Category Archives: short stories

Mayor Mayhem – Short Story J.K. Leahy


Hi friends, here is another 500-word short story I submitted (for fun) to the Fast and Furious Fiction with Queensland Writers’ Centre (QWC) Please comment if you enjoy reading it. Why did I use this plot? I have been following the turn of events in the Papua New Guinea politics when this prompt came out in QWC’s challenge and having worked in a political office in my past life – I couldn’t help but come up with this approach. I hope you enjoy having a chuckle.

The challenge in May was: the first word must have eleven letters. The story must have the words, “maybe, dismay, mayor, mayonnaise, and mayhem and at some point in the story, someone or something must be running.

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Mayor Mayhem

Accommodate. We were all advised at Mayor Bob Rhode’s campaign office last week that every volunteer must accommodate any challenges – to ensure our favourite candidate wins the elections.

I pulled a salmon blouse over my denim skirt. I had volunteered to assist with campaign administration. I heard a knock. It’s nine o’clock on Friday morning, May 3. From the bedroom, the street looked deserted. Josh my husband was in construction – he often left a tool or his hard hat behind and rushed home to get it. I picked up toys on my way to the front door.

Mayor Rhodes, 50, was a happily married father of two who built special swimming pools for disabled children. He recently extended Bellbowrie’s Bucher Park for the community to take refuge from the rain. Our community loved him.

I opened the door and was surprised.

“Good Morning Mayor.”

“Did Jessica tell you I was coming?” he asked smiling. “You seem surprised?”

“Maybe… Jessica forgot.” I stumbled. Jessica Simmons was his secretary.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” I said and led him to the lounge. “What’s this about?” I asked.

I’m 25. My 30-year-old husband told me that I was naïve. “Honey, men look at those blue eyes, your gorgeous breasts, and slender legs, because they want you. Be careful!”

The mayor wore a red sports jacket, his campaign T-shirt and casual slacks.  He said he wanted to discuss some strategies for the campaign.

“You are a perfect campaign leader – a smart, young, and beautiful mum. Voters respond to that,” he said.

“Would you like coffee?” I interrupted.

I left to put the kettle on. A blue sedan, not the mayor’s official car, was parked metres away from our entrance on 55 May St. I was anxious. Our five-year-old Jessica was at school. After being at home for five years, Josh had suggested last week I volunteer in the Mayor’s campaign and learn new skills.

I returned to the lounge with coffee and biscuits. Mayor Rhodes had removed his jacket.

On the coffee table, he laid papers and a bottle of mayonnaise. He pointed and said my campaign area were marked with pink highlights. He stared at me and paused.

“Do you like mayonnaise?” he asked softly.

I sat down with his coffee.

“Yes, I like mayonnaise, but what’s that got to do with the election?”

He took the coffee and set it down, then he leaned forward and touched my hands – he was so close, I pulled my hands away.

He quickly rose and unbuttoned his slacks.

“It won’t take much time,” and as he looked in my eyes he said, “you are so beautiful Daisy, I couldn’t stop thinking about you since you walked into my office last week.”

I gaped at him with dismay. All I could see was the headline, “MAYOR MAYHEM ON MAY ST.”

Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt outside; footsteps were running towards us.

“Honey! Daisy! I forgot my hard hat.”

Hello Again!


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Palau dancers. Pic. J.K.Leahy.

Dear friends,

I have taken a very long blog holiday; the longest since I first started blogging four to five years ago. I have had several art projects I needed to complete and I needed to spend some time on my book, health, and my family. During this time, I’ve received wonderful emails from many of you. Thank you. These emails have deeply touched me, and made me feel that my writing on the tribalmystic blog means something to all of us. To blog daily will be difficult at this time, but I’m very happy to return and work at posting two to three articles, stories or documentaries and pictures per week and when I can.

Thank you so much for your patience and continued support. You being here with me and sharing our stories means a lot to me too. In my culture, we dance to celebrate important events – coming home to this blog is worth dancing, so above are a group of young ladies dancing in Palau. I took this photo over ten years ago, and especially like the bright tones in their skirts and dancing sticks.

