me, we need advice.’ I could not have agreed more.
The school grounds were quiet on our arrival, except for three teenage lads who approached as we entered through the gates. They staggered under the weight of heavy school bags slung over their shoulders, and were joking, making crude comments, egging each other on. But we stopped dead in our tracks, at the mention of Layla’s name. ‘Layla, spooky blue eyes,’ sniggered a lad before letting forth a hideous laugh. ‘Yeah, she’s real creepy—a Goth—always good for it though, but a real weirdo,’ said another lad looking over his shoulder. ‘Come on Dillon, hurry, let’s get out of here quick.’ Dillon averted his eyes, and raced after his two friends. Unmoving, and in shock, we watched their hasty retreat. Hesitantly, we moved forward before entering through the huge school doors. Our footsteps echoed eerily along the seemingly endless hallway as we stepped around a cleaning lady mopping the floors. Staring down from the walls, were portraits, whose eyes followed us to the headmaster’s door. We knocked.
Layla by Ruth Kick
‘Ah…Mr and Mrs Doyle, come in please, take a seat.’ The headmaster Mr Campbell, shuffled a few papers and got straight to the point. ‘It appears Layla is causing you grief at home?’ ‘Yes…that’s why we’re here,’ I replied. ‘Teenagers of this era, are so difficult to understand, maybe we’re behind the times? However, we’d appreciate your opinion and advice.’ ‘I’ll do my best. I’ve also spoken to staff members regarding Layla’s state of mind and behaviour.’ I interrupted his spiel. ‘Before we begin, we had an unfortunate encounter, on entering the school grounds. Three lads, one named Dillon were being less than polite about Layla, in fact their words were very disturbing.’ ‘Mmm…I know them well, I’m sorry. I will question each one of them in the morning.’ Campbell breathed in deeply, shook his head, then changed the subject. ‘Now, as I mentioned, I’ve made inquiries with the staff. Layla attends school each day, but has been known to skip classes. Her grades have plummeted and it’s come to light she’s being bullied. Your lass has few friends and she’d be better off without the ones she has, especially those lads in question.’ ‘Well…why haven’t we been informed?’ I asked. ‘You have been Mr Doyle, by mail. We’ve sent several letters to you.’ ‘I’ve not received a single thing.’ Campbell raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe Layla doesn’t want you to know?’ ‘Are you suggesting she destroyed the mail?’
Layla by Ruth Kick
‘It’s possible. I did wonder why we hadn’t heard from you, in hindsight I should have called. ‘No Mr Campbell, you should have approached us, we’re at the school often enough. I think you’ve let us down in this area.’ Campbell looked at us squarely, and continued: ‘Now, it’s not for us to comment on what Layla wears outside school hours, but this Goth look, is rather eccentric and has possibly been her undoing, especially the black eye paint which she insists on wearing every day. Our deputy, Mrs Adams, has spoken to her, but it makes no difference. Layla continues to defy.’ ‘I know she wears that ghastly make up,’ interrupted Mary, ‘but never to school.’ ‘Well, I’m afraid she does, Mrs Doyle. Maybe Layla feels safe behind this mask she creates. Look, I’m no psychiatrist, but your daughter needs help, more help than we can provide.’ He leant forward and appeared to choose his next words carefully. ‘Or perhaps, a change of school?’ I was floored by his comment and immediately thought, That’s an easy way out for you. An urgent knocking suddenly interrupted us. Campbell went to the door. I glimpsed the cleaning lady. She was wringing her hands. ‘Mr Campbell you must come quickly, there’s been an accident.’ He turned to us. ‘I have a problem to deal with. I won’t be long,’ and closed the door behind him. Hasty footsteps could be heard, then running. An ominous presence engulfed us both. I paced the office floor, trying to speculate what could be keeping him so long—then the sound of an ambulance closed in. Campbell eventually re-entered the office scarcely able to speak. ‘It’s…Layla, you must come—now.’
