‘This is the Police. Come out with your hands in the air!’

Three police cars parked strategically around the front of the gas station. The alarm had been activated and the police were called in. There had been a spate of break-ins and they had finally caught the culprit in the act. Firearms used in the previous two robberies made the police nervous. They guarded themselves behind their cars where the faint smell of body odour and heated engine oil mingled. Neighbours awakened by the early dawn invasion, gathered cautiously outside their homes to observe the commotion.

‘Do you hear me? This is Police Officer Brody. Come out with your hands up!’

The door opened slowly, revealing a small laced-up boot. The officers dropped down behind their vehicles, guns cocked.

‘Please don’t shoot’, a quiet trembling voice responded.

The door opened a little further and an elderly woman hobbled out. She was stooped low and walked with a cane.

‘What the…? Please step out into the open and put down your—cane.’

She dropped the cane and raised her hands as far as her skinny arms would allow.

Officer Brody stepped forward to access the situation. He motioned Police Officer Mandy Walters to carry out a search. Brody steadied the shaken old lady with his powerful hand under her elbow. Officer Walters placed the crooked walking stick back into an arthritic hand. She obviously didn’t want to embarrass the startled petite woman any further by searching her.

With an indignant expression, the woman faced the officer in charge. ‘I think there has been a mistake. You see, I left my keys in the bathroom and when I went back in, I noticed I had grease on my clothes.’ She rubbed at the spot on her weathered skirt.

‘I tried to wash it, but I had to take it off because the skirt wouldn’t reach the faucet. I locked myself in so no one would disturb me. Unfortunately, I think the nice man at the counter must have closed up for the night and didn’t realize I was still there.’

‘Where is your car?’

‘Sir! I don’t own a car. That’s my motorcycle.’ She lifted her cane and pointed with her bent fingers past the police cars and confused police officers. A Harley Davison that sheltered under an ancient oak tree glistened in the morning sunlight.

‘I find this all hard to believe. Tell me how you were in there all night without triggering the alarm?’

‘Well, you see…. I sat on the toilet seat to adjust my tights and I slipped off into the corner. I was stuck and didn’t have the energy to get up until this morning. When I left the bathroom, I was aware that I couldn’t get out so I shook the door. That pesky alarm just kept screaming at me.’

Brody scratched his head, completely mesmerized while she shuffled towards the Harley across the road. She mounted the motorcycle with a little difficulty, but unwavering. She placed an opened-face helmet over her greying, outdated hairstyle.

Using her key, the engine started up with a roar. Poking the cane into a side pouch, she flipped the kickstand up and drove off in one smooth movement. Officer Brody glanced at a smug-faced Walters before replacing his gun into its holster.

‘What are you looking at? You can do the report when we get back.’

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: Short Fiction

Another short story I wrote back in 2008 to 2010 for The Cypress Times in Texas. I haven’t edited any of them but I thought I might share some of my old writing.

Wisdom in the Midst of Valentine’s Day Cards, Mush and Romantic Songs

Anthony and Gladys were quite a couple who loved each other dearly. After my own parents died, my husband’s parents became more than just family, we were friends. Michael and I valued their wisdom and their guidance, especially on marriage. Gladys passed away a few years ago and Anthony died shortly after. I loved them both, and the memories of Gladys in particular, still make me smile.

I remember one special occasion like it happened yesterday. It began when Gladys and I went shopping for Valentine’s Day. I found what I wanted fairly quickly but nothing was good enough for her Anthony. We read cards for hours but she wanted that perfect card. She wanted a Valentine’s Card with the perfect words.

“You’re the only love in my life,

You’re the only one I love…

When was the last time I said I love you?

“When was the last time I said I care?

It may have been last Valentine’s Day

But I could never be untrue?”

If I tell you that I love you,

If I tell you I’ll be true,

If I tell you you’re my sunshine

Will you be my Valentine?

Even when words are unsaid,

You’re forever in my heart

You’re forever in my head,

We can never part.

I give you my heart,

I give you my all

Just never let me go,

Let me be your Valentine.

“Oh, please. What a lot of mush,” Gladys concluded in desperation.

It was the fifth store we had visited and we had read dozens of silly poems, listened to romantic lyrics and trudged through mazes of red hearts and balloons. I had had enough. Gladys had given up. She replaced the last Valentine card back in the rack and we left—empty handed.

“I tell Anthony all the time that I love him. He tells me all the time. Well no… that’s not quite true.”

