writing

Chapter Two __ untitled

Before Hans headed out that evening he took the newly hotmixed road to the top of the hill, parked his most recently acquired sporty little car in the cul de sac, and scowled at the windrows of dead trees sitting above him on the piles of sand. Nothing of any importance came out of his mouth because the words he was thinking were so vile he did not wish to say them out loud.

It took some time to control himself but when he calmed down, just a little bit, he opened the car door, pulled on the old elastic-sided boots he’d placed on the passenger side floor, and got out. He closed the car door as gently as he was able to in this current mood, shoved a cap low on his head and trudged up the recently made sandhill to the very top of what remained of the ridge.

The tree still lay where he’d last seen it, not yet whirred up into tiny wood chips, its horizontal trunk taking up quite quite a lot of space amidst the great, big, huge and very dismal sandy expanse where native bushland had once been.

He took off his sunglasses and stared moodily down the slope into his own backyard. He’d contributed to this, only in a small way he knew, but he couldn’t get out of it that easily because every other house below him had contributed to it as well and with all those contributions came loss, and what that loss looked like clearly resembled the shit he now stood in the middle of, wondering why the fuck he hadn’t bought himself an old rundown house in the middle of nowhere instead.

Hans sighed, then wandered over to the fallen tree. He felt like covering up its exposed roots with a blanket to give the tree some kind of dignity but that thought, he knew, was slightly ridiculous. Besides that, someone else would probably wander up from below the hill, look at him like he was a complete lunatic and possibly, knowing what people were like in this day and age, call the police for no reason other than the fact he’d likely made them feel uncomfortable.

He took a picture of the names burnt into the trunk and decided to take it down to one of the local joints the following day, the kind of place where they allowed you to blow photographs up and put them on shiny paper and then, when he got the chance, he’d frame it and go and stick it on Jake’s grave just for shizz and gigs and no other reason whatsoever.

‘Howja like them apples,’ He said to no one at all. Then he nudged the bottom of the tree with his boot and wandered back to the car.

Nobody else came up the hill, and he was not actually surprised by that at all. A bottle of bourbon, a heartache, and a plate full of fish and chips later, and he probably wouldn’t even remember it himself.

On the way to his dinner for one, Hans decided to call Solway.

For reasons he’d never been able to understand Hans couldn’t keep his sunglasses on when talking with people on the phone so, as he coasted down the hill from the cul de sac, he kept his sunglasses off, removed his cap, straightened his wavy, not curly, hair in the rearview mirror and cried “Solway” at the top of his voice.

Two seconds later, not that he was counting, she answered with a “Hans!”.

‘What are you doing,’ he asked.

‘Wondering why you’re calling me,’ she replied. There was a moment of awkward silence.

‘Is Bart there?’

‘Yes, he is. Did you want to speak with him?’ Another long expectant pause.

‘No.’ He stared out through the windscreen.

‘You called me, Hans.’

‘I know I did. What are you doing for dinner.?’

‘Oh.’ She signed softly. ‘We’re having dinner at home. You know, with the current economy and all that…’

‘Blah blah blah blah,’ he said rudely.

‘What’s up your arse?’

‘Nothing. The usual. Can’t I just talk to my sister on the phone?’

‘It would help if you actually talked.’

‘I am talking.’

‘Okay, well that’s fantastic. Are you going out for dinner are you?’

‘Yep.’

‘This is like drawing blood from a stone. What’s going on? You sound dumb.’

‘Well, you sound stupid,’ he replied in his most menacing voice.

‘Are we, like, five?’ Her tone was getting that exasperated edge he remembered so well from when he’d been a kid and done something evil and she’d had to clean up after him. ‘You’re upset about something. What is it?’

‘I’m bored.’ He began tapping the steering wheel.

‘No, you’re not. It’s something else.’ After a moment of silence he heard something metallic hit something else like she was stirring something. ‘If it’s about the fleas…’

‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about the fleas.’

‘Yet here I am, talking about fleas.’

‘I don’t want to talk about fleas.’ He glared at the road.

‘I am trying to be kind, Hans. Don’t make it hard.’

‘I don’t want to hang up on you Solway.’

‘I know you don’t buddy. What is it?’

‘Nothing. You wouldn’t get it. I don’t get it. It’s okay. I’m okay.’

‘Now I’m worried. Where are you having dinner then?’

‘That fish and chip place on the foreshore.’

A rustling sound and a soft murmur came through the line. ‘Okay, I’ll come down. I won’t be eating, but I’ll come down, okay?’

