Image Attribution: Mel King
(The image provided for the August Ekphrastic Challenge was kindly provided by Mel King. Mel is the convenor for Geelong Cereal, a free online magazine that showcases local writing and creative arts. It presents a wonderful opportunity for those who participate in our Ekphrastic Challenge to have more of their work published online. You can access Geelong Cereal through the Geelong Writers website or directly at Geelong Cereal. Please take the time to visit this fantastic local resource.)
Publication of Responses
A big thank you to all the writers who took up the challenge of Ekphrastic Challenge #8 2026. Entries closed on Tuesday, 25 August, 2026. No doubt everyone soaked themselves in a long hot bath whilst planning their stories this month. Participants managed to emerge wrinkly and inspired, for a wonderful and imaginative mix of responses were submitted. Your ongoing support is valued and appreciated.
Our next challenge (Ekphrastic Challenge #9 2026) is now open.
A reminder that when submitting your responses, please ensure you:
- specifically respond to the image
- give your submission a title
- take time to read and edit your entry before you submit it
- ensure your work complies with the Australian Standard house style: singular quotations and Australian spelling.
The following writers have had their response to Ekphrastic Challenge #8 2026 published below:
Mary-Jane Boughen, Kim Crosbie, Mary Szymanski, John Heritage, Bruce Waddell, Steve Gray, Dulara Jayasekara, Howard Osborne, Glen Donaldson, Jenny Lynch, David Jones, Rhonda Hyder, Ian Stewart, Glenyse Robins-Ward, Lily Foster, Jean Pearce, Denise Main, David Bridge, Geoff Gaskill, Ian Chisholm, Allan Barden, Julie Edmonds, Scott Hunt, Ian Henricus and Adam Stone
Please, take the time to read and enjoy their responses.
Never Trust a Fridge Magnet
The joy of a warm bed in winter after a long day. I snuggle under the warm doona, close my eyelids, and blissfully start my gratitude list.
My thoughts are interrupted by a long, slow drip breaking the silence.
‘That’s annoying,’ I thought.
Zac had assured me he had fixed the bathroom tap, that despite its appearance and the less than perfect cracked tile, it was now dripless. His fee of $600 did seem excessive at the time, but he explained the job was not just a simple washer, ‘it was complicated,’ he said with a grim face. He seemed like such a nice young man and was indeed “prompt and friendly” just as the fridge magnet promised when it arrived in my letterbox recently.
Zac was a real charmer, a gentleman. Sadly, he was the bearer of bad news and informed me that several of my taps looked like they needed attention, and I should really get a pressure valve installed. ‘Anything could happen; the place could flood,’ he predicted gloomily.
I had included the lovely Zac in my gratitude list last week after his visit and I’d had five lovely nights’ sleep without that pesky dripping tap.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip, drip, drip.
It was cold out there in the hallway and the bathroom.
Drip.
I’d best get up and get a towel, a bucket, and contact Zac in the morning.
So much for sleep.
I shuffled into the bathroom, just in time to watch the tap spring off and see water bursting out … all over the bath, the floor and me.
I called the emergency number.
‘This number has been disconnected.’
Note to self.
Learn to live with drips.
wear a waterproof dressing gown,
and never,
never trust a fridge magnet.
Mary-Jane Boughen
Broken tile, Broken heart
I met him at a pub where there was a band playing. It was the 80s so we met face to face.
He wasn’t good looking but he was charming and made me feel very special.
Compliments on my style, my way of dancing and of course my looks.
I look back now my style. What style? It was the 1980s!
It didn’t take long for me to think I was the luckiest 22 year old in the world.
Things moved fast so fast I didn’t see the cracks. Jealously occasionally, the odd comment about me wearing too much makeup.
Even the times he forgot to tell me my Mum had called our house.
He had such a stressful job as an ambulance officer it was no wonder he had too much to drink sometimes.
How quickly things progressed. By now I knew I deserved the insults
‘You burnt the steak again’ he liked it rare.
The raised voice, the comments – which were fair I was clumsy, stupid, whiny. No wonder I had no friends.
My 25th birthday came. By that time my body had so many bruises. I was anaemic bound to get bruised a lot because I
Of how clumsy I am.
My solace and quiet time was when he had night shift and I was in the bath feeling warm and comforted. Never relaxed. Never safe enough to close my eyes.
