Early Morning

Her Magazine, February/March 2013
I won my first ever short story writing competition in October 2012 and the prize was to be published in Her Magazine. It is a story about a dog and a business woman. The bio was printed with the short story. 

Sarah painted a confident picture in her designer tracksuit. With her honey-streaked hair swept up in a pony-tail, she jogged with meaning.

As she jogged through the neighbourhood, contentment set in. It was for her, a form of meditation.

She turned the corner, and tripped.

“What?” She looked down to see a small scruffy-looking dog. It didn’t have a collar on and looked lost.

Two brown eyes stared up at her. She glanced around the street. It was dead.

She looked at her watch. It was 7am. Too early to knock on people’s doors.

“Guess I’ll have to take you home.” she said.

She let the dog roam around her small courtyard. It relieved itself.

“Oh, you’re a boy.” She said.

Sarah went inside and filled an empty container with water. The dog lapped it up. She checked the time. 7.15am. She figured around 8am she would start searching for the dog’s owner.

“I have to get ready,” she said to the dog, “I have work.” She closed the back door and went inside. She peaked out of her lace curtains and could see the little dog sniffing outside.

After her shower, she decided on a black pencil skirt, with a crisp white shirt, and black peep-hole shoes. She straightened her hair and smiled at the mirror. Lipstick and understated eyes and she was ready.

She looked at the time. 7.50am.

Sarah went outside and the little dog was lying down. His tail started wagging when he saw her.

“Ok,” she said “Time to find your owner!”

They walked down the street as an old woman clad in her PJs and dressing gown was putting out her trash.

“Is this your dog?” Sarah asked. The woman shook her head.

Curtains parted and muffled giggles followed from two little faces that were pointing and laughing at the little dog that was lifting his leg by their letterbox.

“Come on!” said Sarah, mortified to be seen with an animal that relieved itself in public.

At a block of flats, Sarah knocked on one of the doors. An elderly woman with wispy grey hair shuffled to the door in her pale pink slippers.

 “Oh, what a gorgeous dog!” the old lady exclaimed.

 “He’s lost,” Sarah said “Any chance he might belong to anyone here?”

 “No dogs allowed here dear. Only cats.” She said pointing at the bony black cat curled up on a chair.

Sarah looked at her watch. 8.15am.

“Phone the SPCA,” said the old woman “They open at 10am. I used to do voluntary work there - until my hips started playing up.”  

“Thanks.” Sarah said.

Back at her townhouse she shoved a few papers into her briefcase. She had an important meeting at 9am.

 The dog looked at her with pleading eyes.

“I’ll come back at lunchtime.” she said.

“Sorry,” she added “It’s the best I can do.”

The meeting went exceedingly well. The team was impressed with her latest marketing strategy.

At 10am Sarah phoned the SPCA and arranged to drop the little dog off at lunchtime.

As she ate her chicken wrap on the way home in the car, some of the stuffing fell out on to her white shirt. Her lunchtime had been ruined due to the wanderings of some dog.

When the little dog saw her, he greeted her at the gate.

“It’s okay,” she said “I’m home.” He came up to her and tried to nestle into her legs.

“I’m in my work clothes!” she said, backing away. The little dog looked hurt and lay down.

At the SPCA the little dog was put in his own cage. On his left were three Rottweiler puppies. On his right a young Whippet dog. The little dog whimpered.

“You’ll be fine,” Sarah said, realising she was convincing herself as much as the dog.

She drove straight back to work. Although she was flat-out that afternoon, she kept thinking about the little dog. What if the owner didn’t find the dog? Would anyone want a ratty-looking older dog? Didn’t most people want puppies?

Sarah decided to phone the SPCA at 2pm. No-one had called about the little dog.

That night she found it hard to settle. Would he be warm enough in his cage? Would his puppy neighbours keep him awake?

At work the next day her mind couldn’t help but drift to the little dog. At 10am she called the SPCA. Nothing yet, they said - but sometimes it takes a few days, they reassured her.

She decided that if the dog wasn’t picked up by the end of the week, that she would offer him a home. It felt like a big decision. She was thirty-three years old and had had no dependants up until this point. She wasn’t even sure she wanted children. She was thriving in her marketing career and loved her busy life in Auckland in which she could do as she pleased.

Two days later the SPCA called. A man had phoned up. The dog belonged to his sister, who was in her seventies and was going through the early stages of dementia. She had simply left the backdoor open and the little dog had escaped.

“We had a good chat with the owner’s brother,” the SPCA volunteer said “He has decided to take on the dog. “

Sarah was surprised to feel her heart breaking a little. That little dog had made a big impression. She had somehow been opened up to the world of dog ownership. She decided to wait a few days to see if the feeling passed. If it didn’t, then she’d return to the SPCA and see what dogs were up for adoption.

By Friday it was clear that this urge to take on a dog wasn’t going to pass. It both annoyed and excited her.

On Saturday morning she headed to the SPCA. There was now just one Rottweiler puppy, the young Whippet dog remained and there was a little Shih Tzu as well.

The Shih Tzu immediately came up to her when she stood in front of its cage and licked her hand. Sarah melted.

 “That’s Lacey,” said one of the volunteers. “She’s just a year old. Her previous owners have a toddler and twin six month olds and found managing a dog too much.”

 “Hello Lacey!” she said. Lacey gave her another lick on the land.

At 7am, two weeks later, Sarah was walking Lacey. She enjoyed starting her day with a walk with her new furry-friend who she had bonded with immediately.

Lacey had become part of her life fast. She even came to cafés and sat outside with her drinking from a bowl while she sipped lattes. She was so lovely to come home to after a hard day at work. Which Sarah hadn’t known before – she’d just accepted the pressures of work as part of her life.

Lacey helped her slow down. It was a mutual relationship which both dog and owner both benefited from. Something that wouldn’t have happened had she not stumbled across the lost little dog.