‘Okay, Don’t look too attractive.’

‘Don’t look too… Do you want me to come down or not?’

‘Yes.’ He scowled and flicked on the indicator.

‘Okay. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Good.’ He hung up.

He felt like tossing the phone into the back seat, then felt like tossing it out the window. He put it on the leather passenger seat instead. It was going to be a shit night, and a shit meal, and everything was going to be shit. He pulled up at a stoplight and checked his teeth. Perfect, as usual.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t going to be completely shit. Maybe it would be okay. He wondered if they had tartare sauce.

to be continued.

The Temper

I was going to show you something else this morning but I’m feeling a spot of rage coming on. It’s possibly why, with the original story/title of The Temper, it felt like like it didn’t quite hit the mark.

When I got to the fourth story of that book (you know, the one I wrote, not anyone else) I called it Out Of Time, because the name I’d been looking at for a long time to call the story was “Extempore”. It didn’t quite fit what I was looking at though. It didn’t sit right.

With a word like “Temper”, you get to see it in its entire meaning. The “pounding into shape” of a mood or mindset, the flash of rage those who don’t know me very well always seem to be surprised by, and the immediate control I will insert on myself when this happens. Not everyone can do this. It doesn’t make it an excuse, and sometimes it can be used to your advantage. Hence the alternative title of “The Tempest”, (which unfortunately had been used as a title many years ago for another book).

It (the word Temper) can never be used to your advantage, though, if you can’t control it. Imagine going into a boxing ring and flipping out at your opponent while he’s sizing you up for a nice meal. He’s going to win because he’s in control, and you’re not. Rage, and fury are two very different things.

So, when one is not in a boxing ring and one is capable of wounding with one’s voice instead of fists or whatever, one still needs to apply that very strict code of conduct to oneself to stop yourself from “beasting out”. It doesn’t always work, and sometimes it is almost impossible to control (I know this one for a fact when it comes to the written word), but the written word is possibly the ONLY place where one can go back and put things to right before they pass them on… Especially if the message conveyed is on someone else’s behalf because that other person was too much of a coward to say it themselves. It happens a lot, and sometimes it happens without their consent

If that is the case, as I have helped construct messages on other people’s behalf (my sons, husband, friends), then those people need to once again look at the title of this particular piece. Using my words without my consent to send a message will only get you deeper in the poop. Understanding whose temper is controlling who really depends on the time of day, so don’t get too carried away with yourself. Perhaps take a leaf out of your own “Book,” and learn how and why one needs to control one’s temper.

People also need to understand when a dream is a dream and not reality. Even if it’s a dream that smacks of deja vu, or a dream that appears to be a recurring one, it is still a dream, and not reality. If it hasn’t actually happened, it likely won’t happen at all. It’s like a little switch has popped on in your head to tell you beforehand that something might be difficult to control and it’s a pretty good indicator you’ll know exactly how to control it if you were ever in that situation. You’re welcome.

Chapter One __Untitled, continued

Hans sat on the freeway for what felt like forever in the midday traffic. It took an hour and a half to get back from these stupid bloody meetings. God knew why they couldn’t have Zoom meetings instead, although, apparently, a rather clever chap by the name of Zed Van Burton (who maintained his websites) had assured him that having in-person meetings were far more unlikely to be hacked into than Zoom ones, not that Hans knew that was a thing although, he supposed, if it were possible, someone had likely done it already.

Zed, being rather clever (if Hans remembered correctly) had assured him it had indeed been possible and if Hans perhaps remembered the story about the priests meeting where someone had left on (or maybe even added) those little extra wonderful bits to the online service that time (Hans remembered that story very clearly) then Zed may have accidentally not at all have known someone who might have had nothing to do with it.

Sometimes, Hans’ web designer spoke in rather roundabout ways about certain things, and Hans quite enjoyed it. Not that he told anyone that, because that would be “betraying the trust” or something equally ridiculous, yet important.

It had been around that time Zed had kicked him, not in the least softly, under the table.

Hans shot back to the present, remembered he was driving and felt rather pleased with himself he hadn’t done what Bart had done that time a couple of years back, and instead had kept his hands on the steering wheel.

He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, admired his own chin, made sure his eyebrows were neatly trimmed, and winked at himself because, when one was as amazingly “adorable” (he tried not to cringe at that one) as he was when he wasn’t working, one just had to remind oneself of how utterly amazing one happened to be.

