It is concert night. My hands are sweating and shaking as my turn comes and I take my place on the low stage. First we do Kyle’s song and I only make one little mistake. Kyle high fives me as he leaves the stage to huge applause.
Then I sing my song, even though I am nervous and not so great at singing.
One kind word to lift a heart
One kind word to make a smile
One kind word to help you when you have to walk another mile.
I can change a life, yes, I can change a life.
One kind word to save a life
One kind word to give some light
One kind word is all it takes to take a wrong and make it right.
I can change a life, yes, I can change a life.
The clapping is so loud my chest hurts. My ears are still ringing later as I fall asleep. And I realise that I do belong here after all. I have found some things I am good at.
* * *
When I jump off the bus, everyone waves to me and calls out goodbye. Lucy gives me one of her special big hugs and listens to my stories about camp.
“And they taped it all and stuff. We can get copies… Do you think maybe I could get a ukulele?”
“Of course you can,” Lucy smiles. “What colour would you like?”
And that’s how I got my own little, yellow ukulele.
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Bob’s Mythological Garden
Faiz Kermani
Bob Boogle’s job at the newspaper had been driving him mad. He wanted to write about serious subjects, but the editor would not let him, convinced that his journalistic talents were better suited to weird news.
He should have expected as much after his success in writing about the search for the legendary Loch Ness Monster. Shortly after Mervyn Mubbins, the owner of a garage, claimed that the monster had crawled out of the lake and eaten all his customers’ cars, Bob had been first to arrive on the scene and the newspaper’s sales had rocketed. However, when the supposedly eaten cars were found being repainted for sale at another of his garages, Mervyn Mubbins was arrested and interest in Bob’s stories about the Loch Ness Monster quickly vanished.
Bob was then asked to cover the stories no one else wanted to write. While his colleagues flew to exotic locations to write about dramatic world events, he would be sent to abandoned warehouses and ruined buildings to collect information on ghost sightings and alien kidnappings.
It was after spending a stormy night on a hillside looking for werewolves that Bob decided that he had had enough.
“You can’t quit!” pleaded his editor. “We need you!”
Bob was astonished. “You need me? You must be joking. I’ve just spent ten hours in the freezing rain chasing creatures that don’t even exist!”
“But our readers love your stuff!”
“What?”
His editor got up and unlocked a rusty cabinet in the corner of the room. From it, he removed a large, battered cardboard box that he turned on its side. Hundreds of letters poured out onto the floor. “You have fans,” he said, with an embarrassed look on his face. “A lot of them.”
Bob glanced at the letters in amazement. “How come you’ve never shown these to me before?”
“I forgot. Well, until now. But look, you simply can’t leave us. Think of the fans’ disappointment.”
Bob felt flattered but when he sifted through the letters he noticed that the same unusual names kept appearing on them. “But they’re all from the same people!”
“Er, yes, but these people are very important to us. They are major business owners and pay for a huge amount of advertising.”
Bob sighed. “So, basically, my ridiculous stories keep these people entertained so they advertise with us?”
“Exactly. You have a rare talent.”
“But writing these idiotic stories is driving me nuts. I want to write about serious things for once, like economics, or politics.”
“Oh, come on, Bob, why do you want to write about that boring nonsense? There’s no thrill involved in listening to politicians drone on for hours. You’re a man of action. We need you for this exciting, cutting edge stuff. This is what our readers really want.”
“You mean the rich readers whom you want to keep advertising with us.”
“Well kind of,” admitted his editor sheepishly.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough.”
Bob’s editor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I can see you need a break. Get away from it all for a few months and then when you’re feeling refreshed, you’ll see that this is the job for you.”
Bob had to admit that a break sounded good, but what would he do for money?
His editor had already thought of that.
“You’ll be paid in full during your time away. I even know the perfect place,” continued his editor. “My aunt has an old cottage about two hours drive from here. You’ll love it there. The scenery is wonderful and calming.”
* * *
Early the next morning, Bob was sitting on the balcony of his new holiday home, enjoying the sunshine. He poured himself a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice and cut a slice of crusty bread. Then he took a long, deep breath of the pure air as he marvelled at the magnificent landscape. Beyond the garden lay a huge forest, whose trees extended like a bright green blanket over the hillside as far as the eye could see.
Bob passed most of the day relaxing in the wonderful surroundings. His editor had been right about this place. He could feel the stress and worries of his daily life draining away.
In the late afternoon, Bob visited some of the local markets and bought plenty of food. In the past, one of his hobbies had been cooking but he had given it up due to his busy work schedule. Now, he finally had the time to enjoy it again.
As he was eating dinner, Bob was distracted by a shape moving across the garden in the darkness. Just beyond the fence, he was able to make out a silver outline against the blackness. He could not determine what the shape was, but it seemed larger than a cat or a dog. Suddenly, it turned toward him, and stared at him with beautiful ice-blue eyes. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished into the endless forest.