Biography

Lynda Jessen-Tye writes short stories, articles, poetry and is a keen blogger. She wrote a column for two years for the Nelson District Parent Centre Newsletter called New Mum On The Block. She has entered several short story competitions and is currently working on her first book. She lives in sunny Nelson with her husband, their seven year old daughter, a dog and a cat.

The Invite

Entered in 2007 Bank of New Zealand Katherine Mansfield Awards. (short story competition)
Fitting in with the crowd isn't always easy. Warning: some content may offend.

Tabatha looked down at the invitation lying on her desk:

Friday night. 8pm. BYO plate to match the theme.

And the theme?

Dildo Party

What the? Tabatha put her head in her hands and sighed. Why on earth had she being invited to such a thing? She wasn't even that “friendly” with Bronwyn, her supervisor, who was hosting the shin-ding. And she didn't particularly like Sue, Cindy or Chris – The Tight Threesome who would be there, giggling like silly things after just a glass of wine each. Oh god.

“I see you got the invite”.
Oh god. Bronwyn.

“Yes Bronwyn” she managed to say. “Thanks for that. I, um I...”
“You will be coming?” she said “It would be good for team morale if we could all make it. You know, all of us girls in accounts.”

Oh gawd, again. All of us girls in accounts. Well that was a hypocritical statement in itself, anyway. Sure, they were all members of the fairer sex but they weren't a team beyond sharing the same workspace. It was The Tight Threesome who went out for morning teas, girlie lunchtime shopping sprees, facials or a sneaky visit to the bar across the road. Bronwyn was a little older than the rest of them. A thirty-something who was content with family life. She was the boss, she was meant to be on the outer a bit. But Tabatha, she just wasn't a chardonnay-drinking, fashionista despite being around the same age as her work colleagues.

Tabatha's favourite pastime was watching reruns of Seinfeld, having a bubble bath and then going to bed before 9pm with a good book. She did that every week night. And in the weekends her best friend Heidi sometimes came round and they sat and watched a new release DVD with a pile of junk-food that they'd forbidden themselves from eating the week before. Yep, a week of living sensibly off the pyramid food group and then it was all blown in one night. Junk food was her vice, not alcohol.

Bronwyn was tapping her fingers now on Tabatha's desk. So what kind of an excuse is this one going to come up with? She's single, stays in nights so surely there's so other social invites likely to be penciled in her (LOL) – diary.

And Tabatha just couldn't think of a legitimate excuse. So she resigned herself to coming.
“Ok” she squeaked.
“Great!” said Bronwyn. “Just, you know, vamp it up a bit.” And she winked at her as she walked off. Oh great. Tabatha's entire wardrobe was pretty much a department store ensemble. Cheap, sensible clothing. What on earth was she meant to wear to a (god-awful) Dildo Party?!

Thank God for Heidi. Lunchtime the next day they were in one of the trendy fashion chain-stores, trying on some of the latest styles. Tabatha had on a mini-dress, Heidi a long jumper. It was the beginning of Winter and they were both standing there in their neon white, untoned and unwaxed legs. Add the lighting from the fluro bulbs in the changing room, and they looked truly hideous.

“How's it going?” The bouncing, petite assistant popped her head round the curtain. “That would look great with fishnets” she said to Tabatha, and then to Heidi “ And yours with a thick belt. Should I get you one? We have some fishnets in store too...”

“Ok” they both said. Minutes later, they looked a fraction better. But they weren't convinced. Then Tabatha recognised the unmistakable peels of laughter emanating from the next cubicle. Oh god – The Tight Threesome.

“You look hot”
“You look hotter”.
“No, we are all to die for.”
Hee, hee, hee.

Oh man, if they had American accents they'd have been cast into the movie Clueless. They were the Kiwi version of tacky.

Tabatha stepped out. Dammit, Chris was emerging from her cubicle in the same dress! Of course, she looked like a model in it in her size eight figure whereas Tabatha's curves gave the dress a more filled-out look.

“What a surprise!” Chris cooed “Fancy seeing you here!”
And then the three were all on her, like a hawk swooping in on it's prey.
“I've never seen you in a dress before”
“What's the occasion?”
Not entirely bitchy, but close enough.

Within minutes Tabatha and Heidi were out of the shop. They were going to have to work a bit harder to get something a bit more original. They ended up in a recycled clothing shop where Tabatha found a cute top and jacket that looked great with her jeans. Flag the dress, it wasn't her anyway. This was her version of vamping-it-up.

Tabatha was the last to arrive at the party. Clearly, everyone had had a few before she even turned up. And so when she walked in, no one noticed at first, so engrossed they were in company gossip. And the latest about Paris Hilton. The Tight Threesome weren't in agreement around Paris's fate. Chris thought she should be in prison, the other two did not. Of all the things to debate about in this world...

“Tabatha, how lovely to see you!” Bronwyn gushed even though it was 8pm on a Friday night and they'd only parted ways three hours ago at the end of the working day.
“Hi. Thanks” said Tabatha “Ah, where do you want this?” And Bronwyn looked down and smiled at the breasts she'd created out of chocolate marshmellows, stuck together with melted chocolate with jaffas as nipples.
“Hilarious!” she said, almost in disbelief. The Tight Threesome helloed her and then squealed too when they saw the chocolate boobs. Clearly they hadn't thought she was capable of being so risque. All the other plates were phallic shapes – penises in all sorts of guises. Most unoriginal, thought Tabatha.

An older woman, dressed in black leather (what else?) introduced herself as Charlotte. A well-groomed brunette, with red streaks, who said she was the host of a local sex-toy shop called Penny's. Tabatha knew the one as she'd made a point of avoiding it for the last fifteen years.

Charlotte clapped her hands and said in was time to begin. They all sat down, in nervous anticipation.
“I've put a catologue on each of your chairs. And I will simply be talking about each item in it. Mainly vibrators. But we do stock other items such as lingerie, hand-cuffs, edible undies – that kind of thing...” Nervous laugher from all. Charlotte proceeded to explain what was what.