He did this regularly. It worked for him.

‘Where was I,’ he said to the radio, which happened to be playing loud and awesome music with lots of guitar and headbanging.

The radio kept doing its own thing and didn’t reply.

Hans wondered if the line of traffic he was currently in, would actually reach over fifty kph, or whether he’d still be doing twenty k’s in another hour’s time.

He decided to change the radio station.

‘At the third stroke it will be…’

… Something that no longer existed. Bloody ABC.

Maybe he should take selfies for social media and… Get picked up by the traffic cop who’d just turned up in a patrol car nnext to him.

Okay then, social media “I’m bored” shots were understandably out of the question, which was lucky because he was thirty two, not ten, and really didn’t need all that wonderful feedback from randoms at all, ever.

Not even a, okay, just a little bit.

But not now.

Definitely not now. The cop’s partner, who was the one not driving, had poked her head past her partner’s shoulder and was currently giving him a little wave, despite the frown on the driver’s face.

‘Hellooooo,’ Hans crooned, giving her a mouthful of shining white teeth to admire.

The constable in the driver’s seat did not look impressed. He glanced at Hans then looked back at the road pointedly, before glancing at him again.

Hans sighed. God, even the police were boring.

Who knew? Apparently, everyone did but him… and the sweet little police officer who was giving him a very pretty smile from the passenger seat of … He slammed on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of him, the patrol car sailed past him without the driver giving him the finger at all, and Hans came to a complete halt.

‘God I hate Monday,’ he muttered.

He didn’t get home ’til two p.m.

There were actually many reasons why Hans didn’t like Mondays but this afternoon’s reason was all the noise coming from the top of the hill.

He’d already said goodbye to Jake’s tree early that morning, but decided, perhaps when the man in the whatever-it-was, which was extremely loud, had knocked off and gone home, he’d see what else had been destroyed in the name of progress.

Hans laughed at himself. He’d never been too interested in the past about why things like construction sites were done a certain way, but in the last two years (possibly around the time he’d found out he occasionally turned into a large, brown and slightly terrifying dog), he had felt more connected to nature (for what were fairly obvious reasons, not all of them being the fact it was Monday).

He adjusted the flea collar under his shirt as he sat on his long back verandah and sipped on an espresso.

‘Wankers,’ he said to no one in particular, and tried not to lift a leg and scratch himself under the chin. Growling, he stood, opened the french doors, and grumbled his way inside.

He’d pulled off his paisley tie earlier, thrown it over the back of the couch, stripped himself of the ridiculous (yet extremely cool) brown leather shoes which he’d left halfway down the hall and now, simply because he didn’t want to sit out the back and watch trees being knocked over, decided to pick it up and toss it all into the very long walk-through robe thing, and check himself out in the floor to ceiling mirror he’d purchased for himself on Boxing Day.

‘You’re a hotty and don’t forget it,’ he said to himself, very seriously, and didn’t burst into flames once — then wondered why he thought that might be a thing. After all, bursting into flames was not conducive to getting a new girlfriend, was it? No, not at all. ‘I like you,’ he added, refusing to back down from the mantra he’d uttered at his reflection every day for the past two years.

His reflection did not reply, and Hans felt rather pleased by that.

He wondered which restaurant he’d go to tonight. The local places were all friendly and simple, and he was pretty sure none of them had whipped garlic butter.

Hans pulled out his phone, opened the Maps ap, shut his eyes, and began twirling a finger over the screen. he refused to think about the heated discussion he’d had with bloody Nora earlier that day on why restaurants should be closed on Mondays. These were different kinds of restaurants to his, and that’s all there was to it.

Tonight, he’d be dining at “Carbaretta’s”, who apparently did seafood. He hoped it wasn’t too oily.

Chapter One — Untitled

Hans Endersans was not a happy man. He’d been to one too many “bored” meetings, as he called them, and each and every restaurant manager felt exactly the damn same to him. They were pretty, pretentious people, made to carry a tray of Cognac, or a semi-inexpensive bottle of wine, made to greet people at the door with a smile and a slight bow, made to pick on the harried, sweating kitchen hands and argue with the greatly feared chefs of the seven restaurants Hans now owned.

Not a one of them seemed to have the brain capacity for new ideas.

Apparently, thought Hans, this is my fault for not “allowing” them to sprout their rubbish into my ears for hours on end, or listen to their thoughts on a new type of whipped garlic butter, or allow them to be ashamed when I’ve told them it’s all been done before, but ….