Layla by Ruth Kick
We were met with fear-provoking, red and blue flashing lights. Police cars were everywhere and Layla was being lifted into the ambulance on a stretcher. ‘Wait…’ I called running towards its closing doors. ‘Please, we must see her, we’re her parents.’ ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the paramedic, ‘she must be transported immediately to emergency. We can’t delay a moment longer.’ I held Mary as we watched the ambulance pull away, its siren blaring. A serious looking policeman approached. ‘Mr Doyle-Mrs Doyle, I’m Sergeant Glen Ryan, please follow me, we can all talk privately inside the auditorium. I’ve also asked the headmaster to join us.’ Mary gripped my hand, the bright neon lights laying our emotions bare. The office was devoid of character, apart from a lone soccer ball on the desk. Its black and white shapes stared back at me. ‘Please take a seat…’ said the Sergeant, his face etched with tension. ‘There’s no easy way to impart this kind of news…Layla has sustained a serious head injury, possibly incurred trying to save herself from falling. However, we believe she was pushed.’ He pointed towards the stage. ‘That’s where we found her, at the bottom of those steps.’ ‘Why?’ I asked, questioning both the sergeant and headmaster. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ ‘We’re not sure Mr Doyle. Mr Campbell has given us the names of three lads to follow up on. The matter is being investigated as we speak.’ I observed his jaw tighten and begin to twitch. This isn’t the end of it, I thought. ‘There’s something else you should know. The paramedics suspect your daughter, was not only assaulted but raped.’
Layla by Ruth Kick
A deathly silence descended upon us all. Mary toppled her chair and fled through the open doorway, her wracking cry echoing around the auditorium. I followed. For once I was lost for words and knew whatever I said would never be enough. ‘We’ll get through this together,’ I promised, rocking her back and forth. ‘How Liam?’ She pushed against my chest to face me. ‘How…?’ ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. Let’s go the hospital and see Layla. She’s going to need us now.’
Layla’s hair was tinged with blood. A bandage covered one side of her head and heavy bruising marked her face. An intravenous drip was attached to her arm, the monitor flickered above the bed. She’d been heavily sedated and would apparently remain that way for several days. Mary and I sat by her side, almost the entire time. After four days, she stirred from her deep sleep and lay for a moment without speaking. Mary took Layla’s hand in hers, only to have it snatched away in an instant. ‘You’re awake at last,’ I said, not knowing what else to say. Layla’s blue eyes were unwavering, angry. Her words cut deeply. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Want…? We want to take you home—make things right, you’ve been through…’ she cut me off. Her outburst was vicious. ‘Why? You’ve never tried in your lives, to make things right. Why now?’ ‘Layla, that’s unfair,’ said Mary.
Layla by Ruth Kick
‘Unfair, I’ll tell you what’s unfair. You don’t see me. Me…’ she pummelled her chest. ‘Neither of you have ever understood. You’re both so damned old in your ways. You look at me like I’m some sort of freak. Why can’t you accept that I’m different? Take me for who I am? I’m not like other girls, never will be.’ Tears welled then slid unabated from her beautiful blue eyes. ‘I don’t need you anymore. Go…go away.’ She turned and faced the wall. Silence engulfed us, time stood still while we processed Layla’s hurtful words. I placed my hand on Mary’s and left the room to find Layla’s Doctor. I already knew what he’d say, before I put the question to him. ‘It will take time,’ he would sprout. I was right. ‘Mr Doyle, take your wife home, you’re both tired and very emotional. I will administer another sedative to calm Layla. Tomorrow I have our psychiatric specialist coming to assess her, but I must warn you, it’s going to be a long road to recovery.’ His empty words left me with little reassurance.
At home and between hospital visits, which proved disheartening, Mary and I searched our memory bank for a trigger, anything, that may have set Layla on her path of destruction. We went through old family albums, letters, tried to remember people we’d come in contact with. Nothing set off alarm bells. Then all at once it dawned on me. Mary and I had attended a pre-Christmas function, five or six years back. Our regular sitter Tilly arrived, but departed before we came home, leaving a solitary note. Apparently, Layla had been out of control in my office, crying and yelling. She wanted Tilly to leave and refused to go to bed. She eventually left her sleeping on the office couch. Yes, I thought, it was around then, that Layla gradually became withdrawn. But I was still mystified.