The vibrators came in so many shapes and sizes, and some had some ridiculous names. Some buzzed, some whirled, some had scary-looking bits on the end of them. And some were insanely huge. They were passed around and they all marveled how lovely they were to touch – almost as good as the real thing. Tabatha's cheeks glowed red at that. She knew that they all thought that she hadn't of course – hadn't ever seen a real one. And they were right. She was brought up by her Mum since she was three years old so there had been no nudity from the male side of things in her house. She'd had two boyfriends in college but they'd dumped her once they realised she wasn't going there. She knew the question was coming. How to deal with this one? It would be all over work on Monday that she was a twenty eight year old Virgin. She skulled a glass of wine lying next to her. She remembered a DVD she watched recently – all she had to do was put in her name and tell the story as she remembered it.

“Donald, he was my first” she smiled “An older man. Much older.”
Bronwyn's mouth formed an “oh” and The Tight Threesome sat there in disbelief.
“You've never mentioned any, er, suitors before” said Chris, her arms crossed and in full interrogation pose.
“Well I couldn't could I” she almost whispered “He's married.”
There were lots of ooooooohs!
”Well, what happened? Didn't leave his wife for you love? “ Bronwyn touched her arm.
“No, no” said Tabatha, gulping back her second glass “I used him. Picked him because he was married. It wasn't about love for me. But poor Donald...”
Bronwyn and The Tight Threesome exchanged looks of surprise.

“Anyway, Oliver was my next conquest. He was French canadian. Loved the accent but too soppy for me. Poetry is overratred, you know. So, out the door he went. Next was Gary. Sport jock. Great in the sack. But boring as out of it. Next was Philip. Loaded he was. Foreplay was great at all these exquisite restaurants but I soon tired of the wining and dining – I wanted something more real. Which is, where I'm at today. You know, waiting for someone worthwhile. I've kissed too many frogs I'm sure you know what I mean girls...” she finished dramatically making sure she made eye contact with The Tight Threesome. They all nodded sympathically.
Browyn held up her ring finger “It's worth the wait girls” she smiled proudly as she waved her rocks around the room.

Had they really brought all that? Tabatha was shocked at herself. No wonder she'd steered clear of wine. Clearly her imagination went into over-drive on the stuff.

Chris was eyeing her suspiciously. “We've worked with you for two years and you've never mentioned any of this before...”
Tabatha held up her hand as if to silence her “I don't usually make a habit of kissing and telling. But I trust ladies that my secrets are safe in this room.” They all nodded though she knew damn well by Monday that her sordid fake past would be spread around the office as fast as chinese whispers in a playground.

The Garage Sale

Entered in The Whakatane Friends of the Library Short Story Competition 2007.
The magic of de-cluttering.
"Being able to write natural dialogue is a rare talent, but this author has the gift. I enjoyed reading The Garage Sale, and while I found the plot a little predictable, the style of writing and skill elevated this story to a healthy mid-field position (a very happy place to be). "

Eva heard the sound of gravel crunching, as someone walked up her driveway. She checked her watch. Eight-twenty a.m. She hadn't even put the signs out for her advertised eight-thirty start for her garage sale yet. An eldery gentleman stood before her.
“Do you have any gardening books?” he asked.
“Sorry, no” she said “I'm not much of a gardener.” He nodded then proceeded to rummage through her box of books anyway. He picked one up and smiled. It was a relationship self-help book. She grimaced as he caught her eye.
“Didn't help me much.” she said, shaking her head and laughing.
The eldery gentleman took in everything that was in the sale in one long sweep. Most of the gear was that of a man's. Shirts, sports gear, records – it was almost as though you could piece together who the character was whose gear was being sold.
“What happened?” he found himself asking.
“An accident...” she trialed off “He...it was a car accident.”
“I'm so sorry,” he said “But isn't having this all out like this rather difficult love? Couldn't you have taken it all to the Salvation Army?”
“Could have” she said “Only, although he died and it was tragic, we were almost over. Before it happened...his accident...there was another woman. I just think seeing for sure that this stuff is going will help me, you know, get over it.”
“Right” he said “Well good luck lass.” He patted her on the shoulder and headed off down the driveway. Eva walked after him and put out the signs.

Within seconds the hoards started to arrive. There were the regulars who scanned garage sales on a weekly basis, either hunting for particular items or wanting to find a great bargain. There were those who just fancied a good old nosey or wanted to spend a little bit of cash on nothing in particular. It was a strange process watching people pick up her personal items that Eva had rejected herself, only to see them put them down again and the rejector then walking away. Or some would buy things she was sure were meant for the tip.
“You a boarder then?”
Eva looked up to see an outdoorsy guy with wild brown hair topped off with a backwards cap, holding up her snowboot boots.
“Was” she managed “I haven't been boarding for years.”
“They're pretty old” he said “But I like the odd retro pair for the shop. How much?”
“Five dollars” she said.
A lined browned masculine hand handed her a fiver.“Thanks” she said as she pocketed it.
“It's meant to be a great Winter – lots of powder. You ought to get back on the horse again.”
He winked, she smiled and he walked off with the boots.

As the sporty stranger crunched off down her driveway, Eva allowed herself to reflect a little. Seeing the boots go seemed to bring up an assortment of feelings. He'd bought her those boots a lifetime ago. It was one of the few things he'd ever bought her, as a gift. They were in a way the last concrete, and sentimental link to a past that was long gone. The boots represented the fun side of their rocky and treachous union. When she'd worn those, their relationship altered. On this sunny Autumn day she reflected how it had been like magic gliding down the slopes together.