We laughed together and left arm-in-arm to the exit and out to the car.

Glad and I were sipping tea on her patio a few days after Valentine’s Day. Her eyes sparkled as she shared some moments from their Valentine’s dinner. Gladys always had a way of weaving teaching and wisdom together with life experiences to tell a story…as well as making it fun. This is what she shared:

“The aroma of roasting beef filled Anthony’s senses the moment he entered the house just after six o’clock…exactly how I had planned it. Our favourite romantic songs played quietly in the background, and two simple taper candles flickered in the gentle breeze from the fan rotating above an elegantly set table for two.

“‘Something smells good,’ Anthony said. It was his usual greeting, followed by a peck on the cheek. ‘Looks good too.’ Anthony opened the oven door to take a long sniff.

“I had even made a lemon-meringue pie for dessert, and told him so as he continued toward the bathroom to shower and change.

“My diamond ring still holds its sparkle, and for the evening, I had let my hair fall over my bare shoulders. They’re more like old prunes these days, but he never seems to mind.”

Gladys and I laughed at that.

Gladys continued. “The softness of the satin evening dress Anthony had bought me for Christmas, matched my mood of the evening.

“Anthony’s after-shower look made me smile. Always has. He looked relaxed after his long day and the scent of his favourite cologne drifted across the table and a wet strand of hair stuck to his forehead. He wore a shirt to match his hazel eyes, which twinkled in the candlelight.”

I smiled at her words. They were still in love, and it showed.

“The music changed as if on cue. ‘Remember this song?’ Anthony had whispered, like he was trying to avoid drowning out the words.

“’Yes,’ I smiled. ‘It was the song on the car radio the night you asked me to marry you. ‘

“Anthony looked into my eyes and said, ‘I love you more now than I can say.’ His boyish grin still captivates my heart.”

Gladys admitted her throat constricted many times that evening.

“I thought about those mushy greeting cards a lot. All I could get out was that I loved him too. Anthony admitted he hadn’t bought a Valentine’s card either. They were all so…”

“Mushy.” We finished the sentence together.

After 40 years of marriage, they didn’t need a card to say how much they loved each other.

“‘No, I guess we’re mushy enough,’ Anthony had declared. He had stood and took me by my hand and led me outside where, in the light of the silvery moon, we old “mushies” danced the night away.”

I miss Glad, and I miss her guidance she gave as the older woman. Yes, Gladys was my mother-in-law but most of all, she was my friend. Our shopping trips were always special. Her wonderful stories will stay with me forever. Perhaps one day, I’ll have a daughter-in-law of my own to whom I can pass on Gladys’s stories and share similar ones of my own.

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: Short Fiction

One of the short stories I wrote back in 2008 to 2010 for The Cypress Times in Texas. I haven’t edited any of them but I thought I might share some of my old writing. I’m finally learning how to use WordPress blocks so this is also a practice post.

One Hundred Twenty-Two Steps to the Floor of the Rain-Forest: the sign read at the beginning of the narrow track.

Joe looked at his cell phone. “Are you sure about this? There’s no reception up here, so I doubt if there is any at the bottom.”

“I’ll be fine. We can stop and rest as many times as I need. We have all day. Look! There’s a rope handrail. Honest, I’ll be fine.”

“OK,” he sighed. “I’ll go first. If you fall, I’ll save you.”

“My hero.” I laughed and tightened the laces on my walking shoes and adjusted my leg brace.

The descent was steeper than I thought and the steps carved into the dry crusted earth, twisting over exposed tree roots and around broad tree trunks and small boulders. Using the rope to steady myself, I made my way down the sloping path. My encouraging husband restrained his usual pace and stayed close.

Deeper into the bush it was shady and cool. The steps dropped away at sharp angles and I noticed the overhead canopy had thickened. An old stump that had split lengthwise made an ideal resting place near vine entangled trees. The silence was intriguing.

“Can you hear that?” I whispered.

“Hear what? It’s so quite here.”

“Exactly!”

We continued silently, stopping once to let me catch my breath beside a trickle of a waterfall. Stepping onto the forest floor, we came upon a sign that gave information regarding a bushman who once lived in the area. I wiped the sign to read the remainder of the text.

“Wow! Imagine living here. It’s so peaceful.”

“Don’t touch the leaves of the red nettle tree—they sting,” Joe warned, reading a small rusted sign by a mysterious tree with an enormous red trunk.

