BENNY BEAR By Gloria Moress

(The task was to compose an original tale with an animal as the main character).

It was a bright autumn day, and an extra special day, too, because it was Benny Bear’s birthday.Mummy and Daddy Bear had decided to let Benny choose his own present this year, as he was a big bear of five years old.

They set off straight after breakfast and walked deep into the woods, Benny frolicking around his parents in excitement.When they reached the wood’s deep heart, the trees parted and in the huge clearing stood the bustling village of Grizzletown.It was a busy day, and the streets were full of bears with baskets, bears with babies, bears on bikes with baskets and babies.

Benny held tightly onto his Daddy’s paw as they walked to the toy shop in the center of town.The double doors swung wide, and Benny found himself in a bright, shiny, colourful world full of wagons, scooters, swing sets, trains, balls, and blocks.

His tiny eyes widened in wonder as he looked around, not knowing where to go or what to try first.

Mummy and Daddy Bear smiled at each other. They knew they would be there for a while.

Benny Bear wandered up and down the shop, gazing in awe at all the lovely things.

When he reached the very back of the store he stopped. “What are these?” he wondered.

The wall was lined with shelves, and on the shelves sat the strangest things he had ever seen.There were so many, and no two were the same. Each was a different shade of brown, tan or pink, their eyes were all different colours, like river pebbles, and each had it’s own special fur. Red, black, brown, yellow – straight as dried summer grass, ripply as water over rock or as curly as wispy summer cloud. Benny picked one up. It was smaller than the rest, with pink skin, brown fur and red cheeks. Its eyes were as blue as the autumn sky, and besides the fur on its head, it was soft and smooth all over. Its paws were long and thin, with no real claws to speak of, and its mouth looked as soft as a deer’s.

Benny cradled it in his arms, stroked its furry head and spoke to it.

“What are you?” he said. “Would you like to be my friend?”

He brought the toy to where his parents were chatting with the shopkeeper Mr Ursus. They looked at him, smiling, but the smiles fell from their faces as they saw what he held in this paws.

“Oh, Benny,” his mother sighed, “I’m sorry, but that’s not really the sort of toy Daddy and I want you to have. It’s not appropriate.”

“Is there anything else you like?” asked Daddy.

“No, Daddy, I really like this! Why can’t I have it? What’s wrong with it?” Benny asked, puzzled.

It’s a toy human, son,” replied Daddy gravely, “and humans aren’t like that at all. They are very dangerous.”

“Yes darling,” continued Mummy, “they look a little like these: they are smooth, with silky head fur, little mouths, cute little ears, big wide eyes, and legs and paws with many moving joints, but they are no good.”

“Why?” asked Benny, tearfully, clutching the toy.“Their smoothness means they need the fur of other animals, like us – so they take ours,” said Daddy.

“The food they like to eat means they clear our forests to grow strange grasses, and they out fish our streams,” said Mummy.

“They don’t just find a cave to live in, they have to build huge caves from little rocks and branches they bring from other places, then surround them with plants no one can eat!” continued Daddy.

“They have no teeth or claws to fight but with those clever paws they make tools to hurt us from far away. Sometimes we don’t even know they are there, and we are struck down,” said Mummy.

“But it’s just a toy!” wailed Benny, “It can’t hurt me. I love it! I want it! You said I could choose, now you won’t let me have the only thing I really want!”

Mummy and Daddy Bear looked at each other and sighed. “What do you think Daddy?”

“Well, we did say he could choose, Mummy.”

“As long as you understand, Benny, that it is a toy, and if you ever see a real one….” began Daddy.

“Stay hidden, stay perfectly still, don’t move, and don’t try to catch it,” continued Mummy.

“And if it sees you, run into the thickest part of the forest as quickly as you can,” finished Daddy.

Benny regarded them solemnly, his tiny bear eyes opened as wide as they could be, his little round ears taking in every word. “Yes Mummy and Daddy.Thank you very much.”

Daddy turned to the shopkeeper and handed him the toy.

“Well Mr Ursus, I guess we’ll take the Bare Teddy.”