I kept my eyes on the crack in the tile. The one thing that made it seem real.
The crack that eventually gave me my freedom.
It took time before I could smile, dance and laugh at my clumsiness again.
I was free to be me!
Kim Crosbie
The Tenants
They said they’d fix up the bathroom if I lowered the rent and I agreed under duress. They used the incorrect filler and paint. They used the wrong grout. They used abrasive cleaner on the bath. They over-tightened the taps and broke one of them along with some tiles. They didn’t use the extraction fan. They nailed the bathroom window shut.
They were friendly at first. They had the bond, dressed real nice. They had good references. They used sad stories so I’d rent them the place. They conned me.
They drank heaps and dealt drugs. They got right up in my face when I questioned the state of the bathroom. They frightened me during the first inspection. They told me the place was a dump. They told me I had no right to inspect anything. They told me to piss off.
They used their German Shepherd to scare me. They made the dog bark and rush at me. They told me I should have used a real-estate agent. They laughed.
I couldn’t get rid of them. I haven’t seen a cent from them in months. I tried to tell the doctor how stressed I was. I asked for advice and got a script for antidepressants. I don’t know what to do.
I can’t understand why no one wants to help me. I have a brother who just shrugs and says to call the police like he’s passing the buck or something. I have been placed in the too-hard basket.
I should have renovated before I rented the place out. I could have found better tenants than that lot. I should have trusted my gut and my gut’s in a real state.
I said they could fix up the bathroom. I should have trusted my instinct.
Mary Szymanski
Bathroom eyes
i see your face
telling me
how our past
influences
the present
John Heritage
Until Henry Bolte
Electric hot water rules ignored –
In town our bookkeeper liked to bathe early.
Leaving home at a curse, You ignorant beast.
You are just like your father. You could have left some hot.
Eau de cologne neroli follow the body,
Hair trimmed – soaked in California Poppy,
Expectant the maid at the telephone exchange
Will remember a dance last week.
In addition – Elsewhere
The chip heater in the bathroom
Choked the air warming the dribble
Pooling at the plug.
Before their common family lave, a query. Can I soak first tonight?
Their forlorn hope rejected outright.
The rarity of outback hygiene later disclosed to all
At the Theatre Royal’s John Wayne western
Everyone on tank water knew
A dangerously dry summer
Prompted the idiom,
Just wash your pits and naughty bits.
Cough! cough!
Marc Anthony and Cleopatra seized their cape diem
And bathed in milk
Proving, the lodgers of the Roman villa
Enjoyed sophistication unknown in the ’50s
Until Henry Bolte
That plain speaking raconteur had us believe
Gas would keep us warm and clean for centuries
Bass Strait liquified petroleum transported to suburbs
Towns and councils across the State would run forever.
In future all persons
Would shower until spotless
In 65 degree gas-heated water
And baths would become redundant outdoor gear.
Nay.
Contemporary
Volume builders of sprawling clay boxes
Had designers reconfigure things,
Exclude gas, and bring back baths
As decorative ornaments, when
“AI” drank our water.
Bruce Waddell
Tapped Out
‘Look at it, Frank,’ Bonnie said, pointing at the bathroom wall. ‘It looks exactly like a face.’
Frank leaned against the doorframe and squinted. She wasn’t wrong. The two white tap handles looked like wide, startled eyes, and the long, curving spout gave the distinct impression of a droopy nose. To top it off, the tile directly underneath looked like a cheeky tongue.
‘It’s definitely got character,’ Frank laughed, walking over to inspect the damage. ‘The previous owner really gave up on this tile job.’
‘It’s not just character, it’s creepy,’ Bonnie said, crossing her arms. ‘I feel like it’s watching me brush my teeth. Well, can you fix it? The appraisal is tomorrow.’
Frank reached for his toolbox, selected a pair of pliers, and gripped the tile. Instantly, the tile beneath the spout gave way, sliding down and clattering loudly into the porcelain tub.
Bonnie blinked at the newly formed hole in the wall. ‘Great. Now the face has a missing tooth.’
Frank looked down at the tile in the tub, then up at Bonnie, bursting into laughter. ‘Hey, look on the bright side. At least it stopped sticking its tongue out at you.’