My curiosity about the bushman increased when I observed a wooden structure beyond the red nettle tree. The fireplace and chimney were entwined with thick vines. Three walls remained standing, although I wondered if there was an original fourth wall—or a door. Located near another path, the hut’s open section faced a dried-up waterfall and stream. A memorial plaque erected above a crude water tub detailed the life and death of this bushman of the wilderness.

Joe wandered around the immediate area, taking snapshots. “Wait here. I’ll see where the other path goes.”

“OK,” I replied, studying the hut in more detail. Sitting on one of the two tree stump seats, I leaned back against the simple wooden table and closed my eyes. The sweet bird calls resounded through the bush as I breathed in the clean, crisp air. I wonder what it was like to live here.

The sound of whistling and running water interrupted my thoughts. On the path where Joe had left minutes before, a young bushman entered the small clearing. He ceased whistling, removed his weather-beaten hat with a row of corks hanging from the brim, and stood staring at me. “G’day Ma’am. Um’, where’d you come from?”

Without taking my eyes off the bushman, I pointed to the other path. “Where did you come from?” I finally managed.

“Ma’am, this is my home. I was going to make a billy of tea. Would you care to join me?”

“Yes, thank you. Sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here anymore, Mr … er …”

“John Wilson, Ma’am.” He dipped his head before replacing his hat.

He filled an old billycan with water from the waterfall, which had suddenly begun to flow freely. Weird. I watched in a dazed silence as he placed the billycan on an open fire.

“How long have you lived here, John?”

“Oh, since early 1890, I suppose; I came down here looking for me horse and fell in love with the place. I never did find me horse. I go back into Vacy every three months or so to get some supplies.”

John placed tin cups on the table and poured in the hot tea. We talked about the town of Vacy and his home under the canopy. The afternoon air seemed to tug at my eyelids. Crossing my arms on the table, I listened with interest to his friendly talk.

“Hey, wake up sleepy head. We have to start the climb back if we want to get back before dinner.” Joe’s voice drifted down the path. “I got some good photos for your journal about John Wilson.” He paused. “Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

© Chrissy Siggee

Author’s note: This story is mixture of non-fiction and fiction but the Australian history details are fact. Vacy is a locality of the Dungog Shire local government area in the Hunter Region of New South Wales, Australia

Prickly wind struck his face repeatedly like razors and sweat stung his eyes as his horse zigzagged down the steep mountain. With every frightening turn he clutched the reins that were wrapped tightly round his raw and bleeding fists. His partly bare knees ached as they gripped firmly against the saddle, still his horse hurtled on further with sweat dripping from every inch of its petrified body.

The rider hung on frantically. With no power of control, they careered toward the valley below. He forced his head to turn to see the blazing inferno that threatened to overtake them and felt the searing heat insulting their already over heated bodies. The air was thick with blinding smoke but his horse continued to pursue an unknown trail heaving deep wheezing breaths as they went.

Rocks skidded from under foot causing the horse to lurch sideways and slide forward for a number of stomach-churning seconds. With stability regained the horse veered sharply left but the terrifying ordeal of the incline was not over.

Just as they plunged into the openness of the green valley a stampede of wild horses threatened their safety. The rider’s horse swerved to avoid collision. Regaining control, the rider eased his horse to a slow trot to allow its heartbeat to ease gently. But with the rapidly descending flames still raging toward the valley he needed to act fast.

Immediately the stampede had past, the rider steered his sweating horse toward a shallow stream. Without wanting to stress his faithful horse further he gently steered the horse with the reins toward a rugged landscape located on the opposite side of the valley. Once there he dismounted and led the horse through a maze of rocky crevices.

Above them a cloud of thickening smoke rapidly blocked out the sky. The ground beneath them altered from the luscious valley grass to a rocky path leading into a partially hidden opening in the side of the valley wall. The cave-like passageway was dark and damp as they edged forward to the echo of his horses’ hooves on the rocky surface. The horse’s wheezy breath gradually eased closer to a regular breathing pattern.

A gentle breeze carried a fresh earthy fragrance as they made their way through a tunnel that seemed to have no end. The man touched the wall and the ceiling above to find their way. Following a bend slightly leftward a faint light filtered in. Within moments they stepped out once again into the valley now blackened – burnt to ashes. A hundred yards further on, the stench of burnt flesh insulted their nostrils. The horse tried to push the man away from the scene but they couldn’t avoid the hundreds of carcasses of wild horses that were scattered across the valley floor.