Gloria Moress © 2007

OH, THOSE RUSSIANS by Gloria Moress

Mikhail did not stand as the other man entered, but remained, chin in hand, gazing out of the window at the dirty brown water below. The Omsk office didn’t have the views of St Petersburg, but it was necessary to present in person, however briefly.
Kerensky cleared his throat, an unnecessary annoyance. Mikhail was well aware of his bulk, hovering in his peripheral vision. He swung the chair around to face his opponent, his recent friend.
“Have you made a decision?” Kerensky asked, finally.
Mikhail let the moment hang between them, then announced mildly, “The answer is no.”
“But how can it be? You owe me this, at least.” Kerensky had the characteristic large head and hands of the Northern Slavs, giving him a presence that belied his average stature. In the rough clothes of a miner, he was an imposing figure, but Mikhail remained unpeturbed.
“I owe you a great deal, but this is something even I dare not attempt. The Duma is vigilant, and they will protect their interests. Already you have the contracts for Eastern Siberia Coal and Bering Petroleum. If I give this to you, I will be condemned,” Michael explained.
“But you know what it will mean if one of their cronies gets this contract. It will undermine every move I have made to form an energy cartel that will help propel Russia into the 21st century.”
“Still, I cannot. The favouritism I have shown you in the past has placed me at risk”
Kerensky’s eyes narrowed. “At risk! If it weren’t for my grandfather, there would be no more Romanovs. He only let your grandfather live to use as leverage against the Bolsheviks. Otherwise the Soviets would rule this country, not your hand picked Duma!”
“The Duma have been useful to us both, my friend. They have helped us achieve a great deal so far,” Mikhail countered. “Without them, the infrastructure to move the coal and oil out of this god-forsaken place would still be in its infancy.”
“But now you need to protect yourself, I am left out in the cold. I should have known better than to think you would help any but yourself. Your kind never has. You care neither for your friends, nor your countrymen. They should have shot your grandfather beside Nicholas. At least you can be proud of carrying on the great Romanov tradition of keeping Russia in poverty simply to maintain power!”
He slammed out of the office, but the air remained charged with his fury. Not all his accusations were true, mused Mikhail. Russia had moved forward, not at the pace of her neighbours, but the people were benefiting by manufacturing the technology designed in Poland and Germany. The factories meant jobs, and wages, which put food in the mouths of the people. What more did they want? Millions of Asians lived the same way, their economies marching along quite nicely, without so much as a murmur. The Russian economy would move along better, too, if not for the protests and strikes. He would deal with the insurrectionists more harshly if he didn’t have to maintain a high human rights profile in order to trade with the west. The people had housing, if not always heat, they had water, if not always power, and vodka, if not always bread. He chuckled to himself. Vodka had proved a better opiate for the masses than even the Orthodox Church.
Would things have been so different if the Bolsheviks had succeeded? He didn’t believe that graft and corruption would have remained absent from the communist system, and the workers and peasants would have been elevated in their status. He had heard tales from Kerensky’s grandfather, Alexander, that there had been internal struggles and dissent since 1912, when the Bolsheviks split from the Mensheviks. George Orwell’s Animal Farm portrayed the dilemma beautifully. Anyone who thought they would be better off under the rule of the people ought to read it. Human nature in all its naked ambition, greed, and lust for power depicted so cleverly using farm animals as characters. The workers, like the beasts, had their place, and no matter who ruled them, there they would remain.