Bonnie gave a wry smile, then said, ‘Funny, Frank, very funny …’
Frank looked back at the tile then mentioned, ‘Well, I saw a spare tile in the laundry cupboard; if it’s a match, well, yeah, I should be able to fix it.’
Frank returned a moment later, holding the tile triumphantly. ‘Found it!’ He held it up, only for his face to drop. ‘Uh … Bonnie? It’s a floral pattern from the eighties. I think the wall is about to get a very confused beauty mark.’ Bonnie replied, ‘And I think you need to get your eyes checked!’
Steve Gray
Dirty Porcelain Tub
I wake up
in a dirty porcelain tub
I pull myself from the water,
so much colder on the surface
than it is submerged
petals float on the surface
their scent addles my brain,
turns my eyes away
from the cracks in the tiles
voices ripple and distort
like dirty bathwater
the tap stares at me,
with each melancholy eye
sad cracked mouth
and drooping nose
I shake my head
as if from a dream,
waking from a perilous slumber
the cold sucking of air in my ears
clarity, come back to me
the tap looks on sadly
I slip and stumble onto my knees,
when did I have these chains?
And reach for the plug,
but there is none
only a ball of red string
plugging the drain
I grab hold and pull,
pull
The red string keeps
unravelling
but every time I open my eyes
there’s more to begin
I keep pulling at it
but it only grows
red hangs from the ceiling
like fake blood in a child’s pantomime
the shower curtain rings
looped over and over again
in red, it’s everywhere
I keep pulling, desperate now
blood pollutes the water
from the manacles cutting my skin
and I can’t see the string
it becomes harder to breathe
red string around my neck
But I can’t find the end
I am screaming
but all I hear is silence
I feel something pulling on the other side
it pulls me in and down the drain
back again on the other side
I wake up
in a dirty porcelain tub
The sad tap is gone
I’m yet again alone with my thoughts
disjointed petals stick together
and bloom in the water
red roses but no string,
still – I feel my ribs unravelling
I wake up
in this dirty porcelain tub
Dulara Jayasekara
Sharing a Broken Dream
At first, we were both shiny and new
Only the merest of touches to engage
The role was providing warmth on tap
An offer of comfort on a waiting skin
Even of hope, now years have passed
But the end time always comes, at last
A limited lifespan, as it’s always been
Maybe now, we’re both on a final lap
Over time one feels the effects of age
Now, neither offers a handsome view
For us both, chips and cracks appear
And broken, unlike an original dream
Retirement is imminent, I do concede
Functional, but much to contemplate
Excusing the eye and grim expression
In anticipation of a joint final session
Yet perhaps, it’s not too long to wait
For us both we’ve developed a need
But too late for repair it would seem
A replacement walk-in shower, I fear
Howard Osborne
Tile and Error
The porcelain tile beside the clawfoot tub hadn’t just cracked – it had fractured. Detective Vance knelt on the cold bathmat, tracing the jagged fault line.
‘I haven’t dropped a thing,’ Betty Gable insisted. ‘Not my crystal perfume bottles, not my silver hairbrush. I walked in for my evening soak, and there it was.’
Vance leaned closer. The apartment was pristine, and structural engineers had cleared the building’s foundation only yesterday. He noticed the crack lacked an impact point—no chipped glaze, no pulverization at the center.
The house detective ran a gloved thumb along the fissure and paused. The edges didn’t slope downward as they would from a dropped weight. They flared slightly upward. Whatever had shattered the heavy ceramic hadn’t struck from above; it had pushed from below.
‘May I?’ Vance picked up a pocket putty knife from his kit, carefully slipping the thin steel blade beneath the lifted edge of the shattered tile.
With a dull pop, the tile lifted, revealing the damp bed of old mortar underneath. But there was no concrete beneath the gap. Instead, Vance stared at a rusted steel turnbuckle attached to a heavy copper wire, stretched taut as a piano string.
‘Ah,’ Vance murmured. ‘Thermal shock and mechanical stress.’
He pointed into the cavity. ‘Your late husband’s famous “radiant floor” experiment. He anchored a high-tension copper line directly beneath this specific tile to warm the floor by the tub. Last night’s sudden frost caused the old pipes beneath the floorboards to freeze and expand, yanking the copper line taut. The sudden tension, combined with the scalding water you ran for your bath, created a violent thermal expansion.’
Detective Vance had done it again. The tile hadn’t been murdered by a falling object. It had succumbed to a ghost in the plumbing.