The next night he found himself hoping for another visit from the unusual stranger. He left a bowl of milk and some bread out in the middle of the garden and waited nearby. For several hours nothing happened, but, as he was about to give up hope, he was rewarded by an incredible sight.
Bob rubbed his eyes, but there was no doubt about it. A silvery-white unicorn was walking gracefully toward him. He held his breath, hoping not to scare the magnificent creature.
“Hello, Bob,” said the unicorn confidently. “Thanks for the food.”
“You can speak? You know who I am?” spluttered Bob, falling off his chair.
“Of course I do. My name’s Argentia. Just think of me as your friendly neighbour from the forest.”
Bob was confused. He did not know where to start with the many questions he wanted to ask. “Do you live there alone?”
“Of course not,” snorted Argentia. “Can you imagine how unbelievably boring it would be to live there on my own? There are lots of us unicorns and other creatures too.”
“There are others?”
“Sure,” laughed Argentia chewing on some bread. “Gnomes, elves, fairies, dwarves, trolls, giants, dragons and so on.”
Bob spent most of the night talking to Argentia, who opened his eyes to an enchanting world he had only previously invented stories about for the newspaper. By the time he finally went to bed, he could hardly sleep because of excitement.
Over the next few weeks, Argentia often joined him for dinner. Bob enjoyed the company of his new friend, who was an endless source of information about the magical world of the forest.
“You should meet some of the other forest dwellers,” said Argentia one day, as she reached for another slice of Bob’s delicious, spicy cheese and tomato pizza.
r /> “That would be fantastic!” replied Bob.
The next morning, Bob was puzzled to see Argentia appear at breakfast time. She was accompanied by a few non-unicorn friends.
“Allow me to present Gumbo the gnome,” she said, nodding in the direction of a rather short and plump creature. “Then we have his brothers, Norbs, Nobol and Nimbit.”
“Pleased to meet all of you,” replied Bob.
“Nice to meet you too,” grinned Gumbo. “So what have you got to eat?”
Bob was taken aback at the sudden request, but decided that it might be nice to have company for breakfast. However, for such small creatures, he noticed that gnomes had large appetites. While Argentia ate very little, the gnomes finished off everything he had and he was forced to return to the bakery twice to buy them more fresh bread. When they finally left, he slumped into his chair in relief. Now he finally had time to himself.
Bob turned to the stack of books he had brought outside with him and spent several relaxing hours reading them one after another. The beautiful sunset was the perfect end to a tranquil day – until it was shattered by the noise of cackling.
Bob looked up and was horrified to see Gumbo and other assorted creatures following Argentia into his garden.
“All the creatures in the forest were so excited to hear about you, that I brought some more of them along to meet you,” said Argentia.
“Of course,” replied Bob weakly.
Before he knew it, he was being introduced to various gnomes, dwarves, elves and pixies. He rapidly forgot all their names though, as soon he was busy cooking and serving them dinner. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to persuade them to leave by the time he went up to bed. From the staircase, he looked sadly around his living room at the dwarves jumping on his sofa, the elves throwing ice cubes at each other and the pixies rifling through his music collection. So much for the restful break he had planned.
* * *
Bob did not want to get up. He was exhausted, but the banging sound would not stop. He peered out from under the blanket and saw a familiar face peering at him through the window. It took him a few seconds to realise who it was.
“Rise and shine!” cried Gumbo the gnome.
“You shouldn’t be up here” said Bob through gritted teeth as he reluctantly opened the window. He was half tempted to push Gumbo off the ladder.
“Oh, don’t be grumpy. It’s a glorious day.”
Bob put on his dressing gown and slowly made his way downstairs, followed by Gumbo. ‘One nightmare ends and another one begins,’ he thought to himself.
“Surprise!”
Argentia was standing next to the front door and was prancing with excitement.
“Look outside,” she said brightly. “I’ve brought some more friends.”
Bob stared aghast at the terrible sight. Words could not describe the panic he felt. A long line of mythological creatures was surging down into his garden from the forest. There was no end to them. The air was alive with the noisy, excited chatter of dwarves, goblins, pixies, elves, fairies, giants, ogres, dragons, unicorns, centaurs, griffins and bizarre creatures that he had never even thought possibly existed.
He wandered outside in disbelief. They all seemed to be having a wonderful time helping themselves to his food. He took a deep breath.
“They need to leave,” he told Argentia, as he started to shake with anger.
“What?”
“They need to leave. Now!”
When Argentia continued to look at him with a puzzled look on her face, Bob rushed into the house and returned with a broom. Shrieking at the top of his voice, he ran around the garden like a madman smashing plates, dishes and glasses.
The creatures scattered as the howling human ran between them causing havoc and insulting them. They retreated to the sides of the garden and watched in stunned silence until a large, three headed, winged tortoise belched.
The crowd’s laughter made Bob even angrier. “This is not a restaurant. This is my home. I want all of you out of here right now. Get out!”
“I thought you said he was hospitable?” said a giant to Gumbo.
“Hospitable?” yelled Bob, whose face was turning red. “I never invited any of you here. Go away!”