“Ahem” a man cleared his throat. “These records, twenty dollars for the lot?” Eva looked to see what the young man in his early twenties with mild acne was showing her. Retro music. Bet he's a DJ, she thought to herself. He'd picked out The Cure, Michael Jackson, The Beastie Boys, The Clash and Boney M. “Sure” she nodded. He handed her a twenty and then strided off down the driveway. Amazing, just like that. Five albumns that represented their courting days. The good old days, when their future was bright.

More things sold. As each item went, Eva felt a little lighter. Sure she could have just taken it all to the Sallies – or the dump. But she was making a little bit of cash from the garage sale and it was proving to be a form of therapy for her.

Then she turned up. Eva knew instantly it was her. She'd seen her at the funeral, the mystery blonde standing awkwardly alone, seemingly knowing noone at the back of the church. Eva couldn't believe she'd even come. And now, it was beyond belief that she was actually on her property.

She stood right before her.
“Hi Eva” she said casually as if they were friends or at the very least, acquaintances. “Um – Holly” she said, stretching out a pale hand.
Eva looked at the white hand, limp, like a dead fish and didn't react.
“Hi” she said, resisting screaming What the hell are you doing here??!! at her.
“I saw the ad in the paper. I, er, recognised the address” She coughed nervously “Mind if I have a quick look?”
Eva shot her one of her worst evil looks. “I do mind” she heard herself saying “I think it best you leave.” Holly took this in, and nodded. Trembling, she seemed to be immobilised. “It's just, I don't have anything of his, I just thought...” she looked around helplessly.
“Well the problem is Holly, what you see around you are remnants of my life with him. Not yours. Everything here is from our time together. From the beginning – to the end.” She shot her another evil look.
Holly nodded. “I understand” she said, a tear trickling down her face. A white hand came up and hurriedly wiped it away. “I'm sorry...” and she turned on her heels.

In that moment Eva realised that she had a decade or more of memories before her. Sure they'd been tainted because of recent events, but they were all hers, theirs. Perhaps the only memory Holly had was of the dirty sheets her lover had left behind. Perhaps she had nothing tangible.

“Wait...” Eva ran half-way down the driveway and tapped Holly on the back. “You can have this.” Holly looked down as Eva opened her hand to reveal a watch. Holly smiled as clearly she recognised it. “Thank you” she said. The two women looked at each other for a few seconds in silence.
“Are you really going to get rid of it all? Because of me? “ Holly bravely asked.
“Yes I am” said Eva “But not because of you. He and I had a real life together. What you and he had was fleeting. Our relationship finished long before you, long before he died.”
“Right” muttered Holly, holding on to the watch tightly.
“Well I better get back to it.” said Eva.
“Of course, thanks for the watch” said Holly as she disappeared down the driveway.

An hour later as the hoards stopped, Eva brought in the signs. She'd made close to two hundred dollars. That afternoon she found herself in a sports shop. She walked past the snowboards and took in the large range of skis before her.
“You a skiier then?” it was the guy from the garage sale that morning.
“Yes, I think I am.” she smiled.
“It's meant to be a great Winter this year – lots of powder” he said, clearly not remembering her from the garage sale.
“Sounds great.” she found herself saying.

The Magic of Twilight

Entered in The Page and Blackmore Short Story Competition 2007. Judged by Owen Marshall
An inconvenience leads to possibilities in love.
"A competent light romance tale which tends to become overly sentimental towards the end. "

Geneva tilted her head back so she could relish the feeling of the wind blowing through her hair as she pedalled. It was twilight, her favourite time of night and the beginning of a brand new year. An opportunity to build a bigger, brighter future. Starting with this bike ride. No more toffee pops on the couch while watching bad television.

Clunk. Oh no. Her legs weren't going anywhere. Geneva stopped and sure enough, there was the chain dangling on the footpath like a legless drunk. Nothing she could do but walk the bike home. There was a bit of traffic on the main road in suburbia as it was Friday night. She felt the “will-you-look-at-that-woman” looks but ignored them.

“Nice night for a walk ...with a bike!” The husky American voice startled her. Surburbian New Zealand was hardly a place for tourist attractions. She turned around and was taken aback to see a good-looking, thirty-something dark-haired man smiling at her.
“Hank” he said, offering his hand
“Geneva” she said, shaking it arkwardly.
“ I'm in town for a wedding.”
Her expression must have been “oh.”
“Not my wedding” he winked. “You wouldn't know if there was a decent bar round these parts would you?”
These parts? He may as well have been walking the streets with a horse.
“Well actually there is somewhere – about ten minutes from here. Kind of lame...” he smiled in amusement. “ Well, the beers okay.” she managed to smile.
“Care to show me the way?” he asked, eyebrows high, and his face on the brink of breaking into a smile. “I have a night off from my bestman duties. Tomorrow's the stag night. Thought I better sample some of this kiwi beer so I know what I'm doing.” She took one out-of-body look at herself decked in sweatpants, disrevelled hair from her helmet and shook her head. “I'm heading the opposite way. But it's easy to find – just walk straight down the next turn-off on the right for ten minutes.”
“Shame” he said “You sure know how to let a visitor from out of town down. Well then, if you don't want to come along tonight perhaps tomorrow night then, just as the party's getting warmed up?”
Geneva hesitated. She was so over the bar scene. Really she just wanted to slow down and enjoy the company of a good man with simple nights in. Crikey – she really was sounding the thirty-two years of age that she was. But then she looked at Hank, with his perfect American white teeth and his adorable yankee accent.
“Okay then” Geneva smiled “Tomorrow night it is.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “ See you then Geneva. 7pm. Don't be late!”