Layla by Ruth Kick
Once Layla arrived home from hospital, her bedroom became a sanctuary, a safe haven. Any encouragement from us was met with a blue-eyed look of contempt. She began to appear gaunt with dark circles around her eyes, rarely ate and rejected any help. The social worker ceased coming, and Layla refused to attend appointments with either her doctor or psychiatrist. Returning to school had not been broached. Then late one night, not long after Layla’s return and in the midst of a fierce electrical storm, our worst nightmare began. Rain pelted down and the wind howled. I got up to check the house and found her bedroom window fully open. Through it sheets of wind driven rain tore at the curtains and lashed the walls. I wrestled it shut. Black clothes were soaked and strewn across the floor, posters hung limp and torn on the walls. The skull with the piecing blue eyes balanced on the edge of her drenched pillow—it challenged me. Beneath its jaw rested a hand-written note. Rivulets of black ink ran down the paper, it was barley decipherable. To me it resembled devil’s teardrops.
I’m not afraid of the darkness or night. I’m afraid of the silence. I’m afraid when there is nothing to hide me from my own screaming thoughts. I can’t force you to make space for me in your life. If you really cared, you would already have space for me. Dear Lord, what have we done? Layla appeared to have vanished. Her black demons had whisked her away. I looked back at the hideous posters punishing us—persecuting us. Lightning cracked and another violent wind gust flung the window open again, sending the skull crashing to the floor. A thousand black glass shards spread before me. The piercing blue eyeballs rolled towards my feet.
Layla by Ruth Kick
Layla was listed as missing. Days became weeks, weeks became months. At night, we’d lay in our bed, sleepless, punishing ourselves for the unknown. Mary and I had each other but it wasn’t enough. We managed to get through each day, attempted to regain a normal life, except it wasn’t normal. Nothing would be normal ever again. I spent many hours in my study, often staring into space. I was bogged down. Forever riddled with what ifs. Desperate for something to occupy my mind, I began an office de-clutter. The first file I pulled was labelled ‘Adoption Papers’, which I thought I’d tossed years ago. I opened it and reeled back. Childish scribble obliterated the first page in thick black texta. I hate you I hate you who am I hate you My strangled cry brought Mary running. ‘Layla thinks she’s adopted, this is where our problems lie. Why on earth didn’t we get rid of these when you fell pregnant?’ ‘I thought we had Liam. Whatever prompted her to look in the drawer anyway?’ ‘Maybe because Sharon, her cousin, is always going on about finding her real parents.’ My brother and his wife had adopted Sharon, when she was just weeks old. Both girls were the same age. ‘Liam, this goes back years, this goes back to the night Layla shut herself in the study when the sitter, Tilly was here. Layla would not have understood. All she’s seen is the word, adoption…’ Having found the probable cause of Layla’s years of turmoil, all we could do was hope she would returntalk to usask the question. Then, almost twelve months to the day of Layla’s disappearance, an envelope arrived on our doorstep. I picked it up,
Layla by Ruth Kick
fingered it, smelt it, and with shaking hands slid my thumb under the flap. I removed a postcard. It pictured an old dilapidated house, on the back I read. Seek and you will find. I immediately took it to Sergeant Ryan.
‘I know this house, he said. ‘I go hiking in that area, it’s deep in the moorlands of Hidden Dell,’ he shook his head. ‘It’s old, abandoned and barely accessible. We will take you there.’ ‘No, I must go alone.’ ‘Mr Doyle, I insist on taking you.’ I was reluctant, then called Mary from his office. ‘Mary…I’m at the police station. We may have found Layla’s whereabouts…Mary?’ All I could hear was uneven breathing then sobs.
Looking down again, I tested the first step, it moved under foot. Sergeant Ryan watched on in silence as I took hold of the railing and heaved myself up, onto the wooden flooring. I detected a faint light seeping through a window. I shone my torch towards the front door, and pushed it open further—it creaked eerily. Something scurried across the floorboards. A bat swooped over my head then escaped into the night. I stood still and listened. The only sound was my heart beating. Then somewhere deep in the house I heard footsteps. A door slammed, then more silence. ‘Layla. It’s your father.’