‘Sure,’ he said loudly to the severely gelled woman at the other end of the table. ‘Whatever you think.’

She smiled and picked at the tablecloth in front of her with fingernails Hans would never have allowed in a commercial kitchen. ‘I’d like the thoughts of my fellow managers if you don’t mind, Hans.’

The other managers, who knew Hans far better than she did, held their breaths and leaned back, or held their breaths and slumped down, or held their breaths and …. He glanced at the man closest to him. It did kinda look like he was trying to dig a hole into the carpet with one patented shoe. Hans frowned, and tried not to let his baser instincts get the better of him.

There are no bones under the table. There are no bones under the table. The scowl deepened and he rolled his shoulders, trying not to glare at the ridiculous woman with the gelled back hair.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he asked politely.

‘I said,’ said the woman, not completely understanding everyone else’s reaction. ‘That I would like the opinions of my –‘

There came a chorous of positive responses arounfd the table.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Oh yes, what a wonderful thought.’

‘I am in complete agreement.’

‘Never would have come up with that one myself,’ said one participant, who nearly swallowed his own tongue after Hans shot a glance at him. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Too much?’

Hans tried not to grin. It had been a sarcastic comment, but he should not have found it amusing. He cleared his throat.

‘There we have it,’ he said, waving a hand in the air. ‘Are we done yet? I’m hungry. How about you bring one of your whipped garlic butter whatsits in and we’ll destroy it with some lovely crunchy bread rolls, and then you can all go back to what you should actually be doing and take the fucking day off because it’s Monday.’

‘What does Monday have to do with, well, anything?. The soon-to-be-fired restaurant manager asked from botox injected lips.

Hans raised an eyebrow. ‘How long did you say you’d worked in Hospitality,’ he asked. Did he really need to go back and check her resume?

Her mouth closed with a slightly gummy sound them popped open again. This woman had a death wish. ‘I know, traditionally we don’t open on Monday’s Hans, but…’

‘There’s a reason for that Nora. Tell me what the reason is,’ he said.

‘The reason?’

‘Yes, the reason. Tell me the reason we don’t usually run our restaurants on a Monday.’

‘Well, traditionally, we wouldn’t make much money I suppose, but –‘

‘You suppose?’

‘Yes.’ She sat up straighter on her vinyl covered chair, if that was possible. She’d already looked like there was a carrot stuck up her arse. Now it looked like it was a cobweb broom with an extendable handle.

‘Well,’ said Hans. Let’s just suppose I like making money, okay? Let’s just suppose that, shall we? Let’s not kick “tradition” in the arse, just because you have come up with this “new” and “amazing” whipped garlic butter which has never been done in the past, ever, apparently, by anyone else at all, and think about this sensibly for a change.’ He stood up. ‘I like making money, Nora. I do not like losing money. I also like to give my staff the occasional day off. How about you?’

Finally, it looked like the woman had grown a brain. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh, indeed. Speaking of staff, when you’ve pulled that one out of your backside, perhaps you’d like to come and visit me in my private office and we’ll discuss how much you like your career.’

‘Let’s see how those crunchy bread rolls are going, shall we,’ said the man with the patented shoes.

‘Let’s,’ said Hans.

Chapter One to be continued…

Dear East Perth Lockup,

I’m wondering whether you still have my fingerprints on file. They may have changed slightly over the years, and acquired a scar or two. Many of your present day members may not remember me, but I do know (and remember) an old Ivan who may remember that night well.

It was night, to be fair, and i don’t believe it was dreary. The small, sparkly, poo-brown sigma had been the vehicle I drove at that time. It had been perhaps, purchased from another former member of your mob, and I happened to be driving it at the time I was caught wandering along Hay Street East.

My passenger, and I did have one if I recall, was a little person, but not a child, who happened to be, you guessed it, sitting in the passenger seat. My clothing, if I recall, consisted of one dress, purchased previously on Barrack Street (but not on the same night), peach, one leather belt, oddly shaped and white (it may not have been, but I did wear it with that dress on more than one occasion) and a pair of white leather slingbacks.

Your constables managed to finally get me to pull over when I considered it safe, that being on the lower corner as one turns left at the bottom of Barrack Street, possibly near where the Army Surplus Store once stood. They then proceeded to take myself and my passenger to the above address.

It may have been quite a surprise to one of the members on staff when the sister-in-law of his former “teammate” walked through the door. He may have indeed said some very inappropriate words along the lines of “What are you doing here” with a question mark somewhere in that sentence. He may have even laughed a great deal at the conundrum his former teammate’s sister-in-law found herself in at that time.

