Tag Archives: moon

Flying Through The Eye…Friday Fictioneers.

As a five year old, Molly’s perspective of their European vacation was very different to her Mum and Dad’s.

While they were engrossed in the minutae of the architectural details, Molly’s gaze wandered upwards, drawn towards the huge eye peering down through the roof. The eye of a friendly giant.

“Molly! Molly!” he beckoned.

Sensing a miraculous adventure, Molly let go of her mother’s hand and started rising higher and higher. “OMG! Mummy! Daddy! I’m flying”

Then, she looked down.There was only blue sky, clouds and teeny weeny rooftops as small as Monopoly houses and the moon lay up ahead.

……

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields. PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Dancing With Apollo…Friday Fictioneers.

The full moon was a magnet, drawing the tide of madness over her conscious mind, drowning all inhibition. Nancy slipped out of bed, unlatched the window and shimmied down the drainpipe to freedom. With her long, white hair and translucent nightdress blowing in the wind, she cast a haunting figure as she floated through the empty streets towards the pier. Word had got out about “a ghost”, and all but a stray cat was safely indoors. Silhouetted by the moonlight, Apollo took her by the hand. Yet, her teeth were still in the glass beside her bed, and Grandma slept.

….

100 words.

This is another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields.  Every week, we write 100 words to a photo prompt, which is a lot of fun and I also these prompts stretch my content beyond the four walls of my own outlook. This week’s PHOTO PROMPT © Gah Learner.

Best wishes,

Rowena

 

Capturing the Moon…Friday Fictioneers.

“Doesn’t everyone want to capture the moon?” She smiled enchanted by some kind of magic. “I wish I could just reach up into the sky with a magic, butterfly net. Bring the moon down to earth and hold it in my hands… a dazzling, golden ball of mystery.

“That’s what I do through the lens,” he replied. “It’s the closest I can get to taking it home.”

Meanwhile, the moon retained it’s secrets… watching, waiting, longing for the humans to return. It was so lonely just hanging up there in the sky.

“All I have left is their footprints”.

…..

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishof Fields.  PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

The Secret- Short Story

“There are no secrets in Balmain.” – Dorothy Mullins.

  1. Sunrise, Balmain… July 21, 1903.

 

 “Singing Tooral liooral liaddity.

Singing Tooral liooral liay.

Singing Tooral liooral liaddity.

And we’re bound for Botany Bay.”

 

Setting off in their fishing boat, Dadda was the Captain and Maggie was 1st Mate.

“Fishy!” Maggie squealed, as Dadda helped her reel in her fish. “Bweckfsst!”

2.

That’s all Margaret remembered about before.

A book with no beginning, Margaret had been adopted as a tot and her story now began at Chapter Three. All the previous chapters had been ripped out. Thrown away. She wanted them back. Not that she and her sister didn’t love their second family. But you are who you are, and then you’re not. Sometimes, Margaret wondered if finding out would turn her into someone else. Or, whether she was more than a just a name.

Years ago, Margaret had consulted the tea leaves .Yet, as she peered into the tea cup, there was nothing… only the scream. She had lived with the scream all her life, never knowing why.

Now in her late 60’s, the beginning didn’t matter anymore. She was “Grandma”.

 

3.

Moon Landing, Balmain…Monday July 21, 1969, Sydney Time.

As the neighbours crammed into their sardine tin of a terrace, everybody knew Bob’s brand new telly had fallen off the back of a truck. No one cared. Man was landing on the moon. There was barely breathing room left!

Grandma was knitting footy socks in the front row. 1969 would be a good year for the Balmain Tigers. She felt it in her bones.

“Robbie, Tom, Arty, Jack…these should fit Paddy,” she mumbled.

Knit one, pearl one but then Grandma dropped a stitch… and another.

More than her knitting was unravelling. Mary Mullins’ perfume had unwittingly unlocked a secret inner labyrinth, and the Minotaur was out. The room was spinning round and round like a record on acid and Margaret felt incredibly dizzy. Being sucked into this swirling vortex, she reached out a frail, desperate hand. Bob steadied her back in her seat.

“Lottie, tell Mum Gran’s had another turn,” Bob yelled. Even if his mother-in-law dropped dead in front of the telly, he wasn’t budging. He had the best seat in the house.