Layla by Ruth Kick
Torchlight revealed the ghostly interior. Broken furniture littered the floors and cobwebs hung like sheer curtains across shattered windows. The stairs leading to the second floor appeared perilous, and the light I’d detected earlier flickered above me. I climbed the stairs cautiously which creaked with every footstep, the banister swayed at the touch of my hand.
‘Layla...’ A baby’s cry pierced my ears. In sheer panic, I took the stairs two at a time. I scuttled in and out of every empty room. The attic was ahead, I flung myself through the open doorway as the flickering candle died. My torch focused on Layla’s old pink teddy bear. Beside it lay a baby swaddled in dirty rags, its piercing blue eyes looked into mine. Sergeant Ryan was waiting at the front door. ‘I didn’t find Layla, but I found her baby. Will you hold it for me while I search for my daughter?’ ‘No, Mr Doyle, he said emphatically. ‘I’ll find her, you stay here.’ Too emotional argue I stepped outside, with my grandchild in my arms. I looked up at the night sky, which seemed fraught with menace. A short time later I turned on hearing Ryan’s approach. From the expression on his face I knew in my heart, we had failed Layla. ‘I’ll send for assistance,’ he said handing me a sheet of paper. Thunder rolled, lightning lit up the sky. The infant began to cry—once again tears wet my face. The torchlight revealed her words. I’m no longer afraid of the silence.
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Second Best by Tiffany Leong
Apprehension mars his hazel eyes as he awaits your answer. You feel only the smallest twinge of guilt as you witness his fear of rejection. Truthfully, you’re glad to see this. If he’s afraid of rejection, he has to care, right? ‘Yes,’ you reply, surprisingly calm. Instead, you want to scream your answer, wind your arms tight around him, laugh until your sides ache, and tears stream down your cheeks—you want to do something, anything to express how happy you are. A smile breaks out on his handsome face, and you wonder when the corners of his lips will stop rising. He’s mirroring your emotions and, in this moment, it’s enough to quell your fears. You reach out a hand and find yourself enfolded in his arms. You melt in the embrace, imprinting his essence with yours. His smell, his touch, his taste... His arms tremble slightly, mimicking your emotional rollercoaster for the last couple of months. You’re afraid, too. In a way, you’re risking a lot more than him. But you have to be strong. For him. For you. For both of you. You reluctantly pull back, your head just winning an inner battle with your heart. ‘Do you still love her?’ This time you’re the one who anxiously waits for his reply. You need him to confront his feelings. It isn’t fair on any of you if he decides to pursue something new when he has lingering feelings for someone else. His eyes meet yours, and you gaze back steadily despite the erratic beats of your heart. His murmur gently caresses your cheek. ‘Yes.’
Second Best by Tiffany Leong
Your heart splinters into two, both parts fragmented for different reasons. The first: he still loves her. His first love, his first everything; you know you cannot replace her, and the realisation is devastating. No matter what you do, you will always be threatened by what they shared and the part of him that’s devoted to his first love. The other piece of your shattered heart wallows in agony. This part loves him so dearly that the thought of life without him is inconceivable. He’s honest with his answer, and you appreciate that he doesn’t say what you want him to say. He’s taking this just as seriously, but his emotions are yet to be in the same place as yours. You’re certain you could boldly declare that he wants this to work just as much as you do. He’s afraid that his heart will once again be pulverised after exposing all its vulnerabilities to another person. You’re just as frightened of the same outcome, though he’s the one who holds your heart in his hands. If she waltzes back into your lives, will he go back to the one who can just as easily take away the pain? ‘I’m trying,’ he adds, when you don’t respond. You don't know how to. You’re once again grateful for his honesty. If you don’t share your emotions with each other, how can either of you possibly heal on your own? There’s him—finally on the mend after a brutal ending to a four-year relationship. He gave everything to a beautiful girl, who could no longer endure their long-distance relationship and suggested the two of them should move on. She claims to have already found someone else. So should he. There’s still the possibility that she may return (and if she does, it’s unlikely she’ll be tugging along her supposed new partner), and they can potentially continue what was a fairy tale when they were within driving distance. But should he wait for something that may never occur or follow her advice: move on?
