Tag: Flash Fiction

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Drat

Meron akong systema na nakukuha ko yong gusto ko sa mga tao. Ang buntot ko ay buntot ko ay ng curl patungo sa sky. Yong mata ko ay nanghihingi ng pagkain. Tuwing nagmimiyaw ako, pinapakain ako.

Ngayong araw, ang victim ko ay ang 3 year old ng family Bago lang binabantayan ko si Karl. Ang family dog. Si Charlie. Kinuha nya sa second drawersa kusin Ķasundan yong papa nya sa labas ng bahayhanggang sa big tin. Si stan kinuha nya ang takip sa tin, at si Charlie ay  kumukuha ng maraming dog biscuits. At masaya siya…linagyan ni karl sa bowl ng maraming dog biscuits….samantalang kumakain ang aso, pinapanood siya ni karl….

Nag iisip ako

Paano kung makakuha si charlie ng pagkain para sa akin.

Ngayong araw  ay araw ko.

Pumunta ako sa kusina…nakita ko si charlie na nag iisa.dahil sa high pitched gutom ako na  mewww,at itinago ko ang buntot ko sa pwet ko,ang mata kong naghihingi ay nakatutok sa kanya,at ang mata nyang azul nyang azul ay nakatingin sa akin…

Gutom pa ba rin ang pusa?

oo,oo

Ngumiti sya tapos ginamit nya ang upuan para makaakyat sa lamesa,kinuha nya ang bowl of cereal sa table ang laman ay nahulog .ang papa ko ay nanonood samantalang ang gatas at cereal nahulog sa sahig…

Hindi yon ang gusto kung mangyari..Gusto ko lang ang aking cat food  samantalang nakatingin sa bench….may nanotice akong hindi bukas na lata…

Narealiuse ko ang aking pagkamali…

Si Charlie ay hindi marunong gumamit ng can opener

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Attention

Jemima slunk through the shadows at the back of the little fibro house. Black fur blended with the shadows, with only her luminous green eyes betraying her presence.

‘Cat,’ squawked the cockatoo at the back steps.

‘Be quiet, Peregrin,’ hissed the black cat.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he huffed.

‘Yes, and I’m looking for mice in master’s house.’

‘Come inside then,’ the big white bird sleepily whispered, before tucking his head under his wing. He was asleep in seconds.

The black cat scurried up the back steps of the house, and disappeared through the cat flap in the back door.

The kitchen light was on, and so Jemima padded towards it, knowing a member of her family would be there.

A man stood at the sink, washing up the dinner plates from the night before. He looked at the chequered black and white lino towards the hallway.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said grumpily, as Jemima quietly came towards him. 

And then he turned back to his task, and ignored her.

Feeling unloved by the lack of attention, Jemima resolved to change this.

On fleet feet, she flitted through the shadows of the house, and into the laundry, across the other side of the kitchen from the hallway.

‘I’ll show them,’ she muttered to herself.

Rustling in the corner betrayed the presence of rodents.

‘I’ll catch one of you pesky vermin, and then I’ll get some love,’ the black cat whispered to herself.

On the top of the top loader washing machine, she could see her quarry. In a glass tank, a large black and white rat chewed on a  carrot in amongst shredded paper.

Pouncing, she caught him by the scruff of the neck, and carried him back into the kitchen.

‘Oh Jemima, put that rat down,’ commanded the man at the sink. 

With a puzzled look, the black cat obeyed and dropped the squirming rodent onto the lino.

‘That rat is a Christmas present, for the children,’ explained the man.

Jemima pulled a face. She did not like this news.

On her mind was one thought.

‘One more animal to distract the family away from me.’

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Enamoured

I was enamoured with the clock. Its round face almost smiled at me, as its three hands kept time.

The second hand was brass and ticked quickly across the patterned surface. The minute hand was only slightly slower and made of silver.

And the ponderous golden hour hand moved slowly.

Every hour, when the golden hand skimmed forward, the clock would not only just chime but make music.

A sound, similar to a music box, would sing a tune, while little figurines chased each other.

Across the face, they would run before disappearing somewhere behind, hidden for another hour.

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Teddy

Gracie stared into the sky. Her mother had bought here a teddy for her birthday, and she was swinging teddy on the park play equipment.

Kelly was Gracie’s neighbour. A slightly older child, Kelly was a bully.

Kelly ripped Teddy out of the swing. ‘It’s my teddy now,’ sneered Kelly.

‘Give him back to me!’ yelled Gracie.