To kick start the writing, I would like to share with you a short story. Some of you may recognise parts of this story from my writing (150 words) Mondays Finish the Story with Barbara W. Beacham in 2015. I have left a link at the end of the story for you. I built the tale from 150 words to 500 words for the Queensland Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction in April, but since I didn’t win, I can share it here. Let me know what you think. The rules were to use the following lines in dialogue.

  • “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should, therefore, be treated with great caution.”
  • “He’s never done anything like this before.”
  • “What’s it going to be then, eh?”

Please visit QWC if you want to read other stories.

Mind Games – Short Story – J.K. Leahy

pink petaled flowers
Photo by Asad Nazir on Pexels.com

“It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should, therefore, be treated with great caution,” Joe said and placed two “candies” on the windowsill. I didn’t respond.

I sat where I could see the pink roses over the white fence. The neighbour’s little girl came out to play. She had bluish lilac eyes and sunshine hair – golden and full of light. She looked two or three, just like Rosie, if she were here with me.

The drugs, one blue and one red, may divert my headache, but not fix it. I didn’t want to argue with him anymore – it only ever turned ugly. But when Joe made poetry and philosophy out of his drug business, it sickened me. I was tired of it, and him. And I wanted my daughter.

Joe moved around the house and after a while, I smelt his garlic breath and stinky shoes.

“What’s it going to be then, eh?” His arm pressed mine to take the pills and he kissed my head. I had dreamt about Rosie and now became tearful. After two years in Johnson Mental Facility, I finally started to feel good again and hoped to see Rosie. I had not seen my baby since she was six months old and Child Services took her. Joe promised me we would see Rosie.

“You keep talking about Rosie, and you do nothing about it. Nothing! You sit at that window all day, every day, Cathy!”

He twisted the truth. He won’t help me find her.

“Oh, by the way, Jack is coming on the payroll. It’s great! He’s never done anything like this before,” Joe said, sounding like he was the model big brother.

“You shouldn’t force Jack into that crap, he’s only 16,” I lashed out.

“I didn’t. He said he needed money.”

“Really?” And that was all I had to say. It became a war.

Later, in hiding, I watched the police take Joe away. He would have calmed down, but only he and I knew that; not our new neighbours. If only Joe wasn’t shouting. This abandoned house was the safest so far in two weeks. We have moved ten times this year.

Today was very quiet. The sun warmed my scalp and shadows danced on my hands. My thoughts hurt my head.

“Ava! Ava! Where is your doll?” the little girl’s mother called.

Near the white fence were a lilac doll pantsuit and two doll hands. The roses matched her floppy hat and threw shadow creases over her delicate face. The toddler first ripped the doll’s head and legs, which she threw towards me. Ava had caught me watching her. She laid the doll arms and pantsuit down, and dropping the body, she ran to their house. My eyes salted, thinking how scary I must have looked to her. I need to leave before the Johnson Mental Health party arrives.

Read 150 words Mind Games here.

 

Saved by His Feathers – J.K. Leahy Short Story


Saved by His Feathers – J.K. Leahy short story

The proud one. JK.Leahy picture.©

His large pinkish feet were now pale scaly claws clasped in two tight fists at the end of the stiff body. All that was left of his proud behind was a featherless grey butt. It could have been a packed frozen turkey from Coles Supermarket, if we didn’t own a large rooster. Nothing was left of the tall proud white-streaked black feathers that lined and neatly covered his tail. The rooster loved to shake this tail and flap his wings before it tried to mount every hen we had in the pen.

Looking at what looked to be a corpse in front of me last Monday, I thought of the soft warm fuzzy black chick that had just hatched. My son Chris bought him and the hen at our local produce store near Brisbane five years ago. We thought we were raising layers until the black chick started acting weird, bullying the other chickens and making funny sounds that sounded like crows. It didn’t take him long to fine tune the crow and go for the hens.

Teaching the young a thing or two. JKLeahy picture.©

The late afternoon sun caught his morbid shape on the garden mound. I searched for movement. The dogs were barking madly. Stretched out, eyes shut and one battered wing hugging crudely to a large concrete brick as if hanging on to what was left of his life, my only thought was death. I turned him over. Lifeless.

