Sometimes we meet Mrs Hobson pushing her frame. She’ll say “You’re not supposed to tame wild ducks.”
“But Antonia hurt her leg,” Zoe answers politely. “So we have to look after her.”
Sometimes we meet Miss Browne. She leans on her walking stick and asks, “How’s Antonia?”
“She’s fine,” Zoe answers. “She thinks I’m her mum.”
Miss Browne smiles. “That’s because she trusts you.”
* * *
One day, Mum says, “Time to return Antonia back to the Reserve. Wild birds need to be free.”
Zoe opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Fat tears roll down her cheeks.
Told you she’s a cry baby.
That afternoon, we carry Antonia to the Reserve and place her in the lake.
“Antonia, you have to stay here,” I say sternly.
Zoe’s cheeks are wet. I pretend not to see.
Antonia says, “Quack, quack.” She dips her bill into the water.
“Come on,” I take Zoe’s hand and lead her to edge of the Reserve.
Just in front of the gates, we stop short. A notice says:
NEW DEVELOPMENT
I read it right through. Then I read it again.
“They’re building a shopping centre in the Reserve,” I tell Zoe.
“They can’t,” she says. “What will happen to the birds?”
I look at my feet.
We set off for home. When we get to our gate, something makes me look around. Antonia is waddle-limping behind us.
“Go back, Antonia,” I yell.
She ignores me.
I say, “Zoe, tell her to go back.”
“Go back, Antonia,” Zoe whispers.
“You have to yell,” I say.
Too late. Zoe runs all the way home. And Antonia waddle-limps after her.
Mum is really cross. But it isn’t our fault Antonia followed us home is it?
Next day after school, we take Antonia back to the park.
“Antonia, you have to stay here,” I say sternly.
Zoe doesn’t say anything.
We’re halfway home when something makes me look around. Antonia is waddle-limping behind us.
This time, Mum lets her stay. Everyone is too worried about the Reserve to get cross with Antonia. No one in our street wants a new shopping centre. No one in our street wants to lose our Reserve.
* * *
Two days later, Mr Collins calls a meeting.
Everyone comes. They turn up on foot, by bike and in wheelchairs. They come using walking frames, leaning on walking sticks and pushing prams.
Mr Collins ZOOMS onto the highest hill.
He says, “This is a wildlife sanctuary. We can’t let anything happen to it. Black swans, ducks and herons nest here every spring…”
“What about the children?” someone calls.
Mr Collins nods. “Children come here to play.”
“What about us seniors?” someone else yells.
Mr Collins’ teeth slide in and out. “Us too. This is where...”
“we play chess,” someone reminds him.
“… and draughts.”
“… and bowls.”
“This is where we ride our bikes, scooters and rollerblades,” says Taylor who lives next door.
“And where we bring our babies and toddlers,” says Mrs Smith.
“And catch up on old times,” says Miss Browne. But I don’t think anyone hears.
Mrs Hobson sniffs and says, “Can’t do anything to stop progress.”
Tears well up in Zoe’s eyes.
Someone calls, “Let’s hold a Protest.”
“Good idea,” says Mr Collins. “But a Protest has to have a name.”
“How about “Don’t Touch our Reserve”?” someone calls.
Mr Collins shakes his head. “We need something catchier than that.”
Lots of people have ideas:
“No shopping centre here.”
“Rescue our Reserve.”
“Reserve our Reserve.”
No one can agree. Mrs Hobson disagrees the most.
Just then, Antonia waddle-limps towards Zoe. “Quack, quack.”
Zoe yells, “How about “Lame Duck”?”
“Splendid,” says Mr Collins. He looks at the wheelchairs, walking frames, sticks, pushers and prams. “We’ll call it the LAME DUCK PROTEST. Antonia will be our mascot.”
“Quack, quack,” says Antonia.
That’s how our LAME DUCK PROTEST begins.
* * *
The next few weeks are very busy. Mr Collin holds three more meetings in the Reserve. Everyone comes. Even Mrs Hobson. She still looks like there’s a beetle up her nose.