Let it be said, I never said I wasn’t a terrible teenager or young adult, but I did always manage to get to work, and the courthouse on time, regardless of distraction.

Thank you for your time.

Kate Capewell (nee Tew).

P.S. Paddy, also a former teammate, may remember his larks around the Dongara township. I think that’s on file as well, nothing to do with me, and quite a few years later.

I wish them and their families love, luck and hugs. May your ships always enter a safe harbour. CSC.

Adventure Weather

Have I told you about the warri?

It’s the type of wind that gets under your skin and makes the kids a little wild. It sets the horses running down a paddock rolling their eyes. It sends the roos into the dense scrub, and it tells the grownups they need to start tying things down.

Some get a little fractious when the warri picks up and the trees begin to sway and whip their branches. Some, like my funny old cat (sorry, middle-aged cat) like to chuck maddies around the house and tell me the clouds scudding across the darkened sky have just dumped a shower of water. Those clouds are moving so quickly though, they don’t have time to keep raining in one place. They need to move on.

When the warri starts to sing, we listen. She calls around the corners of a house, or moans up a sand track so old it has made its own hollow in the dunes. This is really the only time she can sing, the warri, and so we let her sing and tell her how beautiful she sounds.

Sometimes, when we do that, she stops, she hesitates, almost as if she is saying. “What?” It’s as if she doesn’t want us to compliment her on her sound. Perhaps she is used to people being afraid of her, and for someone to say she sounds beautiful makes her question whether she’s done it right.

But… she’s the wind. She’s the warri. Everything she does is right. How could it be wrong? When she hears this, she dumps more tears from the sky and might think to herself, ‘This is good. Let’s move on.’

We should never take her for granted. She can be a little destructive, and if she has warned us she is coming, we should have listened, and we need to be careful of where we drive and where we sit if we’re outside, and where we need to keep ourselves safe along the roads.

This is a good day to build cubbies and forts inside, and take away all the special things that can be broken and hide them in cupboards. This is the type of day the children will want to go outside and let the wind flap their hair and spray their faces with water. Sometimes, for a short while, we might let them, but only if it’s safe. Otherwise, perhaps we will allow them into the biggest room in the house to make their special games of hide and seek and let them plunk away on an old toy piano.

It’s the warri.

Does A Bear Poop in the Woods

Tactical down time. Hans would always be taller than his sister, well, once he grew up. It’s not a hard thing to understand. Cato had been tall as well, and the walk uphill to the Expensive Earl possibly required long legs.

Responding to this particular letter, thought Vergs, was possibly beyond the capabilities of a former belly dancer, so she sat back and mused the tomfoolery of the north road instead. Many a laugh had been spent there (despite the far distant and sad memories of her former housemate’s loss), and she had the photographs to prove it, including cleaning bathtubs and strange curly-headed men wearing shower caps. There are, after all, many Waynes around, are there not?

Grouping all these memories together is beyond many people, but understanding the meaning behind it all is possibly exactly what one might be looking for here if they needed to be rest assured the memories were far from dim. Check your six.

Rainbow warriors are usually tall, milord, and never live too far away in the scheme of things. They also know exactly who their brothers and sisters are — and their friends.

Dear East Perth Lockup,

I’m wondering whether you still have my fingerprints on file. They may have changed slightly over the years, and acquired a scar or two. Many of your present day members may not remember me, but I do know (and remember) an old Ivan who may remember that night well.

It was night, to be fair, and i don’t believe it was dreary. The small, sparkly, poo-brown sigma had been the vehicle I drove at that time. It had been perhaps, purchased from another former member of your mob, and I happened to be driving it at the time I was caught wandering along Hay Street East.

My passenger, and I did have one if I recall, was a little person, but not a child, who happened to be, you guessed it, sitting in the passenger seat. My clothing, if I recall, consisted of one dress, purchased previously on Barrack Street (but not on the same night), peach, one leather belt, oddly shaped and white (it may not have been, but I did wear it with that dress on more than one occasion) and a pair of white leather slingbacks.

Your constables managed to finally get me to pull over when I considered it safe, that being on the lower corner as one turns left at the bottom of Barrack Street, possibly near where the Army Surplus Store once stood. They then proceeded to take myself and my passenger to the above address.

