He lay on his stomach and gazed at the small lights in the walls. When he closed his eyes, he saw fish swimming in the ocean. Small, silver fish, the sort he loved – to eat.
Danger! It lurked in among the seaweed forest.
Don’t go there! his friends warned. Something dark and frightening lives in there.
He could see its shadow coming closer and closer –
His eyes snapped open. He had been dreaming, but something had woken him. A jolt. Where was Caiwyn? The hologram clock on the wall showed him that several hours had slipped by. But what was time when you were a – sneal? He’d laugh, if he could. His family would –
He slid off the table and crashed against the wall. Pain returned.
What’s happening? Where’s Caiwyn?
The walls shuddered and pieces of ceiling and debris showered him. Then he knew that the thing he was in – a sky ship – had crashed into something.
What... is... happening?
He shuffled along the floor towards the door. The controls were too high for him to reach to open it. He tried to stand, but he was a sneal and couldn’t.
He heard screaming outside, in the corridor.
Please, don’t let it be space pirates! Not now. Not when I’m like... this!
Suddenly the door slid open and Braeg glanced up as two men strode into the lab. They stopped when they saw him. This had to be his worst nightmare. Waist-length dreadlocks and looped earrings dangling from noses told Braeg they were space pirates.
They smiled broadly when they saw him.
Noooooo! Please, I’m human! Caiwyn! Help me! The loud squeals came from his snout.
“Well, what have we here?” one said and licked his lips. “The captain will be happy with our find.”
The other raised his light gun and aimed.
No. Please, I’m human. You’re making a terrible mis –
Alteration was first published by Wyong Writers FAW in 2009 in their Signatures Magazine.
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It’s an Illusion
Joanne Pummer
A very ugly Troll lived in a cave by a river. The cave was hidden from the river bank by an overhanging rock, and it was hidden from the river by bushes which grew near the entrance.
He felt lonely in his cave, but he felt safe.
Just because Trolls are ugly, it doesn’t mean they’re fierce, but some people are afraid of Trolls and are cruel to them.
The Troll picked fruits and berries and ate them for his breakfast. He made bread from wheat which grew in the fields and ate the bread for his lunch. He caught fish in the river and cooked them for his dinner.
He had no friends and the only creatures he ever spoke to were billy goats.
One day, Little Billy Goat Gruff called out to Troll, “Take us to the other side of the river in your boat, Troll.”
Then Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff called out, “We want to eat the grass and grow fat.”
Great Big Billy Goat Gruff called out, “The grass is greener on the other side.”
“It’s an illusion,” said the Troll.
“What’s that?” asked Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
“The grass isn’t greener on the other side. It just looks that way from here,” said the Troll.
But the billy goats insisted, so Troll took them to the other side.
The next day, the billy goats called out to the Troll from the other side of the river.
“Take us to the other side of the river, Troll,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff.
“We want to eat the grass and grow fat,” said Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff.
“The grass is greener on the other side,” said Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
“It’s an illusion,” said the Troll.
“What’s that?” asked Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
“The grass isn’t greener on this side of the river. It just looks that way from the other side,” said the Troll.
But the billy goats insisted, so the Troll picked them up in his boat and brought them back.
Every day, the Troll ferried the billy goats back and forth across the river.
One day, the Troll had an idea.
“I am strong,” he thought, “and I am clever. I’ll build a bridge and then the billy goats can cross the river whenever they like.”
Building a bridge isn’t easy. It took the Troll a long time but, when it was finished, it was as strong and as graceful a bridge as you’d ever see.
The day after the bridge was finished, the billy goats asked the Troll to ferry them across the river. The Troll pointed to the bridge and said, “Now you can go to the other side of the river whenever you like.”
“Did you build that bridge for us?” asked Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
“Yes,” answered the Troll.
The billy goats looked at each other. Finally, Little Billy Goat Gruff spoke.
“Thank you, Troll,” he said.
“Thank you, Troll,” said Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff.
“Thank you, Troll,” said Great Big Billy Goat Gruff. “And if there is anything we can do for you, just let me know.”
Early the next morning, Little Billy Goat Gruff crossed the bridge.
Trip Trap Trip Trap went the bridge.
The Troll began to wake from his dreams.
Then Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff crossed the bridge.
Trip Trap Trip Trap went the bridge.
The Troll opened his eyes.
Then Great Big Billy Goat Gruff crossed the bridge.
Trip Trap Trip Trap went the bridge.
The Troll sat up in bed.
He didn’t really mind being woken up by the sound of billy goats crossing the bridge, but he did like to sleep late on Sunday mornings.
He asked the billy goats if they could cross a bit later on Sunday mornings and they said they’d be happy to.
On the Sunday after that, the billy goats crossed the bridge early, as usual, and woke up the Troll. The Troll reminded them of their promise.
“Sorry Troll,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff.
“We forgot,” said Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff.
“Billy goats have poor memories,” said Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
The next day the Troll put up a sign.