Geneva fingered through her wardrobe. What do you wear when you are going on a date with a hot American to a stag party of all things? She didn't want to be too slutty. So the mini skirts, even though they looked good on her, her legs being her stand-out feature – nope – it would just send the wrong message. Afterall, she really didn't fancy jumping out of a cake...So, something not so revealing...Perhaps the capri pants with the fitted blouse would be a good ensemble? On second thoughts, when she put it on it just seemed to scream boring office worker and no, you won't be getting a kiss from me tonight. She didn't want to look slutty but then she didn't want to appear fridgid either...Then, there it was – a classic shift dress with a bow detail at the waist - sexy and simple. Next the makeup. She didn't want to look like she'd been paid to attend the stag party, after all. So Geneva opted for the natural look. Minimal makeup but she danced her eyes up with eye-shadow and mascara. Next went lip-gloss on her lips. She smacked her lips together – not bad!

Geneva stood at the door of the local and suddenly clicked that this was obviously a huge wedding. Then Hank was handing her a glass of champagne “Thought it was going to be a little quieter than this?” She nodded. “ Tom tying the knot is a big deal to this lot – his whole footie team is over there, half his school here. Amazing he ever travelled to America and met yours truly huh.” She nodded as yes, she had wondered how Hank fitted in. “I'm the son of the host family Tom stayed with when he did a school exchange.” “We were like brothers” he added. “Speak of the devil...” and Tom wandered over. Blonde hair, blue eyes – he was the thinking girls jock fantasy. He reeked of push-ups, chin-ups, crunchies and no doubt had a rock-hard body. But he didn't take her fancy. “Tom, this is Geneva” Hank said “Hey” said Tom “So are you going to be Hank's date to my wedding?” Her look must have said it all. “Hmmm...” she said looking at Hank. “Tom!” Hank gave him a blokey slap “I was waiting til she'd had at least one drink before I asked her.” They all roared with laughter at that.
“So? “ said Hank “Even though we've known each other for a whole ten minutes all up – would you like to come to a wedding on Saturday? Please say yes, I'm a decent guy and quite desperate.”
“Sure” she smiled. There could be worse things to do on Saturday night than going to a wedding.
“Excellent!” He punched the air enthusiatically.

Clink. The wedding guests held their up their champagne flutes to the bride and groom. Hank had given a hilarious speech covering some of the experiences he and Tom had had in America. And of course there were references to Janine who Tom had met at highschool that no american girls had ever compared to. There were lots of awwwws when Hank said that, in his charming American way.

Geneva felt a hand on her shoulder. “I'm all yours now” Hank beamed. “My best man duties are over with – so – care to dance?” With that he held out his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Geneva?” he said. Somehow she never got sick of hearing her name in his American accent. “Yes, Hank?” she smiled as they walked to the dance floor. “ I'm leaving in two days...” his voice trialed off. Of course! She'd gotten so caught up in this whirlwind romance that she'd forgotten that Hank didn't actually live here – that he'd actually be leaving soon She felt a lump in her throat. Ridiculous! She'd known him for a whole forty-eight hours. “Anyway” he said turning her head with his hand so she was forced to look directly into his eyes. “I was hoping you might like to join me for a day trip tomorrow. Just the two of us?” That took Geneva by surprise. “Sure, that would be great .” Hank smiled, picked up her hand and kissed it. As they danced closely to the sounds of the jazz band, Geneva could feel her heart pounding in her chest, just like the leading lady in a Mills and Boon novel.

Geneva and Hank went on a picnic where they spent hours drinking wine and talking. They had more in common than they perhaps originally thought – both book-worms who liked to go on long walks. Neither of them liked dogs. At the end of the day Hank looked at her, his eyes misting up a little. “Geneva” he said “Tomorrow my heart will be broken, when I fly back home. It has been the most amazing day...”
She smiled and wiped back a tear too. “I know” she sighed.
They agreed to keep in touch by email and phone calls. Geneva hoped to make it to America within the next six months. She needed time to save and to accrue some leave.

Hank dropped Geneva off at her house early that evening. He had an early flight the next day. They kissed by her front gate and hugged like the lovers they wanted to be. Then Geneva found herself inside her flat. Her bike, chain fixed, stood invitingly in the hallway. Ten minutes later she pedalled off into the twilight. But the magic of the twilight had gone. All she could think of was that Hank would be in the sky tomorrow heading further and further away from her as each second passed. She wiped away an escapee tear and pedalled faster, wondering how different she'd be feeling now if the chain had never come off her bike in the first place.

Gone Fishing

Entered in South Island Writers' Assocation Open Short Story Competition 2007.
Who knows who you might reel in if you give it a go.
"This is a good story with heaps of potential. All it needs is a bit of tweaking here and there."

Sam rushed home in a break from the video shop she worked at. Pie and soft-drink in hand, the plan was to scoff her lunch down on the couch while she watched Oprah. Yet the minute she stood outside the door, jangling her keys, something caused her to pause. The front door was slightly ajar, and the pearls of laughter emananting from inside the apartment hit her right in the guts. Sam and her sickened stomach should have just backed out then and there, since she knew what was coming - she had seen the cheesy scene played a hundred times before. Yet some overwhelming need in her beckoned her to inch closer towards the laughter. Sam drew her breath and whipped the bedroom door open wide.

And there they were.

Not completely unclothed like she might have expected, but intimate enough. Sam shook her head, and walked out of the bedroom, clutching her stomach. It was too much, and she was sure she was going to hurl. Outside she gathered herself together for a minute as really she didn't want to come back here again to this tainted apartment, ever. So she sucked in her breath, grabbed her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and walked quickly around the bedroom as the awkward couple watched, packing her suitcase, pulling her clothes out of the wardrobe straight off the hangers and stuffing them into the suitcase – there was simply no time to be standing there folding clothes. She flung her tampons, toothbrush and the toothpaste from the bathroom into a toilet bag. Yeah, he could go and buy another tube of toothpaste. Surely it wasn't a bad deal from his end– one tube of toothpaste in exchange for sleazy behaviour. Incredibly, she managed to pack within minutes. Or so it seemed. Amazing what a bit of adrendlin could do for a girl.

And him in the background. “Wait, let's talk this over. We can figure this out...” all the usual excuses. Even he was embarrassed at how unoriginal and cliched he sounded.