Second Best by Tiffany Leong
Then there’s you—shamelessly drawn to a man who was already in a relationship. You respected that, respected both of them. Sure, she didn't end their relationship on the best terms but, aside from that, she epitomises the doyennes of today’s society. You never tried to force a division between them, but after she sent the ‘Dear John’ letter, you were the one who comforted him. Naturally, spending more time with him made you realise you’d fallen in love. But you don’t want to settle for a rebound or second best; you want to be number one. Now answering ‘yes’ to accompany him overseas will be more than just two friends sharing a holiday. It will symbolise the start of a prospective relationship, and you’re not sure if you want only a part of him. You want all of him. What if you can make him happier than she's ever made him? He has to take a chance. You do too. ‘I know.’ You sigh. ‘I want both of us to be happy,’ he whispers. You swallow and implore him with your eyes. ‘We will be.’
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Alice by Elizyotta Stein
Alice stood at the small bedroom window in the mansion’s attic, her eyes brooding like dark pools of paint swirling on a bludgeoned canvas she’d left behind earlier that day in Mr Steele’s art class. She stared cold and vacant at her parents down below. The Earl and Countess of Blyde were strolling through their flooded rose garden. Alice had been a student at West Blyde College for two years. Mr Steele was used to her peculiar behaviour, but was concerned that it seemed to be getting worse. They’re not even your real parents, came an uninvited thought, her lips pursed tight. She was barely breathing. ‘Kill them now,’ said the voice. Alice turned away from the window and glided towards her bed. She knelt onto the wooden floor, struggled with a loose plank and pulled out a dagger. The sharp blade cut her palm but Alice took no notice, just as she paid no attention to the blood dripping from her finger as she’d pried loose the plank. She had a job to do. The bedroom door flung open. ‘Alice dear,’ said the Countess. Startled, Alice replied, ‘Yes Mother?’ ‘There’s someone here to see you.’ ‘I’ll be right down, Mother.’ She disposed of the dagger and secured the plank, then crawled out from under her bed and dusted herself off. Her throbbing finger reminded her to stop in at the bathroom to wash her hands. With the small wounds tended to, she ventured downstairs. ‘Mr Steele,’ said Alice. ‘We need to talk,’ said Mr Steele. ‘What about?’ asked Alice, her brow wrinkling.
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
Mr Steele looked at the Countess and asked if they could have a moment to talk. ‘Call if you need anything Mr Steele,’ said the Countess, closing the door. ‘Your behaviour in class seems to be getting worse, Alice.’ His look of concern scared Alice. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.’ ‘Come on Alice, you always say that. What game are you playing? Is someone hurting you?’ ‘No!’ exclaimed Alice. Mr Steele was usually calm and patient, the best teacher she’d ever had. Why is he so angry with me? ‘This time you totally destroyed your painting and…you were not yourself, Alice. You never are when this happens.’ Tears lined her eyes. Mr Steele frowned, ‘Something’s going on—’ ‘Apologies for the interruption, but dinner is ready. Care to join us Mr Steele?’ said the Countess. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you Countess, perhaps another time. Mary is expecting me soon.’ He turned to Alice and said, ‘I’ll see you in class tomorrow.’ He bid them goodnight and headed out the door. ‘What was that all about dear?’ ‘Oh, just a painting— it’s nothing,’ said Alice, forcing a smile. Everything Mr Steele had said swam through her mind. I don’t understand, thought Alice as she drifted off to sleep later that evening.