Mr Collins says, “We need lots of posters and banners.”
“And a BIG photo of our mascot,” says Mrs Hobson.
To everyone’s surprise, she pulls the latest cell phone out of her bag and takes photos of…
Antonia pecking.
Antonia sitting.
Antonia swimming.
Antonia waddle-limping.
She asks Zoe to choose the best.
Zoe giggles. “Easy,” she says. “Antonia waddle-limping.”
Mrs Hobson looks pleased. “That fits our LAME DUCK PROTEST march best.”
Next week, the local newspaper prints Antonia’s photo. Zoe takes the newspaper to school.
“Tell us what this is all about,” says Ms Pappas.
Zoe says, “They want to put a shopping centre in our Reserve.”
“They can’t do that,” everyone says. “We go there to play.”
Our entire school agrees to be part of this protest. Just about everyone in our suburb joins the LAME DUCK PROTEST.
Mr Collins writes a letter on our behalf.
We take turns signing it.
I write: Hannah Molly McGovern
Zoe’s name came out as: Z O E O L I V I A
But it isn’t until two days later that I have my best idea. I tell Zoe. Only I make her promise to keep it a secret.
Next day after school, we go to the Reserve. We find Mr Collins in his wheelchair watching two black swans dip their bills in the water.
“Hi there, girls,” he says. But he forgets to grin. And his teeth don’t wobble.
So we tell him my idea.
Mr Collins calls another meeting. He says, “Because we want lots more folk to join our Protest, we’ve decided to hold a march.”
We post flyers everywhere. Those flyers say:
SAVE OUR RESERVE
Come as your favourite native animal
Join our
LAME DUCK PROTEST MARCH
Everyone turns up.
Mr Collins wears a kookaburra mask and brown cardboard wings. Miss Browne comes as a koala in a fur coat and funny nose. Mrs Hobson comes as a wombat.
I go as a kangaroo, wearing Mum’s old coat, a plastic tail and cardboard ears.
Zoe is a wild duck. Mum and Dad make her a feather coat and a cardboard beak. I lend her my swimming flippers.
Everyone carries balloons and banners saying “LAME DUCK PROTEST MARCH.” We march past the Supermarket and the garage, and along Station Street. No one wants to lose our Reserve.
Soon, so many people have joined our LAME DUCK PROTEST march, Channel 5 turns up.
Sally Watson, the reporter, holds up a microphone and says, “Ted Collins, why is your march called LAME DUCK PROTEST.”
He says, “No one wants another shopping centre. We want our Reserve to stay the same.” He points to Antonia. “We call this march LAME DUCK PROTEST because of our mascot.”
“Oh,” says Sally. “A tame wild duck mascot.” She tells the cameraman to make sure he gets some great shots of Antonia waddle-limping.
Our duck is on Channel 5 news that night. So is Mr Ted Collins. So are Zoe and me.
When the march is over, us Protesters hold a barbecue in the Reserve. We have
hot dogs and hamburgers. For Antonia, Mum has lettuce leaves and carrot peelings. We finish up with a chocolate cake with LAME DUCK PROTEST written across it in white icing. We all have a slice. Mr Collins has the biggest.
After, there are races for the kids.
Zoe comes fourth in the egg and spoon. My team comes third in the relay. We have a great time.
* * *
A week later, Mr Collins calls another very special LAME DUCK PROTEST meeting.
Everyone comes.
He waves a letter at us. “This letter says that the Reserve will remain unchanged.”
Everyone cheers. Our LAME DUCK PROTEST has worked. Our reserve will stay a Reserve.
But something happens the very next day.
We’re in the Reserve when Antonia meets some other wild ducks. This time, she flies off with them.
‘Oh, oh!’ I think.
But Zoe says, “Wild ducks have to stay wild.”
So the next time we’re in the Reserve, I give her an extra long push on the swing for not being a cry baby.
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Frankie’s Indoor Adventure
Catherine M Finn
All night long, heavy rain falls. No stars sparkle in the darkness. Not even one dares peep from behind the wet, cold clouds. Out in the dark, the waves crash and break their way on to the beach.