I let out a cry and swung my piece of house timber at the two barking boxers as I tried to get them off the other chickens. The dogs, belonging to a neighbour, one black and the other white, had brought the rooster down so quickly and went for the others before I reached them from the house. There were wet feathers on the lilies, the wisteria and succulents, intertwined in the tall green grass, and the chicken coop wire. My obscenities, threats and timber swinging finally chased the dogs into the bushes behind the house and out towards the main road.

A feathery mess.

I picked up the rooster. He was cold and lifeless. Being the middle of winter, I tucked him quickly into my warm hoodie and cried while I called out for the hen who was still missing. The other two roosters seemed shaken but unscathed. Knowing that sometimes when dogs kill for fun, they could drag the carcase of their kill somewhere and leave them. I wasn’t sure of the hen’s fate, but at that moment, my son Chris arrived from work.

As I was calling for the hen, I could feel the rooster moving under my arm. I asked Chris to bring a towel to wrap the rooster and sent him after the dogs to find out whose dogs they were. I raced upstairs to clean the rooster’s wounds and stop the bleeding. I took the antiseptics and thoroughly brought out the bloody mess and noticed the bleeding punctures on the rooster’s back in three places.

Chris followed the dogs across our street and checked their tags and rang the neighbour to tell them about the incident. They lived directly opposite and across the road. Then, we drove to the Bellbowrie vet.

At the vet, the rooster’s breathing almost failed again. Chris reminded me to be prepared that he was old, and the vet may want to euthanize him to end his misery.

“I feel he will be okay”, I said to Chris.

Then the rooster made a lot of noise and trembled in my arms. There were three dogs barking from inside the vet kernel and two dogs waiting in the vet’s reception. I hid the rooster under my jumper again and kept in the corner, although I felt like leaving because I could sense, the dogs’ presence was too distressing for the old chicken. I wasn’t sure how to block his ears. Sensing the discomfort, the nurse called the vet and he ushered us inside and away from the dogs.

The vet pointed to the three deep punctures on the roosters back where most of the feathers were chewed off and blood was still coming out. I described the attack and the vet was shocked that the rooster was still fighting for its life then.

“Did he have large thick feathers?

“Yes, on his back, but not anymore”, I said.

“He is very lucky; his feathers saved him”, the vet said. The vet fully examined the rooster and gave him pain-killer and an antibiotic shot.

“He is very strong and he has a full gut. That is enough feed to keep him alive for a few days”, the vet said and smiled.

“How old is he – he is big?”

“Nearly five years old”.

“He is definitely a size 30” the vet said laughing.

A size 30 is a 3-kilogram bird, that I knew. I smiled.

“He is very healthy; I think your rooster is going to live – keep him warm and inside for a few days.”

I thanked the vet as he warned that the dogs could return, now that they have had a taste of blood.

“They think they’ve killed the rooster, but they know you have other chickens”, he said.

Where the bites were. I think the rooster would be upset if he knew I stole this shot of his tail.

The rooster slept in our house last night, woke this morning and had some porridge and gave me a dirty look so I gave him some chicken food – top layer mesh. He has been good all day and his wounds are scabbing nicely. He cannot use his feet yet, but he tried to stand a few times and crowed twice very loudly before he fell over. He wouldn’t let the younger rooster crow while he was recovering.

“Baby steps mister”, I said, but the rooster just gave me one of his ‘looks’.

In his sick bed and giving me one of his looks this morning.

Vanishing Point – Poem


A sleepless walker strides by dusk

The Brisbane River glassed

Beyond the vanishing point, houses blackened

A large orangey pink blanket covered the sky

It reflected on the river glass

Under the trees, an egret beamed

Its milky white feathers lit the roots

The walker disturbed the egret

The bird flew towards the orangey – pinkie sky

Looking to where the bird landed in the tree

The walker spots an odd couple – he tall and large

She is tiny and frail

They stand, side by side, arm’s length apart

Their arms are each folded; awkward

They stare into the river

Maybe they were speaking about the glassy river

Or the orange sky, the sleepless walker or the egret

There is a promise of love beyond the vanishing point

The walker smiles. Maybe sleep is coming tonight

Mother’s Creations – Poem


Handmade by Freda Kauc – acrylic and wool bag. (sold).

