Along the Old Road, written by Big Sister

Hello there readers! I wrote this story for school using the poem "To David Campbell" as a stimulus.  I put the poem here as I couldn't seem to find a link online.  I suggest reading the story first. ;)

                   ____________________________________________________________ 

DEAD FOX BY EDGAR DEGAS

The sharp cold morning air nipped at Philip’s lungs and pinched his fingers. He walked through the frosty paddocks and down to the dry sandy riverbed, rejoicing in the quiet stillness.   

Wherever he was, Philip always walked alone in the mornings; to think, to enjoy the solitude and quiet.  Here on the rural property of his friend David, the mornings were wondrous in their newly born splendour.  Poetry wrote itself in his mind as life unfolded softly in the singing birds and arising light.

In the riverbed he found a stone, smoothed by water and shaped like a heart.  Philip smiled and put it in his pocket before continuing.

His feet pulled through the sand.  He was lost in deep contemplation, his narrow shoulders hunched, his dark head hanging down on his chest, and his dark-grey eyes watching his feet.   He almost missed it, but a corner of his sight caught the patch of red, and he turned abruptly to see the body of a fox stretched out cold on the ground.  He stood over the little form. Its coat was damp with dew.  “Poor chap!  Poison, perhaps?” he said out loud.  He leant and touched the silky red fur. 

Then he walked on, though a little of the glory seemed to have faded from the morning.

Later, Philip rambled with David along one of the property’s dusty trails.  David’s dog, Joe, ran about like a child on a sugar high.  There was an old ghost gum leaning almost over, still healthy and alive. The dog ran up it, barking happily; then his paws slipped and he fell to the ground.

  David laughed at him.  “Half-witted animal!”

Philip grinned at him.  “I bet you couldn’t climb a tree.”

“Oh really, you old cow?  You bet eh?  I’ll show you!” 

“Not the leaning one!  That doesn’t count.  A baby could climb it.  This one.” Philip touched a tall, smooth gum.

“Fine!”  David’s strong arms pulled, his feet scrabbled awkwardly for footholds.  Philip stood with his arms crossed, laughing, as David climbed high then slid uncomfortably down again.   His white trousers were filthy and ripped, his arm was bleeding from a cut and his fair hair was dark with sweat, but he grinned triumphantly. 

“Ha! Lost your bet!”

“Oh, did I?  Or perhaps I knew you could climb it all along and just wanted to laugh at you.  I’ll write a poem about it.  ‘My friend David climbed a tree; just like a half-baked drongo looked he--”

“Hey!  Put a sock in it!” cried David.  “You and your poetry…!”

Further along, they came to an old road –once busy, now just a roaming-place for cattle and wildlife.  It stretched its long length between scrabbly bush.  Philip’s mind wandered down it absently; till he looked around and saw David beckoning him.  Philip followed, curiosity wrinkling a small frown on his forehead.

David led him into a grove of trees.  In the center of it were several mounds, long grassed over with age. “Graves,” David said quietly, in reply to Philip’s questioning look.  “Early settlers here.  One of them was my great-great grandfather.”  He took his hat off and held it before him. Philip saw his huge shoulders and his face with its broken nose soften in respect; his usually playfully twinkling blue eyes grow thoughtful.

 The wind rustled gently in the tall gum trees.  Philip could feel, still lingering faintly in the air, memories of bygone sorrows; and the trees remembered the sounds of broken hearts weeping.  He stood next to his friend in thought for many minutes.

In the afternoon, they saddled up two frisking horses for a ride.  They took the old road.  Philip breathed deeply, the gentle winter sunlight soaking warmly into his skin.  His horse swished its tail and threw its head about, restless as the ever-moving butterflies that fluttered past.  Philip began to rise to a trot, then a canter.  Then, “beat you to the end of the road!” he called to David; and leaned forward into a gallop.

They thundered along the trail, clouds of bulldust rising behind them.  Their horses breathed in air through wide nostrils, eager, excited.  Philip’s heart took wing as the wind rushed past his face, and he shouted for sheer joy.