Across the dunes, everyone lies tucked up in bed, cosy and warm in their wood and stone houses.
Raindrops drip down the drains – DRIP DRIP DROP.
And they tap on the tiles – TAP TAP TIPPY TIPPY TAP.
* * *
As the sun tries its very best to push the clouds away, Frankie can see through the rain-streaked windows that his plans for a Saturday morning beach treasure hunt are doomed.
There will be no treasure hunting today.
No treasure hunting, no searching for pirate caves behind the rock pools, no scouting for sea dragons and giant eels in the shallows, no building sandcastles, or helping his friend Juniper find special shells for the mermaids.
Today, it’s too wet and too cold. Today, he will have to find indoor things to do.
As the sky lightens from black to grey, big drops of rain continue to fall and the sea looks like a crumpled rumpled bed.
His dad tells Frankie to put on his warm woolly jumper. Frankie does not like this woolly jumper. It’s green and itchy.
“But it is warm,” his father says.
“Yes,” Frankie says. “It is, but it is also itchy – and it is green.”
Usually, Frankie likes to wear t-shirts and shorts and no shoes. Usually... but there would be no t-shirts today.
Usually, if Frankie stands inside the front window of his blue-roofed house and up on his tippy toes, he can see across the dunes to the top of the red roof of Juniper’s house. But not today. Today, the rain is falling in such heavy sheets, he can barely see his front gate, or the winding path that leads right down to the sand.
As the wind whistles around the house, it rattles the red window shutters.
Frankie is very pleased the house is nestled safely into the sandhills. He is pleased that his little blue-roofed house is being protected from the storm by the dunes. Otherwise, it might be lifted off the ground and swept out to sea, and his house has no sails.
So, this is what he has to look forward to today? Being stuck inside.
Being stuck inside makes Frankie feel gloomy.
It is Saturday and, apart from sleeping in and helping his parents in the garden, there is nothing more Frankie enjoys than running through the sandhills and playing on the sand.
He finds Mum in the kitchen, wiping the baby Sabine’s mouth. Sabine is cute, but annoying too because she takes up so much of Mum and Dad’s time these days. They are always making a fuss over her and doing this and that for her.
“Ah, Francois!” Mum says. “Bonne cherie, du martin.”
She gives Frankie a big kiss. A big kiss in the middle of his forehead.
“In English, Mum – remember,” Frankie says.
“Ah, yes – good morning, my darling,” Mum says. “How was your sleep?”
“Not so good,” Frankie says. “The rain fell all night, the wind blew all night and all night I thought the house would lift off the ground.”
“Really? I slept like a baby,” Mum says.
Frankie can’t believe that she did not hear the storm.
“Your English is very good,” Mum says. “Your friend Juniper is being a good help.”
This made Frankie think of something.
“Can I go over to Juniper’s today?” Frankie asks.
“Oh no, not today, Frankie,” Mum says. “It’s too stormy and it’s going to start raining again. You can’t walk over the sandhills on a day like this. You’ll get blown away.”
“We could go in the car,” Frankie says.
“Not today, Frankie,” Mum says. “Not now. I have to get Sabine dressed and then I have some baking to do. Maybe you can help me.”
Frankie’s parents make wonderful buttery pastries for the local bakery and cafes. All his friends say he is lucky because he gets to help out and to eat the leftovers. But Frankie gets tired of mixing and kneading and helping clean up.
“Do I have to?” Frankie says.
“You don’t have to,” Dad says. “No, not at all. Not today.”
“Well can I go to Juniper’s then?” Frankie asks.
“No, I’m sorry, not today,” Dad says. “You cannot go by yourself and Mum and I have to bake. You can play with Sabine for a while.”
“What!” Frankie says. “She can’t even talk and all she does is cry and dribble and babble.”
“Frankie – stop,” Mum says.
Frankie stomps out of the kitchen.
STOMP STOMP STOMP.