PLEASE DON’T CROSS THIS BRIDGE
BEFORE 9:00 AM ON SUNDAYS
The next Sunday morning, the billy goats crossed the bridge early, as usual, and woke up the Troll. Again he reminded the billy goats of their promise.
“Sorry Troll,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff.
“We didn’t know what was written on the sign,” said Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff.
“Billy goats can’t read,” said Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
There came a time when the Troll was sorry he’d ever built the bridge – and not because he could no longer sleep late on Sunday mornings. Something happened that was much more worrying than that.
People started coming to Troll’s bridge.
Some of them tied ropes around their ankles and dived off the bridge.
The Troll lived in the cave on the river bank to get away from people, but now crowds of them gathered, just above his cave, to watch the bungee jumpers. And people meant trouble for an ugly Troll.
One day, a man appeared at the cave entrance. Troll looked up and saw his big frame silhouetted against the sun at the cave entrance.
“A Troll!” said the man, as he bent down and entered the cave.
“We don’t want ugly Trolls around here! Why don’t you find somewhere else to live?”
He kicked over a chair. He pushed a lamp off a table and it smashed to the floor.
The Troll didn’t know what to do. Then he remembered he had a friend who would help him. Ugly Trolls aren’t used to having friends.
He called out at the top of his voice, “Help me, Great Big Billy Goat Gruff... Hellllp!”
The man climbed up the river
bank and walked across the bridge. Suddenly, he heard the sound of galloping hooves and he felt the bridge shake beneath his feet.
The man looked around and all he could see was the top of the Great Big Billy Goat’s head and the tips of his horns glinting in the sunlight. He was afraid and he started to run.
The Troll looked up from his cave and he was afraid too – afraid that the bridge would shake to pieces under Great Big Billy Goat Gruff’s great big thundering hooves.
The man ran fast, but that billy goat ran faster. When he caught up with the man, Great Big Billy Goat Gruff butted him so hard with his great big horns that he flew off the bridge and fell down, down, down to the water below.
The man took a long time to come to the surface and struggle to the river bank. When he dragged himself out of the water, Great Big Billy Goat Gruff was waiting for him.
“You forgot to tie the rope around your ankles!” laughed Great Big Billy Goat Gruff. “And now, young man, you’re not leaving here until you’ve repaired the damage you did to Troll’s cave.”
If you’d been watching the river bank the next day, you’d have seen a man repairing a chair and you would have smelled the warm bread that the Troll had baked for their lunch.
And if you’d watched the day after that, you’d have seen a man and a Troll fishing from a boat on the river.
On the third day, the man told the Troll he had finished his work and he was going home.
“I’m very sorry for what I did,” he said.
“Come and visit me whenever you like,” said the Troll.
One Sunday morning, Great Big Billy Goat Gruff raised his great head and looked across to the other side of the river. “Let’s cross to the other side,” he said. “The grass is greener over there.”
“It’s an illusion,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff.
“What’s that?” asked Great Big Billy Goat Gruff.
“The grass isn’t greener on the other side. It just looks that way from here,” answered Little Billy Goat Gruff.
“It’s a bit like Troll, really,” said Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff.
The other two billy goats were puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“He looks fierce, but he isn’t,” Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff explained. “Speaking of Troll, shouldn’t we wait a while before we cross the bridge so we don’t wake him up?”
Great Big Billy Goat Gruff thought for a while and finally he said, “Middle Sized Billy Goat Gruff is right. We should wait a while before we cross the bridge. But as for this illusion, I’ve got two good eyes and I can see that the grass is greener on the other side.”
“It isn’t,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff.
So Troll was awakened to a new sound that morning.
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Be quiet, you two. You’ll wake up Troll!”
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A Present from Paris
Carole Lander
Rosie stood uncertainly on the pavement, looking ahead to where the road forked. Both choices looked the same. Tall, white buildings flanked the boulevards. Luxurious French department stores on the ground floor invited passing shoppers in. But the Eiffel Tower was nowhere in sight. What was she going to do? Ask someone? Toss a coin? Look at the map again? Tears welled up in her eyes.
This was not how she had planned her secret excursion. Rosie had sneaked out of the hotel before breakfast, hoping to find the famous tower. But she hadn’t realised how difficult it was to get about on her own in a foreign city and her few French words didn’t seem enough to get her out of this dilemma. Rosie wasn’t even sure that she could find her way back to the hotel. She hoped the tower was only a short walk away, but all the streets seemed identical.
She had so longed to see the famous Parisian icon that appeared in all the Madeline books she loved to read with her Mimi. When she was born, her father’s mother had said, “I’m not ready to be called Grandma. I want to be called Mimi. It’s French.”
She often told Rosie, “When I was a young woman I went to Paris and when I retire I’m going back for another visit,” and she taught Rosie the few French words and phrases that she knew.
Mimi was over the moon when she heard that Rosie would be visiting Paris with Dad. At the airport, Rosie promised to bring back a special present for Mimi.
“I’ll bring you something from the Eiffel Tower,” she said.