Something, a kangaroo perhaps, flew crashing out of the scrub and across the road.  David’s horse, terrified, shied away with the speed of a whip.  David was flung off and slammed hard into the ground.   Philip pulled his frightened horse to a halt with desperate hands.  He was by his friend’s side in a moment.

“David!  Are you all right?” he gasped.

David was still.  Philip knelt down.  His throat all of a sudden gasped dry and he felt nauseous with a terrible fear for which there could be no words.

Everything that passed after that was misty, dreamlike.  Philip refused to be parted from David for a moment.  He was there when they loaded the still form into the ambulance, and when they carried him into the hospital.

By David’s bed, in a moment alone, Philip whispered words filled with such pleading.  “Please… come back… wake up… open your eyes.”  There was no reply. 

Philip looked through dull, wet eyes at the mound of fresh earth, veiled with a mantle of flowers.   Flowers and tears, last gifts from the living to the dead.  Philip felt as though his heart was gasping for air under its crushing load of loss.  David… just before sparkling with life, then extinguished like a snuffed candle.

Philip’s mind, shrouded in grey misery, searched desperately for answers. How could a being, so filled with life, so real, so normal, so human, die, and turn back to dust?  This is not how it should be. 

Beyond his anguish, a whisper answered him.  When he had seen the coffin, heard the dull thud as it dropped down into the earth; he had felt through his sobs that somehow, it was not really David in that cold white box.  For he had gone to the land where everything is shining light under the Greatest light of all.  

Philip leant down and placed the heart-shaped stone, warm from his hands, on the grave; then resumed standing in silent thought beside the still mound of earth.

Look into the eyes.

 from Google images

Oi guys,
Hey.  I notice you haven't been reading any posts lately.  Or at least, not leaving any comments.  Not even a reaction*, which only takes one click of that mouse you've got your right hand on at this moment.

Now, those things we've posted-- they're actually pretty splendid.  From interesting and informative to hilarious to whats-gonna-happen-next etc. etc...  

Y u no read?

Just look into Puss in Boots' eyes.  Imagine that they are our eyes.  Imagine us saying "don't... don't you like our stories anymore?  What did we do?"

The only way to appease those eyes is to scroll down, read, then leave a comment.  Even just a reaction.

If you don't, those eyes will haunt you in your sleep.

Have a nice day! (hopefully).
From, Big Sister

* see bottom of posts

"The Sound in the Abbey", told by Big Sister

Simon the traveller shivered and pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders.  The sky was an ominous grey color, and the wind that whipped the grass was bitingly cold. Thunder rumbled.  He urged his tired horse on faster, hoping to find shelter before the storm broke.  As his horse ascended a hillock, Simon caught sight of the large, imposing form of an abbey on the horizon.  But before he was halfway there, the storm broke.  Lightning flashed, and rain bucketed down so heavily that it was difficult to see.  By the time he reached the large wooden gates of the abbey, Simon was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold.  He dismounted quickly and pulled the bell-rope.

A few minutes later, Simon was standing, dripping wet, inside the abbey kitchen.
The monk in charge of the kitchen, who had friendly brown eyes and a rather round tummy, smiled.  “My, you must be cold!  Stand in front of the fire while I get you some dry garments,” he said. “I’m brother Thomas, by the way.”
 Simon was most happy to comply with the monk’s wishes, and it wasn’t long before he was clean, dry and had a hearty stew warming his insides.  He was then shown to a small, simply furnished room.  “I trust you will sleep well” said Thomas.  “Good night, and may God give you peaceful dreams.” Simon, completely exhausted, flopped onto the bed and was soon fast asleep.

.:. .:. .:. 