“Frankie!” Dad says. “Enough of the stomping and clomping.”
“All right,” Frankie says. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe the sun will come out later, who knows,” Dad says.
Frankie looks outside again. It certainly does not look like the sun will ever come out again – at least not today.
The sky is still dark and heavy and wet.
The beach is still deserted, apart from a few grumbling gulls and a pile of seaweed.
And Frankie still cannot see across the dunes. There may be a slippery, scaled sea dragon lurking amongst the sea grasses. Or a great, big treasure chest, but he would not be able to see it. He could not see anything past the heavy sheets of rain.
“All right then,” Frankie says to Sabine. “There will be no treasure hunt today. Today, I will set out on a new adventure. And you can come with me.”
Sabine gurgled and giggled.
Today, Frankie was going on a quest. A quest in search for the legendary Land of the Golden Sands.
Frankie writes a list. It’s a long list with all the things they will need on their quest.
Map, rope, blanket, canoe, snow jacket, tent, food, binoculars, hats, mosquito net, waterproof nappy and sunhat for Sabine.
He tells Mum and Dad they are off on their quest and not to worry, he will look after Sabine.
Mum kisses them both and puts some fruit and a muesli bar in his backpack.
“Good luck! I’m sure you will make it,” Mum says. She disappears into the kitchen, leaving Frankie and Sabine in the living room.
Frankie pulls the cushions off the lounge and on to the floor. This is their raft.
He plonks Sabine down in front, so that he can steer from behind.
“The rain beats down, filling the rivers, and strong winds sweep across the valley,” Frankie says. “The brave young explorer and his assistant set out on their new adventure. Are you ready, Sabine?”
She gurgles and they set off down the river as a loud rumble of thunder crashes overhead. Immediately, they face danger with tigers, crocodiles and bears watching them from the river bank.
“Don’t wor
ry, Sabine,” Frankie says. “They can’t get us here and at least they don’t look too hungry.”
Before long, the river becomes rough and the raft is being tossed around like a cork on the waves.
“Hold on, Sabine,” Frankie says. “If we come off now, we’re done for. There are terrible slimy, yellow eels at the bottom of the river just waiting to gobble us up. We have to make it through to reach the Land of the Golden Sands.”
Luckily, they do not fall in. But, just as Frankie thinks they are out of danger, he sees a waterfall up ahead. It is the tallest he has ever seen in all his years exploring. It is the tallest and makes a fearful roaring sound as the water plunges and gurgles.
“Wait there, Sabine,” he says.
Frankie takes his rope, ties it to one end of the raft and jumps into the river. He swims to shore and ties it to a tree, just as Sabine and the raft are about to tumble over the side.
“That was close!” he says dragging the raft to the river bank. “It’s time to make our blanket cave – it looks like it might snow.”
They settle down inside, just as another rumble of thunder crackles overhead.
“Don’t worry, Sabine,” Frankie says and munches on a muesli bar. “We are safe in here and soon we will reach the Land of the Golden Sands.”
After a short rest, Frankie plops Sabine’s sunhat on her head and they are ready to set off again.
Frankie takes his binoculars and peers out through the thick forest.
There seem to be no creatures lurking behind the trees and, what’s more, the rain now has stopped and sky seems to be clearing.
“Not far now,” he says. “We will have to cross the hills from here and, if we can get past the Cave Trolls, we’ll have made it.”
He tiptoes over the hills, carrying Sabine so she doesn’t wake the trolls. By the time they reach the bottom of the valley, instead of thunder, Frankie can hear the gulls squealing and squawking overhead.
The storm is over and the sun is pushing the clouds away. There is a thin rainbow over the sea.
They have reached the Land of the Golden Sands at last!
Frankie looks out and can see Juniper running along the path towards his house.
“Aha, Frankie!” Dad says. “Look you made it. You found the Land of the Golden Sands.”
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Weird Wilma
Jaz Stutley
Wilma had recently moved from the west to the north of the city with her mother. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted to be a witch, and she practised all the time.
Short Tales 2 Page 5