Lucky Day by Gloria Moress

I don’t believe in luck. Every cat I own is black, and I have thirteen now Nero has gone. I don’t notice ladders so I can’t tell you if I walk under them or not; and I’ve certainly broken a mirror or two in my time. Not by looking in them, I must hasten to add, so maybe I am lucky. I have put shoes on tabletops and if I spill the salt, my only worry is the waste.
So I must be forgiven for my cynicism when that young man came to the door and announced, “It’s your lucky day…” dragging that monstrous contraption of a vacuum cleaner behind him. Sarsaparilla seized the opportunity to shoot through, and I momentarily envied her. Still, good manners must prevail, so I showed him my polite old lady face, and let him in.
He flipped through a series of glossy placards in a ring binder, talking nineteen to the dozen about “extra features”, “extended warranties”, “unsurpassed performance” and “powerful suction”. I perched on the edge of the armchair, which seemed to encourage him, although it was from necessity rather than interest as Licorice and Sambo were curled up in the seat and Cola was draped along the back. I absently stroked the cat on my lap, Taxi, so named because he was black and white and the later it was at night, the harder he was to find.
The young man had paused in inquiry and I had no idea what he’d last said.
“Well!” I offered.
“So would you like me to demonstrate the turbo suction of the power head on the deluxe model?”
“Why not?”
He emptied his little containers of dust and dirt and dutifully vacuumed them back up, looking to me for gushing displays of awe and appreciation of the “superb cleaning power”. I simply raised my eyebrows, shushing Goblin away when he looked as if he was going to use one of the piles for kitty litter.
“Do you have any questions, ma’am?”
“My main problem is these wretched creatures.” My gesture encompassed twenty-six eyes in shades from pale gold to emerald. Morticia turned an ear back in disdain. “Will it get rid of pet hair?”
“Absolutely!” His eyes gleamed.
“Here’s a spot,” I pointed, “and there. What about upholstery? They shed awfully at times.”
He busied himself getting rid of every last cat hair in the room.
“And the curtains. You did say it could do drapes?”
He almost fell over the elephantine hose in his eagerness to demonstrate this “unique feature”.
“Does it do hard floors? Sweeping gives me a crick in the back nowadays.” I guided him to the kitchen, where he zealously vacuumed, including the corners and awkward places between the cupboards and stove when I asked to see how the attachments worked. Even Felix was persuaded by the massive roaring machine, abandoning his post by the pantry where he spent his days picketing for constant access to food and stalking past us, tail high. Golliwog and Smithy watched from the windowsill with bored derision.
He continued talking about easy finance and payment plans as he packed away his kit. I opened the door and eased him out, pushing Darth and Cinders back in with my foot and using their imminent escape as an excuse to shut the door all but a crack.
“Thank you young man, it is indeed a magnificent machine. I’ll talk to my family about it. I have your card.” I gently closed the last inch of door.
“Well pusses, what do you think?” I asked as Piewackit pressed herself against my legs, her little stuttering motor a relief after the roaring Hypomax Superfilter. I looked at the spotless floors. The carpet hadn’t been this clean in years. Yes, he had done a good job with his contraption, and now I could sit with a nice cuppa.
Perhaps he was right, and it was my lucky day, after all.

Fun in the Sun

(Note: This is a response to a group exercise for which we all volunteered a word or phrase, then wrote a piece which included them. The words were: there, ninny, fast,Timbuktu, Oh my Lord, amble, horse, doggedly, run, lousy)

I stood ankle deep in the hot sand and looked at the camel.
"You've got to be joking! How am I supposed to get up there?"
The man spoke slowly, as if I was a complete ninny, "He lies down for you," he explained, tapping the beast into compliance.
"Are you sure this is the fastest way to Timbuktu?" I asked as I climbed onto the animal's back. "Oh my Lord!" The camel lurched to its feet and ambled forward. It was a long way down.
"Haven't you got a horse?" I hung on with dogged determination and prayed that the thing wouldn't break into a run. My skin was burning and the combination of heat and camel odour was making me queasy. This was turning out to be the lousiet holiday ever.

GHENGIS KHAN by Gloria Moress

(Note: The following story was the result of a 10 minute writing exercise during our last meeting. The writer was asked to incorporate the following words: Genghis Khan, a yurt, mare's milk and yak stew.)

He leaned over his wife's motionless body and took the bundle of cloths from where the midwife had placed it in the crook of her arm. Outside the yurt, the women had taken up positions facing each of the gods, and were united in their gutteral wailing for the departed spirit. He was alone.

The yak stew bubbled on the small cooking fire, but the baby in his arms made no sound. He was encouragingly pink, although his dark crop of hair was tinged red with his mother's blood. There were no women nursing now, he'd been told, so the old woman would feed the boy mare's milk. If he lived, he would be called Ghengis.

Gloria Moress ©

TIME by Gloria Moress

The alarm didn’t go off and I woke up at quarter to seven in a bit of a panic. The kids weren’t up either, so I woke them and went into the kitchen. Then I discovered we had no milk and only the two end crusts of the bread left. I wish they’d let me know when it runs out instead of just shoving the packet back in the breadbox! I was too exhausted to shop on my way home from work last night, and I hadn’t made the lunches either. I ducked across the road to get a couple of things, but my cash card wouldn’t work and the girl had to swipe it half a dozen times. “It’ll just take a minute,” she smiled in a way that made me want to slap her. When I got back the kids were still in bed, I yelled at them then started the breakfasts and lunches.

The kids got up but mucked around in front of the TV and were so slow getting dressed, I had to go in and shout at them four times. Emma had her top on back to front, so I had to fix that up, and Matthew couldn’t find any socks. Why is it always when you’re in a hurry? It was quarter to eight when they got to the table, and the bus comes at eight! I brushed their hair while they were eating, then shoved their bags at them and pushed them out the door. I don’t think Jason brushed his teeth! God knows what the teacher will think.

I hadn’t ironed my blouse and that always takes bloody ages but I had the iron too hot and scorched the collar. The mark wouldn’t come out so I went downstairs to check for another one in the laundry. That’s when I saw the cat had been sick all over the rumpus room carpet. I couldn’t leave it, the smell was putrid, and it took me a good twenty minutes clean it up, then I went all the way back upstairs without the blasted shirt I’d been after in the first place.