He  awoke with a start and sat bolt upright, his flesh crawling. He was sure he had heard something. He listened intently for a few moments, but all was silent.  “Probably an early morning mass or summat,” he muttered sleepily, and lay down again.  Then he heard the sound that had awakened him.  It was the most beautiful, yet the most awful thing he had ever heard. Simon was filled with ecstasy and dread at the same time.  He wanted desperately to run away, to hide himself from it, but the sound held him a hypnotized captive, and he could not move. So the he lay and listened, sweating despite the cold, his heart pounding in his ears.  At that moment, he knew that at all costs he must find out whatever it was that made that sound.
Eventually the sound died away.  Shaky and weak, Simon quickly fell asleep again. His dreams were filled with the sound.

The first thing in Simon’s mind when he awoke next morning was the sound he had heard in the night.  Could it have been a dream?  No.  He knew it was more than that.  Simon leapt out of bed and rushed down to the kitchen.  Brother Thomas was there, stirring a huge kettle of porridge that hung over the fire.
“You are up early, my friend!” said Thomas, handing the traveller a bowl of steaming porridge. “I trust you slept well?”
“No, no indeed!” cried Simon.  “I was was awakened in the night by the most fearsome, wonderful sound that I have ever heard.”
Brother Thomas inhaled sharply. “You heard the sound? I am sorry.  Very sorry.  It does not usually wake people up.  If I could have stopped it, I would have… but it will have its way!”
“It?  Please, show me what it is that makes this sound, so that I can be at peace!”
Thomas shook his head.  “I cannot tell you.  Do yourself a favor and forget about the sound.”
“Nay, that is impossible.  If I do not know, I am sure that I will die!”
Thomas sighed.  “I would certainly tell you if I could, friend, but I am afraid that only those enrolled in the fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood are allowed to know that.”
“Eh? The fraternal what?”
“Bonds of monastic brotherhood.”
“D’ye mean I have to be a monk?
“I’m afraid so.”
“But it will take years to become a monk,” groaned the unfortunate man, “I could not bear the wait-- I must know at once!”
“I am sorry,”  said brother Thomas stubbornly. “I dare not change the rule.”
“Very well,” said Simon, his voice grim with determination, “if it must be so. I will begin on my journey to join the fraternal bonds of ...er, monasti-whatever it is this very day.  And he sat down and began to eat his porridge.

.:. Several years later .:.

 Simon rode eagerly along the road to the abbey.  He was dressed in a habit, and his head was shaved in a cenobitic fashion; for during the last few years he had graduated as a “member of the fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood”- in other words, he was a monk.  As Simon caught sight of the abbey, his pulse quickened and his eyes grew bright with feverish anticipation. For the sound he had heard had never ceased to haunt him, and today would finally find out what it was.

As soon as his horse was stabled within the abbey walls, Simon headed straight for the kitchen. Standing at the large kitchen table, elbow-deep in bread dough, was brother Thomas; the round, warm-eyed monk who had welcomed in our traveller when he was cold and wet and hungry.
Thomas looked up and started in recognition. “You!” he exclaimed. “So you really did join the fraternal bonds of monas-”
“Yes,”  said Simon, smiling.
“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Thomas , dusting the flour off his hands.
Simon sat down.  “It is good to see you again, brother Thomas.”  He paused. “I suppose you know why I am here?”
“I can guess,” said Thomas.
“You will show me then?”
“Yes.  You are a monk, and I cannot deny your request, even though I wish I could. But you must wait until tonight.”

.:. .:. .:.