It may have been quite a surprise to one of the members on staff when the sister-in-law of his former “teammate” walked through the door. He may have indeed said some very inappropriate words along the lines of “What are you doing here” with a question mark somewhere in that sentence. He may have even laughed a great deal at the conundrum his former teammate’s sister-in-law found herself in at that time.

Let it be said, I never said I wasn’t a terrible teenager or young adult, but I did always manage to get to work, and the courthouse on time, regardless of distraction.

Thank you for your time.

Kate Capewell (nee Tew).

P.S. Paddy, also a former teammate, may remember his larks around the Dongara township. I think that’s on file as well, nothing to do with me, and quite a few years later.

I wish them and their families love, luck and hugs. May your ships always enter a safe harbour. CSC.

Why This?

Perhaps,

It’s the glimmer on the water

A thousand quicksilver mirrors dancing over breeze-blown ripples

Reflected below in lightning streaks of gold

The tightness of salt-encrusted skin, baking on a gritty towel

Amidst the surprisingly pleasant scent of warm sunscreen

It’s the swift gasp when one bursts from the waves or

The sweet drag on muscle as we navigate tide and current

Confident in the body’s strength

‘

Or maybe

It’s dark thunderheads on the horizon and

wind-whipped particles of sand peppering our faces, twisting our hair

And,

with an indrawn breath, the rush of ozone and salt

That lets us know there’s an adventure on its way . . .

And, more distantly, the crash and boom as the ocean throws herself wildly at the land and we

Are home in bed, lulled to sleep in the knowledge we are safe.

‘

But it could be memories

Of a toddler’s dimpled bottom staggering towards the water

Arms high, fingers plucking the air in anticipation

Or simple treasures, like spiralled seashells in sandy palms

Weathered glass, smoothed and curling wood or

Footprints glanced over shoulders, and other footprints read

Temporary stories that wash away with the next high tide

‘

It could be all those things and

Perhaps its more

Maybe there isn’t a reason at all.

Get a Hairy Dog up your Eclipse

Approximately an hour or so later after Bart had made everyone hot beverages, including himself although he definitely did not need it, he began to relate his very strange spiritual journey of enlightenment to Solway who listened politely while writing things in her ever-present notebook.

Hans just looked at him oddly, cocking his head this way and that as if Bart could possibly be some new type of chew-toy. After about twenty minutes or so of silence, Hans decided to speak.

‘A wren,’ he said. There was no emotion to the two words that had just come out of his mouth. To Bart, there seemed to be some expectation he was supposed to reply to that.

‘Yes?’

‘Is this some kind of kids’ story?’ Hans picked a leaf from the forest floor and began to fold it methodically  into small crunchy pieces. He did not break eye contact with Bart once.

Bart stilled. He wondered if he should be clearing a path for a quick escape if he needed to. Hans did not appear pleased with him at all and, he supposed, if he were listening to his own sister’s (he didn’t have one) partner talking in long exotic phrases on the virtue of speaking with tiny blue birds, he might very well be contemplating their quick demise for the sake of maintaining a gene pool of sanity in the family line.

He decided not to respond and, very bravely he thought, stared back at Hans although his hands and legs were beginning to feel slightly shivery. He swallowed. It was unavoidable. He hoped the motion was disguised by his… dammit he’d shaved off his beard.

A slow and rather unpleasant smile began to form on Hans’s face. ‘Please,’ he said gently, which was not at all reassuring. ‘Go on.’

Bart licked his lips. His mouth had become rather dry. ‘Do you like bacon?’

‘What?’

‘I’m a tad peckish, and I thought I’d make some bacon and possibly eggs, although I’m not sure how many are left, and maybe do some toast, which might require a small cooking fire, but I think it’s okay as the fire ban should be over and we did get an awful lot of rain just recently if you didn’t notice, so I assume we won’t be breaking any laws, and where do you think might be a good spot to clear some of this stuff out of the way for a cooking fire. Do you know which way the wind is blowing?’

Hans cocked his head again, and his eyes began to glaze. Bart hoped that was because he was thinking about bacon, as he was quite sure he got a very similar look on his face when he thought about it.

Solway rose gracefully from her camp chair without knocking it down, walked across to where her brother sat, and pushed him over. Bart was quite sure that only worked because Hans’s chair was the one he had sat on yesterday and it had a habit of collapsing, otherwise Solway’s push against Hans’s rather large and burly shoulder would not have achieved much, except for taking his extremely intense gaze off Bart, which was possibly what the aim had been.

‘… the fuck,’ Hans muttered from behind a pair of upright expensive running shoes and extremely white socks.