“Just bring me a photo of you in front of it!” was the answer as Mimi tearfully waved goodbye.
Rosie was thinking of Mimi now to cheer herself up. Her grandmother was back in Australia in their small country town and probably imagining Rosie having a good time. How wrong she was! Traffic honked at her. People rushed by. Her adventure was becoming a nightmare.
She couldn’t even say she was really enjoying this holiday.
Her dad had just remarried after being separated from her mum for years. Rosie had grown accustomed to her split life – spending alternate weeks with each parent. Mum had re-partnered earlier and she had learned to accept the stepfather but she and her real dad had developed a special relationship and now this new woman had come between them.
“The holiday will bring us all together,” Dad had said, flashing his new wife, Judy, a conciliatory smile. Rosie’s stepmother had pursed her lips noncommittally.
Now Rosie was firmly of the opinion that the lovebirds just wanted a honeymoon. Why had they brought her along? All they wanted to do was visit museums, look at old paintings or ridiculous modern works of art that they would talk about endlessly over meals. Surely they knew before they came that a twelve year old girl wouldn’t be the slightest bit interested.
Back at the hotel, they would disappear into their bedroom for siestas, telling her to read or watch television for a while.
“They must think I’m stupid. I know what they’re up to,” Rosie muttered to herself as she stood there on the street. The tears were partly due to her anger against them but mainly because she was clearly lost.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est, ma petite?” said a voice behind her.
Rosie turned. The woman looked as though she had walked out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
“’Ave you lost your way?” she went on, speaking with a thick but delightful accent.
Gulping back the tears and fighting off the desire to touch the beautiful clothes on her new guardian angel, Rosie blurted out her story.
“Pas de problème, chérie,” said the lady. “Je suis Sophie. Dry your tears. I just ’ave time to take you back. You know ze name of your hotel?”
That at least Rosie knew. After a quick search on Sophie’s phone to find directions, they set off together.
“Oh thank you, merci,” said Rosie, almost skipping in her sudden relief. They walked back the way she had come.
Rosie longed to tell Sophie how smart she looked and discuss fashion with her. She might be young but her own taste in dress was well formed. At home, she was an expert in oppshopping and putting together interesting combinations of outfits and accessories. Mimi often said that she would be a fashion designer in Paris one day. But here she was in jeans and runners, looking like every tourist in Europe and with no distinguishing features to prove her case.
Sophie’s high heeled shoes click-clacked along the pavement. They were passing shop windows where mannequins flaunted the latest line in Paris mode. Rosie’s steps slowed to gaze at them and Sophie obligingly paused to wait for her.
“Rosie, I’m sorry. I must ’urry. I ’ave to get to work.”
They picked up the pace.
Rosie was convinced that Sophie was a fashion model. She would have been very disappointed to learn that her heroine worked in an insurance office and spent the day behind a computer.
Finally they arrived at the Hotel Marignan.
“Voilà,” said
Sophie. She kissed Rosie quickly on both cheeks, and then disappeared through the revolving doors and out of Rosie’s life.
“Can you stay…?” said Rosie, plaintively.
It was too late. Sophie was gone.
Rosiee turned. Coming towards her across the foyer was her father. His face was flushed. Her stepmother was at the counter struggling to speak some French into the phone.
“Rosie!” Dad rushed towards her. “We’ve been worried sick! Judy’s talking to the police right now. Who was that woman?”
Rosie burst into tears. Right now he was all hugs and kisses. Later there would be a stern conversation where he would try to make her understand the severity of her actions.
“Darling, don’t cry. Please.” He scooped her into his arms.
Judy hurried to join them. Rosie saw, through her own tears, that Judy had been crying too. “We were distraught, baby. We’ve been neglecting you, haven’t we?”
Rosie said nothing, but it was out there. The glance that passed between her father and his new wife said it all.
“Let’s have breakfast,” said Judy, smiling sheepishly. And she led the way. Fighting past the luggage of departing guests, they moved to the hotel’s lounge to revive their spirits with coffee and croissants.
“I just wanted to see the Eiffel Tower,” said Rosie finally. “And we didn’t seem to be including it…”
“Sweetie, I was keeping that visit for today.”
“Really?”
She wasn’t sure, but it hardly mattered. Rosie looked across at her stepmother. There was a perceptible change in her attitude. They had never been enemies but there had been a certain coolness between them. Now Judy was trying her best.
“Let’s get dressed straight away,” said Judy. “Do you want to wear anything of mine?”
“No – but thank you.”
Back in her room, Rosie chose a snappy little jacket to go with three-quarter length pants. She knew that high heeled shoes would not be a sensible choice for climbing a tower, even if she had a pair.
Half an hour later, they were walking along the banks of the River Seine. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower rose into the sky.
They talked and laughed. The ice had been broken.
When they arrived, Rosie couldn’t believe how huge it was. Four enormous iron feet supported the tall tower and crowds of people were queuing to go up in lifts.
Short Tales Page 4