That night, when the moon was high in the velvety black welkin, brother Thomas woke Simon.   “Come,” whispered Thomas, “follow me, and do not make a sound.”  
Simon noticed with interest that Thomas was carrying a crowbar. However, he said nothing, and followed him silently until they came into a cool, dank cellar. The cellar was very seldom used, being small, damp, and inaccessible, and was empty apart from some barrels in the corner and a few ancient bottles of wine on the rotting shelves.  Thomas closed and locked the cellar door behind them; then leaning his crowbar against the wall, moved aside some barrels, knelt down and began running his hands over the stone floor.  Simon looked on in surprise.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Shush!”
“Sorry.”
“We have to lever out one of the stones.  I’m trying to find it,” whispered Thomas. “Ah! Here it is.  Come and help me lever it out.”
As quietly as possible, they used the crowbar to heave out the large flagstone, revealing a solid trapdoor built of steel and wood.  Beneath the trapdoor was a black hole.
Thomas wriggled through the hole backward and hung there on his elbows.  “The floor isn’t too far down, but you’ll have to drop,” he said.  “Give me a moment to get out of the way before you follow.”
Thomas dropped down with a soft thud.
Simon shuddered, for he hated the dark and all its horrid creatures, then dropped down after Thomas.
 Thomas lit a torch and held it up, illuminating their surroundings. They were standing in the entryway of a staircase that had been carved out of the solid rock.  Cobwebs brushed against them as they began to descend.
The staircase went steeply downwards deep into the earth. Simon didn’t count the steps, but it seemed to him there must have been thousands. But after a considerable amount of time, he noticed the staircase growing slowly less steep, until by degrees it became a horizontal tunnel.
The tunnel was freezing cold, water dribbled in little rivers down the walls, and there was a strange smell about. Simon  sniffed nervously, and he was just going to ask Thomas if he was sure about poisonous gases when he felt something crunch under his foot.  He looked down to see a skeleton, and gasped with horror.  “What is that?” he cried.  “How did he die?  Brother, are you sure the air is good down here?”
“Ah, I forgot to tell you about the skeletons,” said brother Thomas.
“Skeletons?  Are there more?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“H-how did they get here?”
“Each has its own story, and I could not tell them all.  However, I do know what happened to this  particular fellow: he was a thief.  Many years ago, this place was protected by armed guards.  They killed the thief and left him there as a warning to others.”
Simon’s hair -or what was left of it-  stood on end, and he looked very strange.  Then to make things worse, an enormous, shaggy spider plopped onto his head and ran across his face.  He gave a strangled yell and brushed it off.  And when he saw a huge rat skulking in the shadows, Simon began wish he had never come, and that perhaps the sound wasn’t so wonderful after all and that he should go back to his nice warm bed.
Then he heard it.
 The sound echoed around the passage, much louder than before, far more wonderful and indescribably terrible.  Simon forgot his fears; Thomas’ face shone.  Together they hurried down the passage, the sound growing ever louder.  As they grew closer to the sound, the walls of the tunnel ceased to be wet and dirty.  They were adorned with paintings and magnificent tapestries.  Many other things were in the passageway; things like weird and beautiful statues and ancient artifacts. At intervals the smooth walls of the passage were interrupted by large wooden doors studded with jewels.  Numerous skeletons lay around. But Simon didn’t notice, nor did he notice the bats, snakes and other horrid creatures that slithered, crawled and fluttered about him. All he cared about was the sound.
Suddenly the passage ended.  The pair were in a large, perfectly circular room.  The high arched ceiling was supported by silver beams.  In the middle of the ceiling hung a huge lantern that filled the room with light. The walls of the room were painted with montages and strange symbols, and were encrusted with precious jewels. It was wondrous sight, yet Simon gave it only a glance. His eyes were fixed on a huge door directly ahead of them. The door was exquisitely carved from oak, and in the center of it was a strange symbol made of diamonds.
The sound was coming from behind it.
Small drops of sweat rolled Simon’s forehead.  He wanted more than anything else to see what was behind the door, but terror held him.  He shook with the unbearable emotion of terror and joy combined.
“Come,” said Thomas in a hushed voice.  He took the Simon’s arm and led him to the door.  The sound grew louder.  Thomas drew from his habit a tiny key, carved from a single emerald, inserted it into the lock and twisted it. Then he drew a deep breath, shuddered, and threw open the door.  
Simon gasped, staggered back, and his eyes were filled with wonderment.  For there before him he saw--

Here, my friend, I’m afraid I must leave you, because as I clearly specified earlier in this tale, you must be a part of the “fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood” to know the source of the Sound. In other words,
You have to be a monk to find out. 

.:. THE END .:.