Mother

JK.Leahy  – Poem, Memoir

A wrinkled dusky pink sheet cradles a flowered meri blouse, a laplap and a bible – a word or two in the bible is for me, she echoes…

Room scented with sea, woods, coconut oil, eucalyptus and basil

A lotto ticket to set me up for life (her farewell and a surprise gift)

“If I won,” she always said, “I would let you decide what to do with the money”

We had laughed and discussed the possibilities

On the bed, an italic old-style farewell, handwritten in a very neat prose, mixing pidgin and dialect –

“Pawi – my child, I will miss being here…”

My mother was in a plane and gone

Twelve months threaded colourful bilums, gardens, and stories,

bringing me back to the first ten years of my life.

An assortment of brown hue – sculptured gum branches stacked for winter’s fires

Through the window, her many familiar artwork marked my surroundings, reminding me of her even bossy ways

-purple and green kaukau leaves sitting neatly on mounds

“You have sweet potatoes for winter”, her voice reminds me.

The large elephant leaves of pumpkin spreads and sprout golden flowers – a promise for more food.

But, I miss her telling me her stories.

Freda Kauc mobile phone bags.

See below some of my mother’s creations. All her bilums featured here were sold before she left Brisbane for Papua New Guinea. If anyone is interested to purchase my mother’s bags – please write to: joycelinleahy@gmail.com

Freda Kauc bilum – handbag.
Freda Kauc handbag and mobile phone bag.

 

Things My Mother Obsesses About – Story


Obsession JK. Leahy memoir

The kitchen in Bellbowrie house was marvelous. It’s Wednesday today, but the kitchen also looked marvelous on Tuesday and Monday.  I simply wanted to make chicken soup tonight, but I was afraid to dismantle this piece staring at me.

I looked at the stacked white cups, plates, and silver bowls that made this strange beautiful body and then the cutlery that made its arms and legs. Each item was part of another. It was a tidy dishwasher look without all the sections, except it was arranged to come together as one piece. If I had built a kitchen sculpture like that myself, it probably would have already unraveled when I got to stacking the spoons and the forks. And right now, if I tried to remove one cup or spoon to use, the rest would come crashing down like a dismantled sculpture. My son Nathan washed our dishes sometimes, but this was not his work of art – it was clearly my mother’s. My mother is obsessed about cleanliness and obviously tidiness. She has her own unique way of doing it.

Our kitchen has been so clean and different in the past six weeks since my mother has been with us in Brisbane that I’m inspired. I made a promise to myself; I could live up to this new expectation after she leaves. May be I could cut down on writing, art, a job, the garden, birds…It was not that we lived in a dirty house, but when my mother does something, especially cleaning, she takes it to a higher level, and makes you feel really good about it.

I could not have made this kitchen any cleaner in the past five years. Mother was not only obsessed with cleanliness, but getting any job done. Her gardening was the same and she began early and worked long hours. She was determined to clean the whole area and I reminded her some parts of our place was meant to be bushy for the animals. My siblings had asked me to bring our mother away from PNG to rest – but you think she would listen to me – no. She loves working hard. She attributes her strict work ethics to her parents, nursing, and her early learning from the Germans and Americans after the war.

I was grateful for her help now, but I fear when her holiday ends, this kitchen would return to the way my sons always left it; filthy with empty containers, piled up dirty dishes, peeled purple onion shells and spilled beverages. I clean it but it was never easy to maintain that pristine state for more than two days.

I took out the thigh fillets and started making chicken soup for my mother, my younger son Chris and I. Nathan had cooked his own meals for nearly a year and since he started a special fitness programme.