The older child ran away, but Gracie was faster. She chased Kelly around the park, until Kelly slipped on some mud.

Gracie grabbed Teddy, and hugged him tight.

Kelly was sitting in the muddy patch, a scowl on her face, then she started crying. ‘It was my birthday a week ago and no one gave me any presents, ‘ she whimpered.

So Gracie helped her up. ‘We can both play with Teddy, if you like,’ she said shyly. ‘I’d love to,’ whispered Kelly.

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Remembering

It stung, you know, that slap.

Glaring at her, I rubbed my cheek. It was the first time my Mother had ever raised a hand to me. A teenager, full of rage and uncertainty was leading me into trouble. As an adult, I now feel I deserved it. That’s how I was feeling right now.

In the Nursing Home, my Beautiful Mother was wandering the Dementia Ward. She had forgotten that slap, but I hadn’t. It had been a turning point in my life. I’d arrived at adulthood much more certain, much more grounded and appreciating all my Mother did for me.

I placed the bunch of flowers in the vase, fussing over how they were arranged, until a famillar figure came ambling into the room. Picking up the vase, I carried it to the private bathroom that was attached to the room. Half filling it with water, I listened as Mum clambered into bed.

It was a moment I’d been dreading, when she would forget my name, and who I was.

Then I heard a chuckle, as I came back out, and positioned the vase on the bedside table.

“Remember that time when I slapped you? You were so furious. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to raise a daughter like you, who even visits me everyday, no matter how crazy I am. My how the tables have turned.

Happy to have her lucid today, I returned the chuckle.

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Drat!

I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people.

My tail would curl skywards, my eyes take on a particular pleading quality and my meow would sound proud but starved. It worked every time.

Today, my victim was the family’s three year old. 

Recently, I’d been watching him with Karl, the family dog. Charlie would get the scoop out of the second drawer in the kitchen, follow his father out of the house and to the big tin bin. Stan would then take the lid off the tin, and Charlie would dig the scoop into the dog biscuits. With a squeal of pure joy, he’d pour the biscuits into the dog bowl as Karl would watch on.

It got me thinking.

What if Charlie could get me food?

Today was my day.

Sauntering into the kitchen, I saw Charlie alone. With my high pitched I’m hungry mew, tail curled at just the right angle, my pleading eyes fixated on him. His beatufiul blues fixated on mine.

“Cat, hungry?”

Yes, oh yes.

He smiled, then used a chair to climb onto the kitchen table. Pulling a bowl of cereal off the table, its contents spilled everywhere. My eyes darted to the Weet Bix and milk, sloshing all over the floor.

It was not what I wanted. I wanted my cat food. Glancing up to the bench, I noticed an unopened tin. 

It was then I realised my mistake.

Charlie didn’t know how to use a tin opener.

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Happy Mother’s Day

She smiled as the clay whirled underneath her skilled hands. The pottery wheel hummed as the Artisan worked, spinning the lump of dense soil into a vessel. A dusty stool helped her crouch over the knee high tool, allowing her to sit close enough to work without hurting her back.

Inside the Artisan Shop, fine pots, mugs, plates, dishes, tyreens, and all sorts of crockery filled every surface. Some were the dull red of the local clay, many were glazed. Centaurs played alongside elves while unicorns frolicked across wide serving platters.

The hessian sack, hung in the doorway for a little privacy from the street, flicked aside and a young boy ran inside. “Aunty, Aunty…” he panted, before coming to a halt in front of the pottery wheel.

Footsteps hurried after him, and a girl child crashed into him.

“He stole from me, Aunty,” she sulked.

The boy turned his back to the Potter and the Artisan saw his tongue poke out at his sister.

The humming of the Pottery Wheel ceased, and she turned her attention to the two children.

“What happened. You two were playing so nicely earlier. What is this confusion?”

The girl and boy talked all at once, their voices bubbling with fact and fiction.

The Potter stood up and beckoned to both children.

“Have you forgotten your manners? Tell me, why were you sent to me in the first place.”

Hanging their heads, the boy blushing, the girl sneaking a sideways look at him and clasping his hand to comfort him, they fell silent.

The Artisan continued, “Isn’t it Mother’s Day? What present have you both?”

Silence greeted her.

“Out of all the items you see in my shop, which do you think your Mum would like the best? Work together you two.”

Brother and sister walked around the shop together, heads together as they whispered, working on the task at hand – picking the nicest gift for their Mother.

Finally, after several laps of the little front room which served as the front of the business, the boy reached up and reverently picked up a humble red teapot. Shyly, he peeked a look at his sister. She nodded.