Lottie found her mother bailed up in the kitchen, making curried eggs and cups of tea.

“Dot, I can’t watch! They’re gunna die!” her cousin wailed, who clearly hadn’t read The Power of Positive Thinking.

“Mum, Gran’s had another turn.”

“Mother Mary!” Dot gasped, crossing herself. “Grant me peace!”

Dot’s blood pressure hit the roof. She ripped open the Bex and made one for Mum and one for herself.

Bex might be a universal panacea, but they knew Grandma had more than a headache. That she was on the blink like a broken telly. At times, she didn’t know who or where she was, retreating inside watching her own, private movie. How long would it take? Dot’s eyes welled up, as she pictured spoon-feeding her mother like a baby.

“How’s your Mum, luv?” a neighbour asked. “Saw she had another turn. Have you taken her to the quack? Don’t mean to pry but don’t you think it’s time?”

“There’s no way I’m sending my own mother to the asylum. She’s just under the weather. That’s all. She’ll be right.”

“None of her business,” Dot muttered.“We’ll get by. We always do.”

After all, they were Balmain born and bred… tough as old workman’s boots, and never gave up!

Dot’s sister turned up with the kids.

“Gran’s got purple hair!” The cousins all burst into hysterics.

Engulfed by the intensifying vortex, Margaret had arrived home with a new “do”. New hair always helped, although she wasn’t too sure about this purple halo, which seemingly glowed in the dark.

Like an apparition, a sketchy white figure appeared through the fuzz, bouncing along like a kangaroo. “The Eagle has landed…That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind “

The room erupted with applause until Robbie’s home-made detergent bottle rocket missed the moon, smashing through the back window, hitting Grandma on the head.

“Robert Joseph Augustus Mullins!!!! Go to your room!”

Robbie bolted off to save his hide.

Meanwhile, Grandma wandered out the front door heading for Darling Street. An old lady slipped out behind her. Lottie had seen her before at Mass.

“Mummy! Mummy! Grandma’s…” Lottie shrieked.

“Not now, Lottie,” Dot snapped. “Grandma can wait!”

Yet, before she even stood up, a pamphlet slapped her in the face:

“Save our Sons…The government has failed to convince Australians that Vietnam is truly a war in which young lives must be sacrificed. That is why it relies on unjust conscription law which forces young men into the army against their moral convictions.”

“Dotty, you’ve got five boys. You’ve gotta sign up. This war’s the devil’s work!” Her sister insisted. Bernadette had married well and moved up to Wahroonga. They even had their own swimming pool.

“Mrs Mullins, don’t listen to that pack of hysterical mothers with nothing better to do,” groaned a bloke in a suit. “Without the Yanks, the reds will move in. We’ll all be speaking Russian.”

Dot was saved by a knock at the door, although the front door was wide open and the flotsam and jetsam were letting themselves in and out.

“Quick! It’s the coppers”.

They all knew Constable Baker. He was a local lad, but he still meant trouble.

“The telly!” Bob panicked. “Fell off the back of a truck…Struth! Should’ve known. This time, it’s the slammer!”

Bob had been charged with receiving stolen goods before.

Meanwhile, the toilet flushed…just in time.

“Mrs Mullins, your mother’s down at the wharf again. You’d better come.”

“See, Mum,” Lottie snapped. “Tried to tell you Gran had wandered off.”

Riddled with guilt, Dot grabbed her purse.

As usual, Bernadette was “busy”.

4.

The pressure was building. Hauling herself into a dinghy, Margaret thought she was fishing with Dadda again. Yet, the voices were still yelling and screaming with violent horror. Margaret could no longer block them out.

 

“Brownie! Gotcha Brownie!” Her father threatened, holding a razor to her mother’s throat.

“Stop, Jack! It’s me…Florrie!”

Blood squirted like a fountain from her mother’s neck. Miraculously, Muvver ran down the hallway clutching Sadie.

Then, Maggie heard a thud, another scream and found Dadda also bleeding by the throat beside Muvver.

“Muvva! Muvva! Wake up, Muvva!” Maggie shrieked.

But Muvva was gone.

