Sunlight filtered through the blinds of the lonely hospital room. Six-year-old Tommy Morsley lay in his bed, surrounded by sterile white walls and machines with coloured lights and dials. Above Tommy’s bed hung a sign saying “Home for Christmas”. The hospital room had been his home for the past three months. Next to him sat his father, Doctor Ian Morsley, a Professor of Antiviral Engineering working for the Health Department of the South Pacific Government. Tommy looked at the large needle in his father’s hand. “Is that going to help me, Dad?” he asked. “I’m not sure, Tommy. I hope so.” Tommy stared into his father’s eyes. “Will I be home for Christmas?” “Yes, Tommy,” said his father with a smile. “Of course you will. I promise.” Tommy tried to smile, his eyes drowsy once more. “Are you staying, Dad?” “I have an experiment to complete,” he said. “Then I’ll bring you some food. How about fish and chips?” Tommy didn’t […]
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In Better Hands
Ryan sat quietly in the rain, clenching his hands tightly in his lap, listening but not really paying attention to the spoken words. Could there be a more sombre occasion? Many would say yes. Only a few would remember the funeral of Fran Wilcox. A total of four enhanced the occasion with their presence. Two aging, scruffy looking women stood back under the shelter of a weeping willow, gently sobbing. They played bingo with Fran on a Thursday night and were the sum of her recent social partnerships. Their tears were genuinely sympathetic to her passing, but they were unaware of the real hardships and sorrow Fran endured during her troubled life. One of the other two attending was Fran’s only son, Ryan. He sat politely listening to the two-dollar priest give his two-dollar service. With a glaze over his eyes, he stared deeply into the final resting place of his dearly beloved mother. His mind sifted through the bad memories, […]
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Johnny Sweet
A man with so much to offer but so little to show for it is a man who casts a small shadow. Johnny Sweet was such a man. His claim to fame was writing cheap romance novels. He was a good writer. He sold a few books, but the small percentage offered by publishers and the significant competition in the genre left him with little, if any real wealth. Johnny lived in a small, one bedroom flat in the western suburbs of Sydney. He delicately skated across the thin ice that kept him above the poverty line. Every aspect of his existence was a struggle. He struggled to pay his bills, struggled to put food on his table and struggled to sell his writing. His world gradually squeezed in on him. The bills piled up relentlessly, especially his rent. If a cheque didn’t arrive soon, Johnny would be in deep trouble. He’d already contemplated life on the streets among the many […]
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