The Artisan Potter smiled at her sister’s two children.

“I’m proud of you. You worked well together. Take it to your Mother as your gift to her.”

The boy wrapped his palms around the little teapot, securing it even more by holding it close to his small chest. His sister led the way out past the hessian sack.

The Artisan sat back at her wheel. Job done, she was content to finish the dish she had started. The humming became louder as the wheel picked up speed, clay whirring between her wet palms once more.

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We did it.

Collapsing on the tennis court, he clutched his heart. Voices echoed above his head, but he did not recognise any of them through his delirium.

Then, a hand brushed his cheek and tears dripped onto his face. Looking up, he could see his wife, Mary, sobbing, as she held him to her chest.

A siren announced the arrival of the Paramedics, and shortly after he was in the Ambulance, Mary by his side. But he did not make it. His heart gave a weak beat, and then was still.

“He’s gone,” the Paramedic beside Mary whispered.

Nodding dumbly, the enormity of the tast ahead of her was not yet in her mind.

Dairy farmers, Mary and Doug had three young children. Coming from the City, Mary spent her time in the house, while Doug ran the farm. Her job was to make sure there were clean clothes on everyone’s backs, and food on the table. Doug’s sudden death changed this.

Her Mother rang from Sydney, to ask her to move back with them.

“No Mum. I’m fine. I want to raise the kids here.”

Smiling, she hung the phone down.

With Doug buried a week ago, it was now to get up and have “a go” of it. The children, the eldest six years old and the youngest only two, Mary had much to do.

Firstly, she spoke with the Dairy Hand. The Dairy Hand, a young lady in her twenties, had grown up on a Dairy Farm and was working her way through a Vet Nurse Course. Well informed and intelligent, Diane had many skills and insights. It was Diane, who taught Mary how to attach the milking machine to the cow’s udders, and who gave suggestions on the best grass seeds to sow in the fallow paddocks.

The three children all had their own jobs too. Six year old Claire had the job of chasing the cows into the yard so the herd could be encouraged into the herring bone structure where they were milked. With Bennie, their cattle dog, she would wake earlier than her siblings and ride the four wheeler bike down to where the black and white splotched Fresians were.

Years later, she would realise this was not normal, but as a child it made her feel important.

Looking back, Mary, Claire and the children, have no idea how they did it. All stayed on the Dairy Farm, until adulthood.

Claire still lives and operates the farm.

“It was the best childhood ever,” she laughed to her Mother, as Mary sat in the sunshine at the local Nursing Home.

Mary’s smile stretched her lips too, at this.

“Yes, we did it, didn’t we.”

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Date

It had occured to me earlier during the night, that my date was not going the way I wanted it to. I was meant to be sitting in a rich and luxurious restaurant with beautiful Madonna waitresses attending to my every need…and my new girlfriend’s. THAT’S where the problem lay.

Josephine glared at me. This was our first date.

During the day, I had rung the local Visitor Information Centre, where I had been reliably directed to this particular restaurant. My needs were great. It was to serve lovely food, be well furnished with stylish and elegant decore, complete with wonderful wait staff.

This was the place of choice that had been highly recommended by a strong country accent. Hey, not even the table had a cloth on it. The waitress hovered over the table closest to ours.

“Well, Mike. You could have invited me to a nicer place than this,” she huffed. “And on our first date too. It’s not as though we’ve been married for 30 years and the spark has disappeared.”

I could see that whatever spark there had been was fast being snuffed out.

“There are even stains on the wall.” She pointed to a yellow irregular pattern on the stretch of plaster nearest our table.

Really, I could see her point. My mind did not want to imagine where the stain came from or what it might be. My eyes found her blue ones and I desperately hoped they looked apologetic. The waitress vanished back into the kitchen.

But then, the most marvellous smells came from the little kitchen hidden at the back of the restaurant. The waitress came whizzing out, food steaming in her hands and balanced on her arms.

My date sniffed the air. The plates were placed in front of us on the little bare table. Cutlery hastily followed the food in being set down.

Josephine delicately picked up the fork. She dug it tentatively into the rissotto. I stared, hope against hope that she didn’t choke on it. And then, she smiled, digging her fork in again and again.

As tentatively as my date had, I pushed some of my ravioli onto the fork and raised it to my lips. Closing my eyes tightly, I put the fork in my mouth. The most heavenly divine taste, perfectly balanced in every way, exploded on my tongue. My taste buds were dancing with excitement.

Standing nearby, the waitress was watching us. She winked.