Maggie heaved Baby up all by herself. She was Muvver now.

“Ssh, Bubba. Sleepy-byes.”

Then, the lights went out.

5.

“Mum!” Dot called, holding her hand.  Margaret had taken off her coat and was holding it like a baby.

“We’ve called the ambulance, “Mrs Mullins.”They’ll be taking her to hospital,”

“But she’s my mother. She belongs at home,” Dot pleaded.

“Mum. It’s me, Dotty.”

There was no response. Margaret was rambling and her words were like autumn leaves scattered by the wind. All Dot heard was: “Uncle, Dadda did it.”

“Dadda, did what?” Dot gasped, but she already knew. “I’ll strangle the bastard.”

This was a demon no priest could exorcise. An unforgivable sin. No amount of Hail Marys could fix this. Dot fell to her knees.

“Your mother’s not losing her memory, dear. She’s getting it back.” Said the voice and Dot realised an old lady was holding her up.

Who was she? An angel? She seemed so familiar. Yet, Dot couldn’t place her. Those eyes! Finally, the penny dropped. The stranger had her mother’s eyes. Pedalling backwards through time, she’d almost arrived back at the beginning, crash landing in an eerie corridor overflowing with ghosts. Suddenly, she remembered the lady hugging her at her first Holy Communion.

“I’m Aunt Cissie…your mother’s aunt. Florrie was my sister.”

Dot shuddered. “Florrie…” even the name sounded like a ghost.

Words were inadequate. Aunt Cissie reached into her handbag, pulling out a well-worn newspaper clipping.

BALMAIN SENSATION.

SAD DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

A TAILOR KILLS HIS WIFE.

AND ATTEMPTS SUICIDE.

A MOTHERLESS BABE.

EXCITEMENT IN DARLING-STREET.

The busy waterside suburb of Balmain was

thrown into a state of unusual excitement

this morning, by the news of one of the saddest

domestic tragedies imaginable, a tragedy

which was committed by a man of good re

pute, worried by business troubles into a

state of temporary insanity…[1]

“I’ll never forget her little voice: “Dadda hit Muvver”.

“Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of Florrie and the girls. My poor Ma, bless her, went to her grave a broken woman. As much as we loved the girls, we had to set them free.”

Dot held her hand tight just to make sure she was real. That she wasn’t an angel.

Aunty and Dot climbed into the boat beside Margaret.

Finally, they were all in the same boat together.

 

Balmain’s secret was out.

 

[1] The Australian Star (Sydney, NSW : 1887 – 1909) Friday 24 July 1903 p 5 Article

This is the short story I submitted for the Central Coast Short Story Competition. I have identified some changes I’m going to make but I wanted to post the original and would appreciate your feedback and suggestions.

Many thanks!

xx Rowena

 

 

A Twinkling Wonderland on a Starry Night

Geoff managed to capture the stars through the Gum Trees at Staples Lookout last night. Not an easy shot to pulloff at all…especially without a tripod! xx Rowena

PS I’m hoping uou can see the tree branches in the photo. They were quite clear in the original but not so visable on the post from this computer.

Touched By the Light of the Moon.

Photography can be a lot like fishing. When you see that perfect shot, you’ve left your camera at home. Or, as has happened to me many times, the @#$% battery has been flat.Mind you, things were a lot worse back in the day when you could so easily run out of film and you didn’t have the privilege or looking in the back of your camera to see whether you’d got the shot. You had to be very particular and go through a lot of film “just in case”.

Well, tonight was our lucky night even if being able to capture the moment and save it for eternity might not be everybody’s idea of hitting the jackpot. Yes, indeed, I’m sure if you surveyed 100 people, most of them would take winning lotto over being able to take a photograph…especially a night shot of the moon, which, without a tripod and the inherent blurring camera shake,  is going to be a “mission impossdible” to perfect.

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The moon rising on my father’s 70th Birthday tonight. What an incredible tribute!

But that’s not the point.There’s something incredible, spectacular, spiritual and beyond any kind of description about looking through the lens at something amazing and having your own version, interpretation or perspective on that. I also find that photogrphing something helps me to absorb it in much greater detail than I do watching it with the naked eye. There’s that focus. That intense focus where sometimes, I can almost feel myself merging in with the subject and becoming one.