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
The Earl insisted on driving his daughter to College in the mornings since it was the only time he would get to spend with her during his busy schedule. He called it ‘father-daughter time’. He was a gentle, humble man of good humour. He was very well liked in Blyde. The Countess was a kind woman, too, although a little vain and, at times, self-absorbed. They were unable to have children of their own and gossip had suggested that the marriage was cursed. The Earl and Countess had adopted Alice from an orphanage run by nuns. They were told she’d been left on the doorstep as a baby. The note attached read only ‘Alice.’ Alice squirted a midnight blue over her white canvas. She wanted to paint the night sky, with a million stars and the moon, her favourite skyscape. She relaxed into her painting, twirling the big brush through the paint, mixing in the black and swirling it around, entranced, as the black seeped into the midnight blue, and the sounds of the classroom grew distant. A dagger replaced her paintbrush. Mr Steele flung open the front door of the mansion. He’d arrived in a nick of time. Standing in the hallway near the Earl’s office, stood Alice. ‘Put the dagger down!’ yelled Mr Steele, trembling. The Earl heard the commotion and opened his office door. He stared at Alice in disbelief. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Alice, put down the dagger,’ said Mr Steele. Alice dropped to the floor, sobbing. ‘You can’t stop now,’ said the voice. ‘Stand up and kill him, kill them both. Do it!’
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
Alice’s eyes grew wide, the tears drying as quickly as they had fallen. Her lips curled up, baring her teeth, and she ran, screeching, towards Mr Steele. He leapt towards the office door, pushing the Earl out of danger. The dagger stuck in the door frame. Mr Steele grabbed Alice around the waist, pulling her away from the dagger. ‘Call Dr Gosworth—his number is in my book.’ He reached into his pocket and tossed a small black book at the Earl. ‘Who’s Dr Gosworth?’ ‘No time, just call him!’ The Countess arrived home from her luncheon oblivious to the unfolding drama. The serenity in her face turned to horror at the scene before her. She sought comfort from the wall. ‘What’s going on?’ In between blood curdling screams, Alice kicked and spat through matted hair in an attempt to escape. ‘You’re so weak,’ snarled the voice. ‘Leave me alone!’ cried Alice. ‘Go away!’ The Countess, still hugging the wall, cried bitterly, ‘Who must go away Alice?’ The Earl and Mr Steele held onto Alice as she had begun to lose control again. The doorbell chimed. ‘It’s Dr Gosworth, let him in! Hurry,’ yelled Mr Steele. The Countess was shaking uncontrollably, but managed to stumble to the front door.
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
Dr Gosworth, who was a good friend to Mr Steele, barged in, briefcase in hand, followed by his faithful assistant. ‘Where are they?’ he demanded. ‘Just down the hall,’ answered the Countess. The assistant held open the briefcase and Dr Gosworth prepared a needle and syringe. ‘Alright,’ said Dr Gosworth, ‘this must be done quickly.’ He jabbed Alice’s thigh and she grew quiet then fell limp. The Earl dropped into a seat shaking his head. ‘What’s happening? What’s wrong with my little girl?’ Mr Steele called for the servants to take care of the Earl and Countess. He reassured them that Alice would be cared for by Dr Gosworth, who had known Alice as a baby. ‘You’ll be able to see her soon,’ Mr Steele said, before closing the door. The assistant carried Alice to the car. Mr Steele and Dr Gosworth followed behind. ‘My worst fears have come to fruition,’ said Dr Gosworth. ‘Tell me what you know,’ said Mr Steele. ‘Alice is cursed,’ said Dr Gosworth. ‘She was rescued from her parents. Creepy folks they were, especially the father—those eyes…’ The nuns called me when they noticed her strange behaviour at age three. It’s taken me years to produce the medicine I think will benefit her greatly.’ Mr Steele listened in disbelief. ‘Will she be cured?’ he finally asked. ‘No, but her condition will be controlled.’
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
Arriving at the old dilapidated hospital, they took the elevator to the second floor and made their way to a small padded room at the end of a long corridor. The assistant lay the sleeping Alice down on the white sheet of a narrow bed and gently slipped her hands and feet into brown leather straps. Satisfied that Alice was safely secured, Dr Gosworth turned to his assistant. ‘That will be all for now Dean, thank you. Make sure she takes her medication every day. Understand?’ ‘Yes, Dr Gosworth,’ replied Dean and promptly left the room. ‘He’s a good lad,’ said Dr Gosworth. ‘Your latest intern?’ asked Mr Steele. ‘Best one yet—he’s got heart.’ Dr Gosworth paused. ‘You look drained, why don’t you go home, get some rest.’ Dean had been doing his rounds and found Alice, softly crying. ‘Take these off me, please,’ she said. ‘Take these first,’ replied Dean. ‘What are they?’ ‘It’s your medication, Alice. You’ll be fine as long as you comply.’ He gently lifted her head, popped two tablets into her mouth and held a cup of water to her lips. Dean watched her carefully as he unstrapped the leather straps. ‘I don’t like this room,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t like this place. Where am I?’ ‘You’re at Blyde University Hospital for treatment.’
