by Pat Ritter
have our meals they sit at the table with us.’ I continued to share with her. She almost called me a liar until the owner of the bus whispered in her ear he had personally seen them sitting at the table eating their oats and chaff.
My imagination went wild seeing these small horses only 34 inches in height sitting in their lounge chair watching Mr Ed on television and whinny with laughter at the jokes. This poor woman didn’t know what to believe and later asked me if she could come to my home to witness such an assembly. I invited her.
By the end of the trip she didn’t know who or what to believe but thinking about what Tohby Riddle wrote about the conversation between he and his niece to plant a seed for a book ‘my uncle’s donkey’, I think a book could be written about ‘my miniature horses and what they get up to’.
Word count: 426.
Sophie’s Unicorn.
It was in the fifties and I reckoned my grandmother was the greatest cook in the whole wide world. I was either ten or eleven – I’m not certain, however I clearly remember my birthday party and the cake my grandmother made. This birthday would be remembered for a number of reasons. Not only from the gathering of school friends and relatives who attended, but for the delightful and elegant birthday cake she made.
She’d spent hours preparing the filling for the cake of mixed fruit; flour; butter; milk; eggs and all of the other ingredients. Her speciality was not baking the cake but how she decorated it to become a masterpiece of elegance and delight. This particular cake affected my life forever. The base was round and coloured blue – my favourite colour. Green grass made of marzipan icing – thick and hard to hold and glisten in the light. My name and a Happy Birthday written in dark blue inscribed with more marzipan icing.
Appearing on the second level was a bright coloured blue unicorn lying down gazing out from the centre. Its eyes seemed to follow you whenever you moved. A huge horn projected from its forehead. This moment was surreal; I couldn’t understand why my grandmother had made a unicorn. Covering the unicorn was another layer of cake resembling a stable with straw bedding made from marzipan icing.
If ever a person was gobsmashed, it was me. I couldn’t believe that anyone would make such a glorious gift. It should never be eaten, I commented. At first when I saw the cake I must admit to being a little bemused about the unicorn. I couldn’t understand until my grandmother enlightened me with her story of Sophie’s Unicorn. Her words penetrated my mind to remain there forever.
If ever I wanted anything in life, all I needed to do was to touch the tip of the horn of Sophie’s Unicorn and my wish would come true. This was like having a genie in a bottle. There was one condition in touching the tip of Sophie’s Unicorn. My thoughts had to be for the good of others.
Ever since the first time I touched the tip of horn of Sophie’s Unicorn, a magic entered my mind to do a good turn for a person rather than a bad one and to treat people how I wanted to be treated and this is with trust and honesty.
My grandmother was a wise person.
Word count: 416
The Dawn Service.
This is the first time I attended The Dawn Service. It was at Imbil and from the large gathering almost half of the surrounding community attended. This day left a huge sorrow in my heart of reasons why I haven’t attended one before.
A couple of times a year I visit my elderly aunt. During my last visit she handed me a folder, ‘you may be interested to read about your grandfather. This is a record of his army service.’ It was the first time I’d seen his army service records.
My grandfather, Thomas Daniel Wilson number 2752 was a private attached to 49 Infantry Battalion. He enlisted on 4th July 1916 and soon afterwards left Australian shores. On 7th April 1917 he was wounded in action whilst flighting in France. After rehabilitation in England he returned to France where he fought to the end of the war.
Up until the time my aunt gave this folder I didn’t know anything about the history of where my grandfather fought and thank goodness he survived because had he been fatally injured I wouldn’t be here to share this story with you. At the time of joining the armed forces he was 21 years old. His whole life had been in the bush and gladly he used his bush instincts to survive. I can’t imagine what he went through at such a tender age.
This Anzac Day is the first time I’ve thought about my grandfather. I decided to attend the dawn service at Imbil. I did it in memory of him. At the time of his death I was two years old and therefore didn’t have the opportunity to have him as a grandfather only identifying him in photographs. Little did I realise after sixty years I’ve found solace and comfort in knowing my grandfather fought in World War 1.