Today is was my father’s 70th Birthday and it seemed quite appropriate that there was a particularly impressive, huge orange moon suspended in the sky as we droive home tonight.I didn’t even have to nudge Geoff to pull over at the lookout to take the photos. We were thinking the same thing and were pleased   that for once we had the camera in the car, battery charged and ready for action when such a brilliant photo opportunity was screaming out to be caught.

You can also get some very "interesting" effects taking night shots!!

You can also get some very “interesting” effects taking night shots!!

Being out there in the pitch black darkness staring at the moon through the lens and absorbing a sense of something so serene and beyond human comprehenion and understanding, was incredible. Time stood still for those few minutes and all the rush, bustle and “to-Do’s” melting away in the moonlight.

There was just peace.

Happy Birthdays Mum & Dad. Yes, Mum had her birthday during the week so it was a double celebration.

xx Rowena

The Ultimate Ball Fetching Champion of the Universe.

Welcome back to Bilbo’s Dog Blog.

Since I last blogged, I’ve finally been crowned: The Ultimate Ball Chasing Champion of the Universe!

Quite an apt title really, even if I did kind of award it to myself. That said, I did get quite a bit of assistance from Lady. She’s great with publicity, being  one of those extroverted types always trying to jump inside someone else’s skin. Frankly, I’m more than content inside my own. It usually even takes me awhile for me to warm up to a pat from visiting friends…even when they’re coming to feed me.

Yes, I know you probably wrote me off as yet another one-post wonder… like so many other dogs. However, being an entrepreneurial dog in my own understated, Border Collie way, I decided to give this blogging thing a bit of a whirl. Unlike others of my species, I can see the benefits of extending my sphere of influence far beyond the local telegraph pole and onto the world wide web and beyond. After all, dogs have been in space before so I’m not going to let some small world, backyard outlook stop me from spreading my paws and paw prints.

Indeed, I can just imagine looking up at the moon from my kennel on a dark cloudless night and seeing my paw print up there… How amazing! What’s more, it won’t get washed away like down at the beach. My paw print will be there for eternity. That’s forever and ever and ever!!

Laika the first dog in space. While in some ways a hero, she was killed in the name of science, which we obviously don't condone.

Laika the first dog in space. While in many ways my hero, she was killed in the name of science. As I’ve said before, humans need to pay more attention to the Golden Rule.

Hmm…The moon is an intriguing kind of place. Perhaps, one day dogs will even live up there but we’ll certainly look funny wearing one of those space suits with a goldfish bowl over our heads but I don’t know how we’ll ever manage to eat let alone chase a ball.

Anyway, I know you probably thought I was showing off  in my last post. Even though I am a good dog, this bravado was definitely out of character. Being a typically mild-mannered and understated character who doesn’t go jumping all over complete strangers or whacking other dogs in the face with their over-exuberant joy, I usually don’t advertise.

I also have to be a bit careful about what I share online. Sadly, way too many dogs and humans lump “good” in the same category as “nice”. Personally, I don’t have a problem with that. However, as strange as it might seem, being “nice” is somehow a bad thing attracting many  haters. Unfortunately, this can become quite a problem and even a threat to your life.

Even though I’m a highly intelligent dog whose abilities have been honed through countless generations of highly selective breeding, this aversion to niceness remains another one of life’s unsolvable mysteries. So, if you can work that one out, I’d really appreciate an explanation!! After all, aren’t being “good” or even”nice”  meant to be virtues? Wise and noble character traits that should be at the top of everybody’s shopping list along with the dog food? (Mind you, even dog food seems to slip off their shopping list at times!!)

Apparently not!

Anyway, I’ve already told you that I’m good at being good but that’s not my only strength.

I’m also particularly good at being persistent. Mum doesn’t know that I can read but when I was just a wee little pup, I read this on her fridge:

Nothing in the world can take the place of Persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan ‘Press On’ has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.

Calvin Coolidge
30th president of US (1872 – 1933)  

Being a Border Collie, persistence is in my blood. After all, how do you think generations of my kind have been rounding up all those silly sheep?