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
‘What’s wrong with me?’ ‘I’m not privy to that information, but I’ll take good care of you while you’re here, alright?’ ‘Can we go for a walk?’ Dean thought for a moment. ‘Sure, I don’t see why not.’ As they walked along the tiled flooring, Alice noticed the place seemed rather empty and bare. There were six beds on either side of the walls and they all had the same grey railings. Eight of the beds were occupied. Alice quickly looked away. ‘I smell chemicals.’ ‘It’s iodoform, a powerful disinfectant.’ ‘It stinks and it’s making me feel nauseous.’ ‘I hate to say this, but you’ll get used to it. Let me show you the entertainment room downstairs.’ There wasn’t much to see: a small television, a couple of books and magazines, and a chess board. They came across a barefoot man, his gown hung loosely on his fragile-looking frame. ‘Why’s that man staring at the wall?’ asked Alice. ‘That’s Mr Snow,’ answered Dean. ‘Apparently he’s been here a long time. He doesn’t speak. The residents are afraid of him. They say he’s evil,’ Dean rolled his eyes. ‘I’m only responsible for the second floor. He’s on the third.’ ‘I don’t belong here, Dean. I want to go home.’
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
‘I’m sorry, but what I saw back at the mansion looked serious. Dr Gosworth is a reputable doctor.’ Dean smiled at Alice as he took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. The Earl and Countess visited every weekend and Alice enjoyed their conversations. They hadn’t spent much time as a family previously. Dean enjoyed seeing the family bond. Alice eventually moved out of the padded room as her violent episodes lessened. She was given a bed near the entrance to the dorm. Alice was permitted to paint and spent most of her time during the week painting outside.
She noticed someone standing slightly off her right when she knelt down to pick up a paintbrush that she’d dropped. She turned around, dropping the paintbrush again. It was Mr Snow. Her mouth fell open at his icy blue stare. We have the same eyes, she thought, sensing evil. Alice fumbled for the brush, her heart pounding. The lunch bell rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, hurrying away and leaving her canvas behind. Alice went straight to her bed, her mind spinning. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had felt a connection with the old man. Could he be…my real father?
‘Not eating lunch today?’ Dean’s voice jarred her thoughts.
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
‘I’m not hungry,’ replied Alice. She sat, legs crossed, on her bed, holding her pillow. ‘You can’t take your medication on an empty stomach.’ Alice hugged her pillow closer. ‘You need your medication Alice, and in order to take them you need to eat.’ She reluctantly followed Dean downstairs, devoured a cheese and lettuce sandwich and took the medication. That night, she lay in bed, restless. Tossing and turning, she briefly glanced at the doorway and was alarmed when she saw, or rather sensed, an eerie figure watching her. ‘Dean! Dean!’ shrieked Alice, hiding under the sheets. Dean rushed towards her distant voice, flicking the light switch on as he ran, illuminating the corridor. ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘The old man,’ she said. ‘What old man?’ ‘Mr Snow—in the doorway!’ ‘There’s no one there, Alice. All the wards have been checked and everyone is sound asleep.’ Dean held her for a while, stroking her hair and Alice started to calm down. Perhaps it was just a dream, she reasoned. ‘Get some sleep,’ whispered Dean as he tucked her in. ‘It’s 3:00am for goodness sake.’ He did a quick check on the other patients and left the room, flicking the switch off.
Alice by Elizyotta Stein
Alice took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Suddenly, from somewhere in the darkness of the room, a sinister voice sneered, ‘Hello Alice. It’s been a while.’ Recognising the voice, she opened her eyes wide. Trembling, she clutched the sheets close to her face. Its back! Then it said, ‘Now that our eyes have met, your medication is useless to you. Welcome home, Alice.’
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