Across from the kitchen, my mother was folding the clean washing. Her knitting was on the dining table, colourful and laid out in neat bundles of colours. Mother folded all our clean washing like the way a machine would have done. We did sit and tell stories while we folded, but I soon gave up folding with her because she tended to unfold and re-fold the clothes I folded. And, if I told her she wasted her time because the clothes were meant to be worn again, she just giggled and said she preferred they were ‘properly folded’.

As I watched the boiling pot of chicken soup, I pictured Mother laying out all her medical tools on the shiny trays and pushing them from ward to ward on her tall shiny trolley. She is staring ahead with her white cap and apron crisply ironed and sitting in the precise position on her green uniform. She walks with her head held high and exuding a presence of authority when all around her is turmoil. I wondered if anyone had ever messed up her display of shiny metal pieces on the trays when she was a nurse. I once asked and she told me – never!

I think Mother’s cleaning and folding obsessions started from the hospitals and later, H.C. Leo a Chinese clothing manufacturer in Port Moresby hired her to fold completed garments. She was so precise with her craft that customers thought the cellophane packed and sealed shirts were done by machines.

My mother’s dedication to what she loves doing is second to none.

(To my regular readers – I wrote this draft/story yesterday, a part of a longer piece for Isabel D’ Avila Winter and our last Creative Writing Workshop group next Tuesday in Kenmore). If you expected drama while reading this – well there is, but it is in the rest of this story in the memoir – thank you for reading).

Michael Kiwanuka – Music for the Soul


Thank you Slipper Edge for sharing the music of this fantastic talent, Micheal Kiwanuka.

Of Ugandan parentage, who escaped the Amin regime (1971-1979), Kiwanuka (born May 3,  1987) grew up in Muswell Hill, North London. He attended Fortismere School after completion of A-levels and studied in the School of Media, Arts and Design at the University of Westminister.

Kiwanuka acknowledged that his music has influences of great musicians such as Otis Redding, Bill Withers, Bob Dylan, Jack Johnson and Eric Bibb.

Official website and tours.

Two Crows and a Slice of Bread


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A quick sketch of the two while they guarded their nest yesterday.

A high chorus of panic flooded into the lounge. I ran out to see what had bothered the chickens. Two crows sit on the grass and eat the top layer mesh. I was surprised. I had not seen crows here before. As I pulled the sliding door, the crows shot into the tall gum trees. Then they split and one stayed beyond the fence and kept talking to the other in the gum tree. It was only then, I realised they had built a nest. Over the weeks and months, one crow would venture into the backyard to snap bits of food. At one point there were three of them. Now the third had left. The remaining two worked in a team, one stayed at bay and talked loudly while one approached the house to shop. They both tended to keep their distance from any humans, but one was always braver.

And just like that, a confident thief in a black suit, one crow marched towards the house one hot day. I stayed in the kitchen and watched. Without touching the duck nor chickens’ food bowls, the crow came under the house and picked up a slice of bread and flew into the trees and over and beyond. I watched the crow circle above our property and my two neighbour’s houses and returned to our backyard where it met the second crow on an old gum tree.

On this spot, where the gum had lost all its leaves, the crows shared their slice of bread in silence while the chickens and the ducks watched. I believe the chooks were kicking themselves for missing that slice of bread.

Where My Eyes Are From – Short Story JK.Leahy©


Here is one of my earlier short stories that I published on this blog in 2014. I have not been writing much, but painting and drawing. I have to finish some old projects. I hope you enjoy “Where My Eyes Are From”.

Where My Eyes Are From – Short Story by JK.Leahy©

aadefc4fd597a10477161b5c625e98df
Old porch photo by First Light Photo. Sue Templin owner.

I turned to face the door and sat down in the centre edge. It was the softest part of mama’s large queen-size bed. I ran my large grey eyes over the bed. They never miss a thing. Papa had built this bed. The bed was rustic but sturdy. Because of the many years in the timbers, the bed talks like an old man when you are on it. Right now, the bed is not talking because I am not moving. The white cotton sheets were crumpled and warm. I wanted to climb into the sheets, make the bed talk, like mama and I used to when we would read together and play, but I could not.

