help me help me

not the bell...not my dingle bell



whew!

OH SHIT!

Merry Xmas

XXXXX



On a wooden platform a young cheetah basked in the morning sun.

Cara, the cheetah’s keeper, walked into the enclosure, her long blonde hair hanging loose.

“Hey, Samson,” Cara called softly. She moved slowly up behind the cub and crouched down. A cloud of dust swirled over her jeans. “How are you, wee man?”

Samson lay motionless, totally ignoring his keeper’s presence.

“Aren't you talking today, mister?” Cara smiled and gazed at the dark brown spots covering Samson’s creamy tan fur. Each one perfectly placed to form a unique pattern. And those fuzzy ears...so beautiful!

Cara’s blue eyes suddenly filled and her stomach churned. How could anyone kill such a magnificent creature?

Human greed had driven the cheetah to near extinction. But now, she could make a difference. Recently graduated from university, Cara was part of the team working on Arana Park’s cheetah breeding programme.

With one hand on the edge of the platform, Cara reached out and gently placed her hand on Samson’s head. His warm soft ear touched her palm.

“You’re such a gorgeous boy” she whispered. Just then, she felt a deep, vibrating rumble erupt from Samson. Cara’s face flushed with happiness.

He was purring.

*original cheetah photo from Orana Wildlife Park

An eerie silence fills the graveyard as the fog slithers in, smothering all in its path.

On a twisted branch, a raven waits.

Juliet wakens as Romeo draws the last few breaths of life.

Desperately she nudges his rigid, pain-wracked body.

With her heart breaking, she watches as the soul is sucked from his eyes.

He is still.

"O Romeo, my love, whatever shall I do?" she whispers.

Suddenly, she remembers...Peter.

"O Peter, Peter! Where art thou Peter Rabbit?"

With a flick of her tail she hops off in search of love's sweet fruit.

The raven swoops...

 



scuttled into the shadows!



the curse

Larisa slipped quietly through the door into a gloomy, smallish bedroom with wooden floorboards and a high ceiling. It smelt like Murdoch — old and musty. Larisa shivered, her breath coming out in tiny white clouds.

Hugging her chest tight, she looked around. Daylight struggled through a single bare window. Below the window stood a wooden desk cluttered with books and papers and empty whisky bottles.

An open fireplace sat against one wall, and along the thick wooden mantelpiece were photographs of families, and men dressed in army uniforms. They stared at Larisa with their empty eyes and stern faces.

Her heart thumped. It has to be here!

Kneeling beside the bed, she reached into the darkness and felt something cold and hard — a suitcase! She gripped the handle and dragged it out. Leather straps held the case shut. Larisa fumbled with the buckles. Then slowly, she lifted the lid.

Inside were bundles of yellowed letters bound together by faded ribbon. Larisa's stomach twisted in knots. The name on the envelopes was Lady Larisa Kirby. Her Great Grandmother.

A black cloak made from silk lay beside the letters. Larisa drew it from the suitcase. Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat. There it was!
The dagger!

The silver sheath and handle were encrusted with rubies. Trembling, Larisa picked it up. She pulled the dagger from its sheath, the curved blade glinting in the dim light. With despair in her soul, she held it to her breast. She knew that her family's curse would never be broken until she killed him.

Killed the man she so desperately loved.



you follow us up the garden path

watching...feeding

i spin around

empty air, empty ground

yet you are there

hiding?

XVIII

chicken!

esta eucalyptus



amidst blood and tears

and a promise of $2 more than the tooth fairy

my wee man finally yanked out his wiggly tooth

amber's poem #2

wind scatters the air

whistling is heard

trees sway like dancers

lonely puppy in the wind

sadness in its body

i run to pick it up

tail wags...tongue licks

inside...fire burns

happy, sleepy puppy

shhhhhh



makin' hay



KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Oh no!

Standing on the other side of the glass door was the farmer from next door, Mr Mugford. 

My tummy squished.

    

I slid open the door. Phew! Cowplop! Gross!

Mr Mugford’s gumboots were covered in poo and he was wearing baggy, green trousers and a brown jersey full of holes. I looked up at his wrinkly face and messy white hair. He must be the oldest person...ever!

    

“Where’s ya mother?” he grunted. “Those goats of hers are on the road again.”

Mr Mugford’s thick, bristly eyebrows glared at me like two angry caterpillars.

“Typical townies! Can’t control your stock!”