When the last post was herald by the bugler my heart swelled with joy and a tear trickled down my face. My thoughts at the time were of my grandfather fighting the enemy on France’s shores, across the other side of the world. I am a lucky person to have him as my grandfather and feel proud he represented and fought for his Queen and country.
During the service, a poem was read of a grandson asking his grandfather his story of the war. Listening to the words put me in vision of asking my own grandfather about the war and like the words of the poem most of the story would have been hidden and only the good of man would have been told.
Thank goodness we had soldiers like my grandfather who fought to protect their country and to know his grandchildren would benefit from those days he fought the enemy in France to give us the freedom we all now enjoy.
Word count: 479
Wait For Me.
Stanley stood on the dock to see the ocean liner pull away from the port. Sophia stood on the deck waving good-bye. It was a chance meeting when Stanley met Sophia. Friday night Stanley didn’t have much to do and decided to visit a nightclub in Brisbane. He wasn’t a nightclub person however after what his mates had told him it was the place to meet the opposite sex.
People were dancing when he arrived so he decided to go to the bar and have a drink. ‘Pot of beer, thanks mate,’ he said to the barman and handed over a five dollar note. As quick as a flash the barman returned with a pot of beer and a few coins in change.
Why he was at the night club he didn’t know. He’d rather be at the top pub at Nundah where his mates hung out but they reassured him he would meet his dream girl tonight at the night club in Fortitude Valley. Did they know something he didn’t know?
His eyes scanned the audience in hope he may sight this dream girl. What a stupid thought, he didn’t know who she would be or what she looked like. It was a pig in a poke to use a term he often used when unsure of what he ever wanted from life. Take a chance; he told himself, you never know if you never have a go.
As if the sea had opened up to let Jesus walk on water, a beautiful blonde stepped into his sight. Perfume tickled the hair in his nostrils, his eyes glued to the sight of her. What a woman, he thought. She wouldn’t be interested in me, he pondered. Without glancing away she approached him and stood beside him at the bar.
‘Hi there,’ he muttered almost too frightened to say anything.
‘Hi there yourself.’ An American accent flowed from her lips. Stanley couldn’t believe this person spoke to him.
‘I’m Stanley.’ He stuttered and shoved his hand out to shake her hand. Their eyes met for the first time, hers ocean blue, his green.
‘I’m Sophia.’ She whispered close to his ear. Stanley felt an instant shudder go through his body.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ He asked gaining more confidence. She nodded. ‘What do you drink?’
‘Whiskey and water.’ Was her reply.
Stanley ordered the drink and before it arrived they were in deep conversation. Sophia was on a world tour and stopped over in Brisbane.
They talked throughout the night. Stanley had never met anyone like Sophia before and now believed his mates were right he went to the night club. As the dawn broke the horizon, Sophia said to Stanley, ‘Wait for me.’
Stanley was in love for the first time in his life.
Word count: 473
Have A Heart.
When I was eleven years old I worked part-time, mainly on weekends at a small grocery store in Roma, a country town west of Brisbane in which I grew up as a child. Thinking back to the period, the corner grocery store was then the modern Coles Supermarket of today. When the customer entered the store a huge counter trapped them from selecting the items they wished to purchase.
My role to select the items from the shelves behind the counter requested by the customer, place them on the counter in front of the customer and ask for the money to purchase them. When the money was handed over I deposited it in a cash register. These cash registers almost took up an entire section of the counter.
It was a Saturday afternoon, the store was quiet; the owner asked me if I wanted to choose an ice cream from the freezer. Ice creams were housed in a tall green coloured canvas ‘shippers’, we called them. This one had a cane frame, insulated with felt lining, covered with canvas and fitted with rope for fastening and carrying. Dry ice kept the ice cream frozen.
I undid the rope to open the lid and saw to my surprise a new type of ice cream. I knew most of the ice creams by name because if the customer wanted one I knew which one to get. This ice cream was recently delivered. After selecting the ice cream I placed it on the counter then quickly refastened the rope of the