The rider’s horse reared and snorted. In awe and wonder the rider mounted and rode away from the valley of death.

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: 🦋 Short Fiction

Carrie, you have wounded my heart. Why do you keep saying hurtful things?” 

Carrie rolled her eyes. “Oh please, you’re so melodramatic, Sandy. Get over it.”

“You’re always insulting me in front of my friends. Why?”

“Why, why? Always, why? Sis, you just don’t get it. Read my lips. You…will…nev…ver…SING. Stop embarrassing yourself and I wouldn’t have to come to your rescue.”

“Rescue?”

Growing up in a family of five girls, Sandy always felt stuck in the middle. It wasn’t easy. She was the plain sister. Her hair was plain. Her face was plain. Her nose was plain. Sandy looked in the mirror. “My whole me is plain. But…I can sing,” she protested at the image. “I know I’m not perfect but from the moment I wake each morning, I wanted to sing.”

Sandy’s sisters constantly teased her about her singing. Carrie was the worst. She was a year older than Sandy and seemed to find joy in wounding her sister with her words. Carrie couldn’t sing. Actually, she hated singing. She would scream at any of her siblings for playing a record or if they hummed as they worked or played.

Just after Carrie’s seventeenth birthday, there was a huge argument between the five girls over the record-player disappearing. Carrie finally admitted she’d thrown it out. She stormed from the family home and moved up state with her boyfriend. Sandy never saw Carrie again. Marsha was the only one who kept in contact with Carrie…besides their mother. The teasing continued from the others but not as often or as cruel. 

After high school, Sandy worked as a secretary for a pastor in a big church. One day, he heard her singing along to their church’s latest CD. She was busy typing the monthly newsletter and didn’t see him enter the church office. Usually the place was empty on Fridays so Sandy could sing to her heart’s content…where no-one would make fun of her. Pastor Lloyd was just standing there, leaning on the door-frame. It gave Sandy the fright of her life. Her face burned with embarrassment.

Sandy and the Pastor had a long talk that day about her voice and experience…or rather, lack of. Within a few weeks, Sandy was singing back-up on Sundays and shortly after, the music director allowed Sandy to sing her first solo.

That was nine years ago. Sandy finally got over the hurt she grew up with…or so she thought.

Sandy and her husband, Geoff, had not long arrived home from church, when Geoff went to the study to put his Bible away. Sandy was preparing lunch when the telephone rang. with her hands in water, Sandy let Geoff take the call and kept working. 

“Honey, it’s your sister…Carrie.” 

Gingerly Sandy accepted the phone. Carrie’s taunts echoed in her head…they still hurt.

Sandy squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus. “Hello.”

Sobs and hic-cups muffled the words. “Sandy…hic Marsha gave me your…hic number. What’s your address? I need to see you.”

Sandy’s eyes sprang open. “Carrie, where are you? What’s wrong?”

“Stan’s left me…for another woman…hic…again. But…hic that’s not why I called…hic. Please, Sandy.”

Sandy gave Carrie their address and hung up. Geoff knew of Sandy’s years of her sisters’ relentless insults. There was nothing Geoff and Sandy didn’t share. She admitted mixed emotions about seeing Carrie and Geoff prayed for wisdom and peace. Sandy was so afraid she would be wounded again.

Carries arrived shortly before two o’clock the following afternoon. She talked non-stop and seemed genuinely happy to see Sandy and Geoff. Her frail figure worried Sandy though. 

“Carrie, are you okay? You said yesterday that Stan had left you,” she paused. “You’re also looking…unwell.”

Carrie burst into tears. Geoff left the women alone. Sandy wasn’t sure if it was Carrie’s bawling which made him feel awkward; as it did her, or if he thought it was best for the sisters to sort it out themselves. They were still talking when Geoff returned a few hours later.

“Geoff,” Sandy said quietly. “Please sit for a moment.”

Carrie filled him in on some general pieces of conversation before Sandy continued. “Geoff, Carrie’s kidneys are failing,” she said her voice quiet. “Without a donor, she could die. Marsha, Eleanor and Sophie, aren’t compatible and she’s asked me to be tested. We do have the same blood-type. What should we do?”

Geoff took his wife’s hand. “What do you think you should do, Sandy? It’s your call.”

Sandy searched his eyes, trying to see his thoughts, and then turned to see Carrie’s tear-stained face. Sandy took a deep breath and looked into her sister’s pleading eyes. She felt her anguish. “I think it’s time for wounded hearts to heal.”

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.