ABOUT THE STORY:  I say "told" because I didn't come up with the plot-- this story is actually based on a joke that was related to me.  I just turned it into a story.  No idea who wrote it (the joke, that is) originally, but it can be found online. :) 

P.S HAPPY APRIL FOOLS!  (even if it is, ehem, slightly late).  Were you annoyed??  Yes?  MWAHAHAHA! HAHA! HA! 

Guess what else? I actually was planning to write this for last year's April Fools.  But it was kinda late and... well, here we are.  "Such is life."  (If you don't know who said that, you're probably not Australian.  It's what Ned Kelly, an outlaw, said just before he died.  Okay, I'll admit I had to look it up to double check).

'Feathers,' by Big Sister

Hello all! Here's a story I wrote for an English assignment this year. :)

via 

The best thing about being forced to live in an Enclosed Village with thirty-two witless chickens and a narcissistic rooster is that there’s always available food.  The worst is that when attacked by an enemy… there’s nowhere to run.

Living with chickens is no salad garden.  They’re greedy creatures.  My wife and I are distinguished Indian Runner ducks and would prefer more intelligent company, but, well, we have no choice.

My wife’s name, unfortunately, is Cinderella.  A bunch of grubby human children chose our names.  They called me Kevin and I won’t reveal my thoughts on this; it makes me too angry.  My only comfort is the rooster’s name: Scruff-Yuck, decided by the children’s opinion of him.  That’s what stops him teasing me about my name, and perhaps from becoming the most arrogant creature on earth.  

 One Saturday, I was enjoying my bath, and Rodney flew down to join me.  He’s a good mate of mine --smart as a brown snake and as fierce as a broody hen--  and likes a little wash himself once in a while.  As a matter of fact he and his expansive family of Apostlebirds feel themselves free to take liberties with anything of ours, especially food. Rodney (proudly named by his mother) chatted with me for a while comparing worms with grasshoppers and complaining about the awful racket the Lorikeets make every night before going to sleep.  Then he said, “Orange’s gang has been causing trouble.”

Orange leads the Crows, arch-enemies of farmers and livestock since Adam was cast out of Eden.  They steal chicks and eggs and have been known to peck the eyes out of weak sheep.  They are the only fellow birds who are not welcome in our Enclosed Village.  All birds are united with us in that -even Scruff-Yuck.  There’s nothing we can do:  Starting a fight could have dire consequences. 

“What’ve they been up to now?” I asked.  

“Stole two chicks over the hill.  Mother hen was in hysterics for three days.”

I stopped grooming myself and shook my head. “Shame on them!”  I paused.  Then, “Cindy’s been trying to go broody-  we want ducklings.  But every time she lays an egg, those feathered devils steal it.  She’s pretty upset.”

Rodney looked sympathetic.  “Have you tried hiding them?”

“Naturally!  Though we’re going to try a little harder this time.  Under the Coop.  It’s cramped and dirty, but she’s willing to give it a go… it’s only a few weeks, thank goodness.  I said I’d give her a hand with the Sitting.”

Rodney grinned at me.  

“You’ll make a great dad, mate!  I can just see you helping teach a floppy duckling how to swim-  flappin’ ya wings in rage and goin’ red in the beak-- well, I gotta go now.  Had me fill of your lovely grain and stuff.  Bye, old Roast!”  

Away he flew.  

Cindy and I had been caring for the eggs for almost a week before Orange discovered them.  He and his mates Eyeball and Bin-Juice noticed me just as I squeezed under the house, and came to investigate.  

“What’ve ya got there, mate?” Orange twanged, his voice shockingly high-pitched for such an impressive looking guy.  

Bin-Juice hopped over on one leg.  “Arrgh harrgh! Eggs!” he said. “How many of ‘em is there?” 

My feet felt clammy.

 “Look, here’s a deal,” said Orange.  “We’ll only take three, and you can hatch the rest.  Fair enough, eh?”  

Cindy was sitting tight and brave on those eggs, but her beak was pale and she was shaking.  I shoved my way out from under the coop.  “Only three?  Sure!  Take three of our babies now, then you can have the rest when they’re bigger!”  

“That’s the idea, mate.”

Cinderella just looked at me, pleading for her babies.  