Since I don’t exactly have access to any sheep in the city and rounding up the kids is even beyond my genius and skill, I’ve applied all that generational expertise and breeding to the fine art of rounding up my tennis ball. Indeed, I’ve become something of a ball herding champion. Indeed, Lady suggested I should call myself: Bilbo the Ultimate Ball Fetching Champion of the Universe. As much as I am adverse to too much publicity and like to keep a low profile, I reluctantly agreed.

My dedication and persistence is so intense that the humans always wear out long before me. They have no stamina whatsoever. Indeed, I usually have to wait for some unsuspecting visitor who doesn’t have their own dog to turn up. They’re usually most obliging. At least, for awhile!

I might not be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound to catch my ball but I do have some very impressive manoevres. That is, despite getting on in years and acquiring these rather generous love-handles. My increasing girth has complicated things a little.

While my career prospects were certainly looking very good for awhile there, even The Ultimate Ball Chasing Champion of the Universe has some limitations. While I can leap in the air with great agility all things considered, I hate getting my paws wet. Indeed, for a long while, I simply refused. No negotiations or even  a “go see my agent”!!

Quite a few times now while I’ve been training over at Palm Beach, my beloved tennis ball has fallen in the water.

Bilbo watching his ball drift out to sea.

Bilbo watching his ball drift out to sea.

The first time it happened, my entire body went into shock and all four paws were frozen to the spot. Only my eyes were moving, doggedly fixated on my ball as it rapidly went South with the rising tide. If you have ever witnessed a true ball chasing champion, you will appreciate my distress…such angst! Oh my goodness! It was almost like watching my dinner drift out to sea.

Almost mocking my terror, the family calls out: “Where’s your ball, Bilbo? Go and get your ball!”

While I’m combusting with horror, Mum has no sympathy at all. Instead, she’s doing her usual paparazzi thing and  glaring at my distress through the camera lens.

“This will make Funniest Home Videos for sure!” She calls out.

Nobody, not one member of the family, was trying to help me. They were just making fun of me as my heart was tearing in two. Did I actually love my beloved tennis ball enough to wet my paws and swim out to save it? Did it mean that much to me? Sure, they  knew my commitment and perseverance bordered on obsession but would it be enough to push me over the edge of my fear?

The agony crescendos.

The agony crescendos.

The kids just laughed and my heart sank. They could have easily jumped into the water and come to my rescue or even pulled it out with their precious fishing net. At least then, they would have caught something more than stupid seaweed. Something precious and as much as they keep saying they love me, this would have been the proof. A dog needs more than a pat, you know.

It was at this point, I decided the family needed to learn a thing or two about that Golden Rule they keep talking about. They needed to learn how to turn those precious words into action.

Treating  others as you would like to be treated, definitely meant getting my ball. No doubt about it.

I was an emotional wreck. My precious tennis ball heading out to sea and my family…my precious, beloved family, laughing in the face of my misfortune…and even taking photos, film and selling it off to a TV show and all. I was disgusted.

Like so many other rules, it seemed that The Golden Rule only applied to others and not to themselves!!

Anyway, they finally got with the program and fished my ball out with the broom.

Finally some assistance. Miss puts Bilbo out of his misery!

Finally some assistance. Miss puts Bilbo out of his misery!

At least, they rescued it that time.

However, they now know my Achilles heel and they seem to take great delight in throwing my ball in the water…especially when my persistence is right at it’s peak and they know me well enough by now and that I’m not going to jump in after it. I don’t need to. Eventually, once all that water goes away, my ball is usually waiting for me on the sand. At least, my beloved ball has some concept of loyalty!!

As I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s not easy being The Ultimate Ball Fetching Champion of the Universe but it could always be worse.

I could have been a cat.

xx Bilbo

PS All this ball chasing can make a dog rather hungry. So, anybody wanting to support a future champion, can please send bones through to this blog. I’m not too sure how you convert them from images into something I can eat yet but as I mentioned before, I can be extremely persistent. You just ask my Mum!!

Note from Mum: Today, Bilbo’s powers of persistence even proved too much for his ever-faithful tennis ball. Unfortunately after yet another misguided throw, it ended up in the water and actually sank. Turns out excessive love and persistence had eternally punctured it’s soul.