The phone rang and I wasn’t going to answer it, but I thought maybe one of the kids had forgotten something in the rush. It was my mother. She started talking about which restaurant to book for Dad’s birthday and I just about hung up on her in the end.

When I got in the car the fuel light was on, so I had to go to the petrol station. The man at the bowser in front of me was just sitting in the driver’s seat going through his wallet or something, in no hurry whatsoever! I was going to toot him but I thought he might sit there longer just to spite me so I gritted my teeth. I kept looking at the clock on the car radio and I swear four minutes has never seemed so long.

When I finally got to work there were no good parks left so I had to park right down the road. It was freezing, I’d forgotten my coat of course, and I was almost forty minutes late. I knew we were having a staff meeting first thing and the last thing I felt like were everyone’s eyes on me when I walked in late. I felt half dressed and unprepared for the day. I’d done my face but a glance in the rearview mirror at the lights had shown I hadn’t blended my foundation too well, and upon closer study I discovered I’d forgotten to put mascara on my right eyelashes. I know you’re probably thinking it could only get better after such an awful start but I wasn’t in any state to think logically by then. I was almost at the lift when the woman stopped me and the doors closed right in front of my disbelieving eyes.

And that, your Honour, is the reason I hit the woman when she asked me if I had the time.

Gloria Moress ©

MY FAVOURITE PLACE by Gloria Moress

It’s the island. I suppose they are typically romantic places, but Phillip Island isn’t that type of island. It’s well and truly anchored to the mainland by a massive bridge constructed of concrete and steel, and in no danger of drifting into the mists like the legendary Avalon, another favourite place of mine. I don’t remember my first visit, I just remember always going there, it always being there, like home. And in fact it was a second home, for my grandparents had a holiday house there from the time my mother was a girl.

We knew we were almost there when we reached the last hill before the road turned east to follow the coast. The hill was so high and steep that all one could see beyond it was the sky, and as we crested it, I was convinced the car would go sailing out over the ocean with the gulls. The first thing one saw over the hill was the edge of the world, where deep blue gave to pale blue, and there was really nothing beyond, on and on, till you reached ice.

The island was a treasure box filled with all my beloved things. Low rolling hills that were always green, dotted with sheep and fat red cattle, gelati parlours, windswept surf beaches, pony rides in the summer, the best newsagents in Australia and of course, my grandparents.

I spent my childhood scrambling over rocks, under tea trees, over dunes. Poking into rock pools and throwing stones at quick, clever toadies. Collecting pussy willows and cowrie shells, looking into burrows to be looked back at by a fairy penguin, waiting for dinner. The wind so wild and cold our eyes and noses ran and fingers were pink and numb. My very thoughts seemed to be blown out of my head, half formed, my only remaining conviction: that I was happy.

To my grandparent’s house, over a hundred years old, clung the chill damp of very old stone. Everything smelled different in that still air. Onion smelled sweeter, hot water cleaner, gravy more delicious than anywhere else. Coming back from our beach walk with Grandpa, my sister and I would be ushered into the lounge to watch TV, out from under Nanna’s feet in the kitchen, and an endless parade of lollies, biscuits, chocolates and nuts, all in little bowls, would keep us quiet till dinner.

We snuggled into our cosy beds at night with Nanna, who told us the story of The Princess and the Golden Ball. We never tired of hearing it, but Nanna must have tired of telling it, for she made our much younger cousin a tape recording of the story. Despite promising each other we’d wake up for a midnight feast a la Enid Blyton’s stories, my sister and I never failed to sleep through the night. Unsurprising, for we had exhausted ourselves playing in a land of wonder and possibility, and we planned to do it all again tomorrow.

Gloria Moress ©

HOW TO SHOW JOY by Gloria Moress

She hovered outside the toilet door. “Your mother offered to come down and help me cobweb,” she began.

“Mmmm.”

“Well, I don’t think the cobwebs are that bad.”

“They add character to the place.”

“So you think the place is dirty?”

“No!” His eyes flicked to her briefly over the Country Life. “Don’t worry about Mum, she’s just trying to help.”

“I know…but it always feels like criticism. I think I’m managing okay. Aren’t I?” Her voice rose and cracked in a bid for approval.

“You’re doing fine,” he soothed, eyes scanning the machinery for sale.