I could feel the blood draining from my bill, but I shook my tail and said: 

“You’re not taking our children.  Therefore, no eggs.  Got it? Go help yourselves to the human’s giant dump-bucket pile.”  

Orange, Bin-Juice and Eyeball stared at me with their beady, shrewd, wicked little eyes.  Eyeball stuck out his neck and pushed his face into mine. “Well then, mate.  I guess we’ll just have to take ‘em for ourselves! 

They began to crowd close, trying to shove past me.  Enraged to the highest degree, I puffed myself up to my full height and pecked Eyeball on the eye, whacked Bin-Juice with my wing, and with a loud cry flung myself at Orange.  I fought hard and inflicted some damage I think, but in moments I was pinned to the ground.  Orange cawed with rage.  “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, then looked up as a shadow fell over us.

“Ehem!”

It was Scruff-Yuck.

“Get off my territory!” he said pompously, and pecked viciously at Orange’s head.  “Or I might be forced to use these.”  He stretched out his leg to show off his long, sharp spurs.  “Quick!  Remove your fat, sausage-like bodies from my sight immediately!”  And he crowed loudly to show that he was Scruff-Yuck the great, and no-one ever disobeyed Scruff-Yuck the great.  

With a flurry of gleaming black feathers they left.

Scruff-Yuck looked at me.  

“Thanks,” I muttered.

He shrugged.  “Gotta establish my territory” he said, turned his large, fluffy bottom around and strutted off.

Rodney appeared out of nowhere.  

“That was lucky mate,” he said seriously.  “Those crows are savage.” 

 Then he saw the funny side and grinned.  “Lucky good ole Scruff-Yuck was there to help you.”

“Scruff-Yuck,” I said coldly, “thinks a lot about his greatness; yet for all that he still has a large, fluffy, bottom--”

A shadow fell across us.

It was Scruff-Yuck.

He had come to get some food out of the Communal Food pan.  He pecked at it absently, but the shocking implications of what I had said were too much.  He soon walked away and crouched sadly with his bottom pressed into a post.

My conscience pricked me like a painful bindi.  Scruff-Yuck looked utterly dejected.  

I walked over to him.

“Er… Scruff-Yuck?  I just wanted to say that--”

We both heard it at the same time.  The beating of wings.  We looked up to see the sky dark with crows -- at least fifty of them.  Scruff-Yuck jumped up and gave the alarm.  The hens scrambled to the safety of the coop, but several crows landed on the ramp and headed them off.  Then they attacked.

 Scruff-Yuck and I fought side by side, and I saw those spurs actually in use.   I wouldn’t mind a pair of those things.  My soft feet and blunt bill aren’t much use in a fight.  

I saw Rodney battling near me: he and most of his family had valiantly joined us.  But it was hopeless. We would soon be overcome. 

Then I saw the humans, alarmed by the ear-splitting racket, come running.  They stopped speechless for a moment when they saw their chicken coop swarming with wildly fighting birds.  One of them grabbed their large dog by the collar and shoved him inside the pen.  

I heard a deep growl shiver out of the dog’s throat, and saw his gums snarl back over his white teeth.   With an explosive bark he leapt at the crows and chased them wildly.  Cawing loudly, they fled.

That afternoon, we watched as the humans put strong wire netting over the top of our whole Enclosed Village.  The crows were shut out.  But Rodney soon found a place to squeeze in.  

Now that all was well again, Scruff-Yuck began to fall back into depression.  I headed over to him to finish my interrupted conversation.  

“Scruff-Yuck?”

He grunted and began grooming his wing.

“I’m sorry I said-- you know.”

Scruff-Yuck mumbled something under his beak.  

 “Pardon?” I pressed.

He burst out:  “It’s still fluffy!”

“Who cares?  I can’t even crow! Plus I have a little stumpy tail, my beak’s blunt, and Cindy says my feet get flatter every day.  You’re much better off than me!”

Scruff-Yuck didn’t answer, but

 a little smile bent the corners of his beak upwards.