“Thanks” Sam said, suitcase in one hand while she smoothed her hair with her other hand while she
caught her breath “For our time together. This ending sucks. But oh well, it's over then. So I'll just leave you and...thingamajig to it then...” Thingamajig let out a nervous giggle. Sam wanted to slap her, oh-so-badly, but she managed to restrain herself.

She turned on her heels and breezed out of the bedroom.

In the seconds it had taken Sam to walk out of the warehouse apartment they had briefly resided in together, and onto the street, their relationship was now history. Just like that. Funny how one minute someone could be your everything and then they were - your nothing. She shook her head in disbelief for a second. It was time to move on – then and there.

Sam walked fast, dragging her suitcase, trying so very hard to fight back the tears in public. Dammit, it was lunchtime and she felt just a bit conspicious as workers on their breaks took in the sight of a mid-twenties woman, dressed in her video store t-shirt, dragging a suitcase down the street. Damn the staring. Sam escaped into a public toilet and her insides welled up like she couldn't believe and she exploded into enormous sobs that came from the depths of her being. She blew her nose loudly with the scratchy toilet paper often found in public loos and her mind wandered back to that first night, wondering how she'd gotten from there – to here...

It was a hot summer's night in the mid-nineties, and Sam was the first to admit she'd had a few too many. Beer, wine, and a couple of shots. Okay, maybe more than just a few too many. She'd had her hair cut that day and was relishing the confidence her new look gave her. Her jeans fitted her snuggly, her t-shirt showed off her toned arms. She felt hip and trendy and proud to be twenty-five.

The bar was packed, and the music was pumping loudly. Coloured lights playfully twirled on the dance-floor and Sam was on fire. Moving On Up by the M People played, one of her favourite
dance tracks, and she was having a ball. She was dancing with Mr Two-Step, one of those guys who didn't know how to break out of the old side-to-side move. And he was slightly out-of-time. Ok, very out. Kind of cute though - in a bank teller kind of a way.

The song ended, Sam thanked Mr Two-Step and looked around for her friends. There they were. Lola at the bar, chatting up the barman. Again. Sonya standing nearby sipping a drink, coolly surveying the surroundings. Sam ordered three shots of black zumbucca. She threw one down the bar to Lola, gave her a wink and then handed one to Sonya. Sonya nodded thanks. And then the lights came on. Curse those three am curfews. And why did the lights have to be on full? Everyone knew how hideous the average person looked at that hour. The girls with their unstyled hair, melted foundation, exposed zits, smudged mascara, and non-existent lipstick. Then there were some whose bodysuits leaked out of jeans that the drunken wearer had forgotten to tuck in during her last pitstop to the loo. And the guys didn't look so great either at that hour with their greasy hair and sweaty underarms. But then the majority of the patrons left at that hour had their beer-goggles on. Small details like that were overlooked.

So Sam, Lola, and Sonya joined arms together, wondering what they might do next as they wondered along Courtenay Place like the rest of the partiers in Wellington, searching for something else to do. It was late yet these three ladies had only just begun. They'd been dancing up a storm and weren't ready to slow down.

They turned around a corner and literally bumped into three guys who also seemed to be having a good time. A little bit of chit-chat on the street and then they were drinking dacquiris in a downtown warehouse-style apartment. Sam couldn't believe it. It was so glam, so american sitcom. Like being Gone Fishing Page Four
on Friends or in Seinfeld's apartment. Except this was Wellington, New Zealand, not New York. Still, close enough.

“I like your hair” he said. She turned and there he was. Schwing! Dimples, tanned skin, long hair and a brown leather jacket.

”Thanks” she said “You know a few hours ago it was down to here...” she said touching the middle of her back. And with that he touched the exact spot her hand had just left and she knew then, in that moment, that she was screwed. She may as well have pulled her heart right out and handed it to him on a platter.

From the start it was all too good to be true. She got wooed in ways she'd never been wooed before. Flowers, wine, and many a dinner out. Romantic nights in at his warehouse apartment listening to Van Morrison. Weeks turned into months and before she knew it, Sam had moved in. Why not, he said, you're here most nights anyway. She didn't own much, since she'd always claimed to be materially-adverse, so it wasn't a major deal. Just Sam and her toothbush, tampons and a few changes of clothes. She'd just naturally assumed that moving in meant that things had changed gears a little. How wrong was she...

There was a loud knock outside the public loo door. Sam came back to reality. She dabbed under her eyes, got out her compact to check her face, then closed it deciding it was just not that important. She opened the door and a guy stood outside. For a moment she was taken aback. Oh yeah, unisex public loos – it was so Ally McBeal.

The guy looked vaguely familiar. Oh yeah – Mr Two-Step! She smiled, he smiled. “You going to be hitting the town this Friday? “ he asked. “Why not? “ she shrugged and as she walked out, dragging her suitcase across the road into the video store she worked at, her co-workers with questions written all over their faces, with Mr Two-Step watching her all the way, she knew was going to be okay.

Seemed there were plenty of fish in the sea. She just needed to go out fishing again. Soon.

Tommy

Entered in The Romance Writers New Zealand (Nelson Branch) Valentines Day Romantic Short Story Competition 2006.
Love comes in many shapes and forms.
"Characteriaation is excellent. We know a great deal about Tommy and our heroine."

It wasn’t love at first sight. He was almost plain to look at. Medium build. A what-you-see is what-you-get type. No bells and whistles. He’d been around the block yet she liked that he had a history. He was clearly loyal, reliable and willing to go that extra mile. He simply had all the credentials she wanted.

Tommy didn’t say much but she immediately felt at ease in his company. They naturally fitted together so their relationship was a comfortable one from the start. She was slightly more dominating, leading the way a lot of the time. And this suited them both.