Sighing, she returned to the kitchen. Brett still opened the end drawer looking for cutlery. She had it under the sink’s draining board. He laughed about looking for a teaspoon where his mother had stored them years before, and said, “I just can’t get used to this,” but it irked her every time.

It seemed no one could get used to her “city” ways. Her mother-in-law heaved an exaggerated sigh whenever she cast her eyes at the ochre coloured kitchen walls and terracotta tiles. The old man grumbled about the water she must waste on her flowerbeds, “one rose bed out the front was good enough for mother” as he eyed the riotous perennial borders she’d planted around the house. Together they tut-tutted the disorderly and forthright manner of “kids today.” Her kids.My downfall is that I want to please everyone, she thought grimly, I want approval. Approval from her in laws meant acceptance in this tight knit, aging community where everyone you knew today had known you since you’d been born. All except her.

It was ten years since they’d moved into the house Brett’s parents had built in the fifties. The older couple had moved into town to be closer to their two daughters and other sources of support as they aged. Despite this, they often called in unannounced, walking in the back door without so much as a cursory knock.

Those ten years had been hard work, long hours for Brett on the tractor, long hours for her on her own with the boys. Now her baby, Daniel, was in grade one, and missed them terribly all day, until the bus returned them, hungry, pink-cheeked and disheveled to her kitchen table. It was the empty hours during the day that had started her thinking about entering the local show. Brett and the kids raved over her baking, and she thought she might enter a sponge. Maybe even submit a couple of roses from her David Austin collection. I’ll check the categories, then decide, she thought, excitement building at the thought of a little project of her own.

Show day simmered, hot and still, as February held its breath. As they toured the cattle, Debbie marveled again at their placid stolidity. Cattle always seemed a contented animal to her. Anything that let you lead it around by a ring through the nose would have to have a fairly peaceable nature. She envied them. Her striving to be a better something had no end: mother, wife, daughter, P & C member, cook, lover, friend, sister.

At least she had tackled this last bastion of country womanhood and entered her work into the show. As they entered the pavilion and her eyes adjusted, she saw her mother in law standing at the flower display. Tom, Will and Dan raced over, a whirlwind of gangly arms and legs, “Grandma! Did you see the dodgems?” “Will you go on the ferris wheel with me?” “Where’s Grandad?”

Joy turned, shushing them automatically, then beamed at Debbie, “First prize in the old-fashioned category! Looks like my old bushes are performing as well as ever. Well, roses are a tough plant, really.” Debbie’s return smile froze, but even as she began to turn away, she felt Brett reach for her hand. His rough palm pressed against hers, and he squeezed her fingers. “Actually, I planted that,” she said quietly.

“Oh, did you, dear? Yes, roses just about grow themselves in our climate, don’t they?”

Her eyes met Brett’s, who crossed his in vexation. They moved on to the baking display, the boys darting around them in an impromptu game of tag. Joy heaved an exaggerated sigh of disapproval, but was distracted by the cakes in the low glass cabinet. “Oh, look, dear,” she exclaimed. “You’ve come second in the sponge roll category. My old recipe is fool proof, isn’t it?”This time, Brett pinched her very hard on the bottom.

“Actually Joy, yours is a bit on the crumbly side, this is my grandmother’s recipe.” Her tongue seemed to have developed a will of its own, and with Brett’s arm around her shoulders, she felt steady, solid and sure of herself.

“You have been busy, haven’t you?” Joy said meanly. “I don’t know where you find the time with those three children of yours. They’re so demanding.”

Shrugging, Debbie moved to the patchwork. She had entered a colourwash quilt in a heart design. It had been a real labour of love that had taken almost two years to finish, and she had hand quilted it in every precious spare moment. It was a beautiful design in purples, blues and greens, and she had finished it and presented it to Brett for their tenth anniversary.

She stopped in front of the handcraft display, where her quilt, winner of the grand prize, was prominently displayed. Brett dropped a kiss on her head, “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Beside her, Joy stared at the quilt. “I didn’t know you could sew!” she exclaimed. “That’s why I’ve been mending Brett’s work clothes all these years.”

A slow smile spread across Debbie’s face. “Yes,” she said. “That gave me time to do more interesting things.”

“Shall we tell her darling?” Brett asked sweetly.

“Yes, lets,” Debbie replied.

“We’re having another baby, Mum, due in July.”

The older woman’s raised eyebrows signaled her surprise and disapproval, “Really?”

“Yes,” Debbie added, as their beloved, boisterous sons ran over and jostled for prime position between her and Brett, “another beautiful boy.”


Gloria Moress ©Writers’ Group, Clifton