‘Stop being a prick,’ said Solway succinctly. She turned and looked at Bart. ‘You… oh.’

An extremely tall man in a feather brown suit had appeared beside her. He patted her gently on the shoulder then wandered over to where Hans had just begun to untangle himself from the camp chair. The man didn’t appear to have any feet.

Why hello there he said without moving his lips.

‘Who the fuck are you,’ said Hans, pulling an arm from between some entangled canvas.

Today, said Superb, not offering him any help whatsoever, I’m your best mate.

That was the moment Bart noticed the light was changing.

Eclipse.

Oh look, said Superb, glancing up at the sky with his beautiful brown eyes, She’s eclipsing.

Hans began to growl. It was a very deep growl and it seemed to suit the very large, dark brown, boof-headed dog he had just turned into. Bart was unsure whether he was an Akita, a Malamute or something else entirely. He glanced sideways at Solway.

She appeared to resemble some type of white Siberian Husky and Bart was quite sure, although she was looking at him with her blue eyes and wagging her fluffy and slightly curly tail in a very friendly fashion, this was not the place he was supposed to be right now. With a short and not in the slightest, masculine squeak, he ran up the nearest tree. 

All hell broke loose.

Hans had grabbed the camp chair between a set of rather large canines, shook it roughly, tossed it out of the way,  and began snapping at one of Superb’s legs. Superb grinned, performed an extremely acrobatic backflip, and landed on a branch on a tree opposite Bart. Solway, it seemed, had just started getting dive-bombed by two rather attractive females in bomber jackets which made absolutely perfect sense in Bart’s humble opinion, aside from the fact it was Solway and no one should be attacking her at all.

‘Oi,’ he hissed at the two women performing very odd limp falls at the extremely agile white dog. ‘Leave her alone.’ He wrapped his prehensile tail about the branch and grabbed some gumnuts.

Not to be mistaken for hunky nuts said the voice beside him. It was the lizard. She seemed to be winking, or perhaps had mislaid one eye, and that, in Bart’s rather fretful mind, was possibly because the sun, as Superb had mentioned, was indeed eclipsing and…. His brain went blank.

I thought you see I reyes no what I mean is she I was helping you and Understanding so many things at once as simply not for human minds to think about too deeply because raining water was the resonating factor in this eclipsing moment in time was I assured it would work question mark not exactly and yet here we are. The lizard smiled widely. She still had no teeth.

Help, thought Bart.

Let them sort it out it will all be over soon and then you can go back to your very unextraordinary life and no one will know the difference except you three and that’s the way we tell fairy stories here do you like it question mark

Why am I thinking in dollar signs, thought Bart.

That’s just the way of it apparently I went through your wallet while you were sleeping and money things seem rather important in this modern world of yours and you do not seem to have much of it did you know your cameras are still rolling because they are I wonder if they can see us in this tree question mark fullstop exclamation period

Bart decided to throw gumnuts at the very large dark brown dog standing on its back legs and scratching madly at Superb’s tree. The dog ignored him.

Ditto said the lizard for no reason at all.

Bart decided to throw gumnuts at the two reasonably attractive females in bomber jackets who were “attacking” his future wife with what resembled manoeuvres called a “tin soldier” which usually involved a pool. He didn’t throw his nuts too hard, because he didn’t want to hurt them. They seemed rather fragile, he still felt quite saddened by Superb’s recent loss, and he didn’t want to make it worse than it needed to be. He also felt like giggling insanely again but didn’t think now would be a pertinent time.

Solway appeared to have remained very intelligent and decided, right at the moment one of Bart’s terribly aimed gumnuts narrowly missed her ear, to crawl under the very expensive four-wheel-drive Hans had hired only that morning.

I’m feeling quite frisky, said one of the wrens, lifting herself up from the most recent limp fall and flapping her arms. Who is that dark brown, deep chested, boof-headed, very large dog trying to bite Superb’s legs?

I don’t know, replied the other one, preening herself under one arm, which looked decidedly odd. He should turn back into a man now so we can find out, because it just doesn’t seem fair that here we are, looking like people, and there he is, looking like a dog and uh oh I think Superb might have just overheard us because he is giving me a very serious face which I have never seen before.

Really, said the first wren. How interesting. It’s a shame it’s not springtime then, isn’t it? He’ll just have to deal with it.