When they met she was a bit lost in life. Having recently returned to New Zealand after several years overseas, she felt displaced. She’d left a lot behind and was still reeling from the shock. It was like experiencing culture shock in her home country. It was going to take time to get reacquainted with New Zealand again.

She and Tommy went on many trips throughout the land of the long white cloud. They moved a few times. He willingly followed as she unconsciously searched for a town she could settle in. Their taste in music was similar and they shared many a tune on the open road. He never seemed to mind when she sang uproariously off key to songs playing on the radio.

Tommy was always at her side, supporting her in whatever decision she’d make that affected them. Job and career changes. And just because changes. He seemed to enjoy a change as much as she did. Gradually she fell in love with New Zealand again and his quiet influence had a lot to do with it.

It felt as though he had been a part of her life for so long that she assumed things would always continue the way they had. It was such an easy relationship that it could be said that she took him for granted.

And so the day he hurt himself and his future was unclear came as a devastating blow. It was a moment in time she’d never forget. The car in front braked suddenly and they crashed into it. She sat stunned in the drivers’ seat for a few minutes. The driver from the other car knocked on her window and asked her if she was okay. She wiped away a runaway tear and nodded yes. But Tommy…
Then she got the news that he was going to be okay. He’d be up and about in a few weeks. She got off the phone, her cheeks a rosy glow. Tomorrow she could go and pick up her car from the repair shop. Her Tommy was going to be fine.

Blueberry Muffins

Entered in a Short Story Competition 2007. (forgotten which one!)
A reminder of how simple , thoughtful exchanges provide some comfort in our times of need.

Seagulls squawked above, cars whizzed by. But it was the sound of the wind rustling softly through the trees outside that comforted her the most as she sat motionless in her armchair. A gentle reminder that she was just a wee speck in the grand scheme of things. Carol got out of her armchair, walked the short distance to her small kitchen and flicked the jug on. A cuppa always did the trick.

A clock ticked methodically away in the kitchen, and the jug whistled happily away. Her dog Hector lay on his side, snoring peacefully without a care in the world as Peanut the cat watched with slitted eyes from her perch on the arm of her favourite armchair.

Carol went to the pantry and chose her favourite mug. She'd been given it by one of her grandkids. Probably from a $2 shop. It said “To The Best Nana In The World”. Silly, but somehow it always cheered her up. Even though two year old Sophie wouldn't have even known what the brightly-coloured letters meant. Carol put in a tea-bag. It was always bell tea. She'd tried those herbal teas but they weren't very appealing at all. Her daughter Laura was always trying to get her to try them. Putrid. Bob always said that they tasted like dish-washing water. Dear Bob...she sure missed sharing cups of tea with Bob.

Damn it. She was all out of gingernuts! Bob had always made sure they had a good stock of gingernuts in the pantry. He didn't need any fancy biscuits and used to say a cup of tea without a gingernut was like apple pie without cream. How right he was. Carol wiped an escapee tear away, and shook her head. Pull yourself together girl.

With a violent thud the jug switched her off. Carol fingered the photo in the silver frame on the kitchen sill of a tanned and lined Bob proud as punch holding up a huge snapper that he'd caught in the sounds just last Summer. Just two months before... Now, stop that, don't go upsetting yourself again.

There was a rat-a-tat-tat at the door. Hector woke up with a start and rushed to the door, barking madly. Shhhh Hector. Peanut jumped off her armchair and fled around the corner, her tail fluffed up in annoyance. Carol sucked in her breath and smoothed her skirt. She looked down at her well-loved baby-pink fluffy slippers, sighed, and then decided to leave them on. She sure hoped it wasn't The Stevens. They meant well, but she wasn't up to all that good-neighbourly garbage.

Oh, Billie. Thank goodness. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Dear Billie with her slightly disrevelled blonde bob and her mismatched red skirt and pink jacket. She was her daughter's age but she was like an old soul. Probably because she'd had her own share of woes in her short lifetime. Billie held out a plate of freshly baked muffins.

“I made these for you.”

“Thanks love. Come in. I was just about to...Would you like a cuppa?” asked Carol.

“That would be lovely” smiled Billie.

So Carol went to the pantry and got out another cup. Without looking she grabbed “I Love You Grandad”. She hesitated for a second and then put in a bag of earl grey tea, Billie's tea of choice. She passed it to Billie, avoiding eye contact for a moment. Billie looked at the cup and smiled.

“How are you?” Billie touched her arm lightly. It was hard to not look up then.
Carol cleared her throat and shook her head. “I, um, gosh those muffins look scrumptious – blueberry are they?”

Billie nodded. She understood. She'd lost her husband four years ago and knew that sometimes company was all you wanted – not the words.
And so they sat down in the armchairs that enveloped the occupant like a huge hug, the muffins before them on the formica coffee table, their cups of tea steaming. Seagulls squawked above, cars whizzed by. And the wind rustled softly through the trees outside.

The Valentine's Grinch

Entered in The Romance Writers New Zealand (Nelson Branch) Valentines Day Romantic Short Story Competition 2005.
Even the cynical need love. And you never know where you might find it.
"A strongly plot-driven tale, well suited to a competition such as this - it just missed the cut."

It seems unlikely that Brad Pitt is going to come knocking on her door anytime soon. So Tania thinks of calling in sick. Better than going into work to be faced with the gleeful faces of her female co-workers who had been swamped with a dozen red roses, ridiculous-looking soft toys emblazoned with hearts and acres of chocolate littering their desks.

Tania creeps into work. She hides beneath the Valentine Day paraphernalia that oozes unsubtly from Debbie's desk. Tania is pretty. Bright. Funny. So why did a rose or a goofy toy on Valentines Day have to validate this? She bought chocolate for herself every day. She didn't need some fantasy man to buy it for her.

"SO, who has an admirer THIS year?!" Debbie holds a single red rose. "Let me see" Tania snatches the red rose, feeling all eyes on her.