“Such disgusting manners,” snorted a shimmering red dragon.
“Typical, rude human,” remarked a like-minded fairy.
“Get lost!” screamed Bob, waving the broom at them.
“Does that include me as well?” asked Gumbo.
This was too much for Bob, who glared viciously at him. “I’ve had enough of you – all of you. I never want to see or hear about mythological creatures for the rest of my life!”
With that, Bob stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind him. He jumped into his car and drove off at high speed, never to be seen again.
“What was all that craziness about?” asked Argentia casually, as she opened the fridge.
“Search me,” mumbled Gumbo, who was half way through a sandwich. “And to think that I was about to renew our advertising contract with his newspaper.”
Back to top
The New Recruits
Margaret Pearce
It was early afternoon and the bushland reserve was deserted. Paul put the map flat on the ground. He put the compass on it and turned it until the red arrow swung around to north.
He and his brother Tom studied their map. It was homemade, with the roads surrounding the big reserve ruled in and named. They had inked in the symbols for creeks, tracks and obstacles as they walked, and the ink was smudgy and the map wrinkled and messy.
Orienteering was a very satisfying hobby. It was great fun and didn’t cost much money. They wore old clothes and stout walking shoes and took a packed lunch. With their compass, their map and their mystery directions, they knew they could find their way anywhere.
Paul had been asked to map up the reserve for the orienteering competition to be held the following weekend.
“We have covered all of the reserve,” Paul said. “We’ll go home and re-draw the map. North by northwest will take us straight to the main road.”
There was a faint drone that got louder. Three trail bikes crashed through the bushes in a smothering cloud of dust and the roar of motors. They skidded to a stop.
“What are you two doing here?” yelled the tallest rider.
“How come you’re out without your keepers?” jeered the next rider.
“All their brains are in their legs,” sniggered the third rider.
“It’s against the law to ride trail bikes through the reserve,” Tom yelled back.
The riders hooted with mirth, revved up their bikes and crashed through the bush, leaving a cloud of dust, broken branches, and the indignant flapping and squawks of the disturbed birds.
Tom was furious. Those three trail bike riders were among the worst offenders. They lived locally and spent every afternoon after school and every weekend roaring around the reserve on their bikes.
Paul had tried to explain about the damage they were doing to the ecology of the bushland but Gerry Anderson, the tall ginger-haired boy, had just laughed.
“Going to stop me?” he had mocked.
Tom and Paul continued walking. There were a series of steep gullies to cross. They sighted up a landmark on the other side of the gullies, put away the compass and map, and slid down into the first gully.
“These gullies are getting deeper and deeper,” Tom said as he helped pull Paul up.
“It’s all that heavy rain we’ve had,” Paul gasped as he scrambled out. “The water is cutting the gullies down to the bedrock.”
They crossed the last gully, and climbed the hill.
Paul stopped and stood with his head on one side. “No bikes!”
They listened. There was no sound of the bikes.
“It’s too early for them to have gone home,” Paul said. “Wonder if they’ve had an accident or
something?”
Tom opened the map. “They were heading down that southeast trail that doubles back towards the old quarry.”
Paul studied the map, his finger following the blotchy line that led to the sunburst of lines that represented the quarry.
“Isn’t this the break in the track where the new gully started?”
Tom had marked the break himself. What made it dangerous was that the track curved around the hill. Bike riders speeding around wouldn’t see the new gully until it was too late.
“We should check if they are in trouble,” Paul said.
It took them twenty minutes to reach the old quarry and along the particular track that led around the curve of hill to the new gully.
Two of the bikes were skidded in the soft clay of the sides, but one bike was at the stony bottom of the gully, the rider sprawled across it. The other two riders, thickly covered in the yellow clay squatted beside him. They had taken their helmets off. Tom recognised Jud and Christine.
“We’ve got to get help for Gerry,” Jud said. “Our bikes are wrecked, and it’s going to take hours to walk out of here.”
Paul examined the unconscious Gerry Anderson. Tom watched hopefully. Paul had done his St. John’s first aid and knew all about what to do in emergencies.
“I think his leg is broken,” Paul said gravely, looking at the ugly twist of Gerry’s leg. “And I don’t like the way he’s breathing.”
“They won’t be able to get a car into the reserve. Even the fire tracks are impassable right now,” Tom pointed out.
“We need something to help carry him,” Paul said. “And we need to immobilise his leg so it doesn’t move and do more damage.”
“No probs,” Jud said. “We learned how to make emergency stretchers in scouts.”
He and Christine scrambled out of the gully. They returned with their emergency stretcher. They had pushed two long sticks through the sleeves of their jackets and braced the stretcher with wood tied across it with handkerchiefs and socks.
Paul and Tom used their jackets and some sticks to immobilise Gerry’s leg. Then the four of them carefully eased the unconscious Gerry off his bike and onto the stretcher.
“It’s going to take hours to get back on to a main road,” Jud worried. “It took us a good half hour to ride this far in and we were travelling fast.”