You’re not going to get anywhere with him because he’ll just turn back into a man and you’ll be birds, and tonight if you are both very lucky, we can find you both some mud and make a really cool house in the middle of a wattle bush, Superb called.

I would feel slightly mollified by that said the lizard pointedly to the two women in bomber jackets.  Also I am not quite sure what millo molly great I’ve lost it not now weary friend do you want a gumnut question mark the lizard asked from beside Bart on the long, very thick and not in the least bit unstable, branch.

I’m good, thought Bart.

Yes that’s why we chose you, well more specifically I did but you are also sensible despite your rather exotic imaginationings which I think as I am definitely beginning to regain an eye should be a new word in this english language of yours fullstop period and other ridiculous things

The sun did seem to be regaining some strength, Bart noticed. He sighed, very deeply for a possum, and decided to crawl down from the rather safe branch of this tree before he fell down or his soon to be much heavier body mass broke it.

He watched, with an emotion he was unable to define, from the relative safety of his swag as everything, very slowly, began to turn back to normal. This was around the time he came up with his dastardly plan.

______________________O__________________________~~~// ~~~II** :D

It took a few moments for Solway and Hans to reassert their humanity. It took a few more moments from them to slowly come to face the reality that perhaps, just perhaps, Bart might very well be telling the truth.

Bart took advantage of their obvious confusion by making his way swiftly to the camp table, lighting the little camp oven, throwing a frypan over the flame, quickly adding some cooking oil, and tossing in a few rashers of bacon.

‘How hungry are you,’ he asked casually as Solway crawled out from under the really flash, brand new, amazingingly cool, four-wheel-drive.

 She didn’t say anything. She looked at him with wide blue eyes, then looked at her brother who currently seemed to be examining his fingernails and some very deep scratch marks on a tree trunk, then glanced furtively up at a branch where a tiny little wren sat, looking at them both.

‘You owe me a chair,’ Bart said airily.

‘What,’ growled Hans, then scowled  at the tangled piece of canvas and metal poles and cleared his throat a couple of times. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You owe me for the hire of that four-wheel-drive.’ He stalked, stiff-legged, over to the real flash, awesome and in no way scratched deeply down one side, four-wheel-drive. ‘Oh no,’  Hans whined, then sprawled over the vehicle’s bonnet, tongue lolling. He slid off neatly and stared at the scratch.

The man seemed to have come to his senses quite quickly.

Not.

‘How about I make you a bacon sanger instead,’ suggested Bart.

Hans smoothed back his longish hair and straightened his very expensive t-shirt. It looked like he was trying not to wag a non-existent tail. ‘Alright.’

‘Awesome,’ said Bart, and it was awesome and everything was awesome and he felt awesome and he laughed a little bit under his breath because this would make a great story to share amongst themselves once these two got used to the fact they had, not only contributed to Bart’s amazing and wonderful bush experience, but had both been rather large and fluffy dogs for at least, well, he didn’t know how long, but it had been long enough.

As the bacon began to frizzle in the frypan, he casually wandered over to the camera on the tripod which, he noticed, still had a little red light on it, and switched it off.

‘Perhaps we’ll have a look at this when we get home,’ he suggested to Solway.

She smiled in a wobbly way, pranced over to him and gave him a very large hug, bottom wiggling slightly. ‘Perhaps we will,’ she murmured into his ear and not licking it once. ‘Perhaps we will.’

It took some time for her and Hans to start behaving normally again. Bacon helped.

Epilogue

As most things do, life went back to normal. Bart, Solway and Hans managed to get the spare tyre onto the Discovery without too many issues, pumped up the other three tyres, thanked their lucky stars (which seemed to be a theme) that none of the rims had been damaged, and managed to get back on the road within a reasonable time to be able to make their way back home before it got too dark.

Hans slept on their couch that evening, and no one mentioned the infestation of fleas that had Solway and Bart putting that couch out for verge collection a few weeks later.

They may have, eventually, come across some people who decided their way-too-funny and fabulous story might require someone turning it into a movie. It might even have been a bestseller, if he found the right people to share it with. He probably did, because Bart was particularly good at that kind of thing.

I would say they lived happily ever after, for they more than likely did, despite all the normal everyday things that happen to people in their everyday lives.

Hans even found a girlfriend who could deal with his not-at-all over-inflated ego eventually. She seemed nice, in Bart’s humble opinion.

And there we have it. The end of the story. If there is another story, it might very well be meant for another day.

Fullstop

“Bastards”. heroes are always heroes and we all love them very much. We just don’t call ’em heroes.