A card falls out. Debbie's eyebrow goes up. Tania swivels around in her chair and slowly opens the card. "Happy Valentines Day from a secret admirer." Great - so who the hell IS her secret admirer? No-one here I hope she thinks. But she scans the room just in case. Most were off the market. She cannot imagine Bernard The IT Guy wooing anything beside his computer. Jason The Office Flirt? Not likely since she hadn't fallen for any of his one-liners. Unless? Accountant Guy. Oh I hope not she cringes. Too friendly. Too keen. But in reality who else would it be from?

This had to be worse than NOTHING coming her way. At least she didn't have to be plagued with scenarios of ways in which she could avoid Accountant Guy all day - and eventually fob him off.

At five o'clock a scurry of women exit with their Valentines goodies. The annual cry from Debbie. "Not sure I can carry ALL this to the car…" And the annual response - every man in the office clambering to get to her desk like she was the last beer in the fridge on a hot summers day.

"You need a hand with your rose?" She was about to swipe back at the hurtful comment. It's Accountant Guy.
"Do you know why I admire you?" he says. She shakes her head, blushing. "For being who you are - you don't try to be anything you're not".
"Th-anks" she says "…for the rose - it's beautiful." "Not as beautiful as you." How corny - yet how sweet.
"I'm Derek" he stretches out a strong, brown hand. And beneath those glasses is a sweet, wholesome yet kind face.
"Tania" she says, her hand shaking his. He nods I know.
"See you later then." And he's gone.

And then she realises that this could be something worth pursuing. She gathers up her handbag and the rose and rushes after Derek. "Do you want to do coffee?" she says, suddenly nervous. He smiles yes. Perhaps Valentines Day wasn't such a bad tradition after all, she smiles to herself. Who knew where this could go.

This is Amelia

Published in Sleepy-Hollow Stirs - an anthology of Nelson Writers for 2005. Edited by Mike Lipscombe.
An insight into a birthing experience with no gory bits!

20 March 2005, Sunday 10pmish
The blonde midwife stood silently shaking her head. Her bob neat, her eyes telling all. Her lined brown hands trembled as she took in what the machine was telling her. Clearly, things weren't good. My baby's heartbeat was high and she wasn't moving much. Seconds passed.

Was she going to say something?

I cleared my throat. "So this isn't good then?"

Well…?

Blondie couldn't look at me. "I'll get someone else."
She dashed out. I waited in anticipation. All was quiet on the maternity ward at Nelson Hospital. Eerily so. My obstetrician arrived on the scene and confirmed what I knew deep down had to be coming.
"We're going to have to get this baby out." And she flurried off after a few brief pokes and prods. I lay there frozen.

"Um - can I ring my husband?"
But the one portable phone in the ward wasn't working. Blondie was frazzled - but not apologetic. There wasn't time for this nonsense.
For the love of…
"Don't worry, I'll use my mobile."
I phoned my husband up, a tear sliding down my cheek.
"She's coming tonight." I managed to splutter out.The next bit happened fast.

A couple of the medical staff helped dress me in a checked hospital gown. It was shaped like a sack. My underwear was removed. My dignity was going the window fast. I wondered how much of this my roomie was taking in. Only a thin curtain separated us. This was unfolding just inches away from her.
I was wheeled to the delivery room to be prepped for theatre. I had a little cry - out of fear but also relief. Finally they were going to work out what was wrong and my baby was coming!

In the delivery room a team of medical staff buzzed around me. There was no time for introductions. I felt like I was on the Shortland Street set - although a slightly less glamorous version. Dr Warner was nowhere to be seen. Someone was shaving "down there" where they were going to make the bikini-line incision, a drip was put into my arm and other things were going on that I just couldn't take in. I met the asethesist - tall and tanned. Oh yeah - and fairly cute. Oh god - now what exactly was he going to see?

My husband appeared amongst the organized chaos. I was just one of a series of c-sections performed in Nelson hospital yet for me it was all frighteningly new.

As I was wheeled to theatre my husband walked beside me. He was strong and reassuring. He'd been asleep when I'd called and had hastily dressed to come to the hospital. He'd grabbed a T-shirt off the floor from his side of the bed. It was inside out. The asethesist was with us and had forgotten the code on the door. Another medical staff member didn't know it and so one of them ran off to find out. Crikey, this was an emergency situation and they didn't know the code on the door?! Hubby and I shared a bit of a laugh about that - at least it lightened the situation a little.

Once in theatre I had to get off the bed and on to the operating table.
They can't expect me to move when I'm in this much pain. Oh - they do…
Geeeeeez! Holy mother of…
I sat upright cowering forward in pain.
The asethesist was getting the epidural ready. He explained the procedure to me. Thank goodness it was inserted in my lower back so I didn't see it, as I hate needles. I was embarrassed slightly sitting there in the shapeless checked gown with my back exposed. I wasn't sure what the asethesist could see or what exactly was going to be exposed once I was on the operating table. I was warned that if the epidural didn't kick in fast enough that I would have to have a general. I lay down on the operating table and was covered with a material that resembled a horse blanket with my lower stomach region exposed. Then I was basted like a chicken with iodine.

The prick test was done and I was asked if I could feel anything. I could on my right side. A general was the go.
Oh God. Now I'm really scared. What if I don't wake up? Is this the end? And our baby...?

I asked my husband to pray for me. He held my hand. It was the closest to death I've ever been yet there wasn't much time to even take that in. Now I felt like I was on an episode of ER. The mask was put over my face and just like in the movies - everything went black.

21 March 2005, after midnight
When I woke up my husband was holding our daughter tightly in his arms. She was polished and perfect and unlike the images of newborns I'd seen where they were covered in gunk and blood. It was explained to me that an ovary was removed, as it was "torted and blackened." The only explanation given for why it happened was "bad luck".
My husband handed this angelic-looking baby to me whose birth I hadn't witnessed and said…
"This is Amelia."