We had buried mama at 3pm. The day had been long and tiring.

The few friends and family returned to our small two bedroom cottage on the edge of town in the hills of Mt Crosby, Queensland. The offering of sweet tea and cake to the mourners wrapped the day. However, the sweet tea did not sit well nor change the taste in my mouth. Soon, they left papa and me. We sat together on the old small veranda and did not speak. The old swing did the talking to the slight breeze. At 15, I knew half of papa was buried with mama this afternoon. I could not think of anything to say to papa.

The day hurried past. Soon, it burnt orangey into dusk. The ambers from the remains of the daylight pierced through the small white cottage.

“You can go to her room” Papa had said close to 5pm.

I saw the small clock on mama’s bedside as I sat down. Mama’s room smelt like vanilla with faint coffee. I had tried to shut out the noises with the door, but I could hear the puppies. All five of them ready for their milk. They needed their mother. A sharp pain went through me.

My hand felt under the pillow slip and I found it. The small white envelope mama promised before she took her last breath. I gazed back at the door. I waited. My heart started to race.

Through the gaps in the window I caught the late breeze approaching carrying bush smells of gum and acacia. I could hear my father humming “Gershwin’s Summer Time” and rocking in the old chair. The chair squeak was rhythmic and soothing. It re-assured me of his location. I did not want him to come in.

The house seemed to mimic Papa’s humming and suddenly I felt the sadness heavy in my chest. Papa was a real sweet man. Not only did he lose his woman, but his best friend.

I sat still and held mama’s envelope; firmed by the content of its small card. In this envelope was something mama wanted only me to know. My stomach did not feel right and I knew it was something I do not wish to know.

The room held on to the last of day light. In this dim light I read my name written neatly across with dainty curls. Mama always made a point of making big long tails in letters ‘y’ and “g”. My name was Margaret Meadows. Mama shortened it to “Maggy” with a “y” instead of an “ie” like in other Margies which was short for Margaret.

I brought the card closer to my nose. It smelt of vanilla too. This made me smile and my eyes salted. I felt that weight in my chest move up to choke me. I looked at mama’s photo of us in a white frame by the bed. Tears rolled down my eyes. Slowly, I pinched the corner of the white envelope and slit the end through with my index finger. This forced the white envelope open to reveal a small red card.

I eased back on the bed. The old man-bed groaned softly. I felt I needed some support and security before I opened the red card. I let my shoes drop on the wooden floor. I stared at the door; hoping papa would not come in. I need to be alone when I read this. That was what mama wanted.

My Love Maggy,

You were born a beautiful baby of glorious soft honey skin, pink lips, fair hair and long arms and legs. You were a fairy with piercing eyes. I swear if you had wings, you would have flown away. Your eyes always had a mysterious twinkle. When you were little, I often wondered if you were worried or just curious about your eyes because you asked me many times why your eyes were different from your father’s and mine. As you know, we both have brown eyes.

I need you to understand that Paul Meadows loves you like his own daughter. There is not a single person that loves you more and not a single reason to be ashamed of who you are.

Your grey eyes came from a man named Peter Sullivan who was once your father Paul’s best friend. Last year, I found out that he died in a car accident while driving back to Brisbane from New South Wales.

I love you Maggie, with all my heart.”

Mama.

A Storyteller


A Storyteller – Stories, Poetry & Art

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JK.Leahy Illustration, Jan 2016

A storyteller illustrates a story about a girl, her mother and a turtle.

As the graphite glistens like a medieval etching on stone, the crisp white paper grows pictures. The art dances and the images come together and get close in a circle.

The storyteller adds smiles on their faces; the story is going to have a happy ending.

But, as the three characters get closer during the shading, the storyteller accidentally gives the mother a tear. Another tear is added deliberately for balance. Then the storyteller gives the girl a tear, somewhat reluctantly. The storyteller’s eyes fill with tears.  She works faster as tears stream down her face. She begins to shade around the three characters. She cannot separate them. The storyteller is pulled into the circle, to the three characters. There is no separation. It is the law of nature. It is the law of memory and love. It is the law of characters that we love.