Glen Donaldson
The DIY Bloke
The bathroom’s outdated, it’s tired and worn
But last Friday morning an idea was born
To buy tiles and some tapware with which to adorn
The DIY bloke … what a legend
He headed to Bunnings to hopefully find
Some bargains on special… hoped the stars were aligned
And prayed that his Amex would not be declined
The DIY bloke … what a legend
He loaded a trolley with tapware and tiles
They were discounted specials… old-fashioned styles
He raced to the checkout, his face full of smiles
The DIY bloke… what a legend
He turned off the meter so the water would stop
He waited and waited for the very last drop
Then he grabbed a sledgehammer and started to chop
The DIY bloke … what a legend
He fitted the tapware, including the spout
He gave a small cheer, but then gave a shout
He could not lay the tiles… he’d forgotten the grout
The DIY bloke … what a legend
He raced back to Bunnings, but it had just closed
He’d have to return the next day, he supposed
He could not have a shower… the bare walls were exposed
The DIY bloke … what a legend
He finished the bathroom by Saturday night
The room looked amazing… all dazzling white
He did a great job with a budget so tight
The DIY bloke … what a legend
Jenny Lynch
The Cracked Facade of Now
Watch
wait for the words to flow
In hope or promise
desperate souls do gladly drink
to listen
Half listen
or not listen
salvation in forms askew
Not hope at all
not promise
but the seepage of imagination
Slow drip
from the spigot of perception
drawn from unseen layers
behind the cracked rubric of now
Is this façade reality
or has reality become this façade,
behind which, God’s broken voice is stilled.
David Jones
Remnants of a Memory
The old house has been empty for years. I don’t know why I came back! I was fine until I walked in here and saw that broken tile. The memory came flooding back. Now I cannot unsee it!
It happened almost two decades ago. Hearing a struggle, I had burst in and found my father splattered in the victim’s red blood. She must have regained consciousness and struggled. That was when the loud, violent crack of her skull against the faucet had caused the plaster to fall, the tile to break. The knife in his hand had dripped a dark ruby colour from its shining blade. The bloodstain pattern was gone now, but in my mind’s eye it was still splashed across that wall. In shock, I had gasped for breath, not realising that my lungs were already full. I had choked on the attempt and bolted from the room, through the kitchen door to empty my stomach.
I knew she had been old, sick and in pain. I knew she couldn’t have come with us on the long trip to the city. I had known this was my father’s plan. I had been too young to understand the impact of the scarcity of vets and the absence of a firearm in those impoverished days on the farm. All I can remember now is the sense of loss, the emptiness and the heartache of losing my companion of ten uninhibited years. I had missed Calle but eventually another bumbling canine had taken her place …
Until … this moment of rekindled memories upon entering the abandoned bathroom of my childhood home.
Rhonda Hyder
Oh, The Nineteen Fifties
‘This lass from Preston writes – “Dr Mackenzies menthoids …”
Radio Advertisement 1952
Preston – where I grew up.
I remember that ad came on just before ‘Superman’.
It was 1953 and Dad had found a house for us. It was a two-bedroomer: fibro, lounge-dining, kitchen, washhouse at the back- laundry and bathroom. Dunny tacked on. My brother and I shared. When my sister was coming Dad organised a back veranda sleepout. Dan and I moved to the sleepout. Carol got the bedroom. It was a happy place. Great area to grow up in.
Dad was a carpenter and got into the house-building business. He did well, well enough for us to move to a bigger place, closer in. Not long before we moved he added an indoor bathroom.
*
I had business in Preston the other day. I hadn’t seen the old place for a couple of decades. I thought, ‘Why not have a look?’ I’m susceptible to nostalgia!
I consulted my Melway and followed its instructions. There it was. Out the front, a sign: ‘Beware! Asbestos. No entry’. A couple of guys came out carrying sheets of fibro. I caught up with one of them.
‘I used to live here, in the 1950s. What’s the go?’
‘Demolition. Block of flats going up.’ Taciturn bugger.
I didn’t ask – just moseyed up the path and in through the front door. They were too busy to notice. The interior was largely intact. I poked my nose into Carol’s bedroom. The Beatles poster was still on the wall. Then the bathroom. The cracked tile and the damage on the tap handles said it all. I must have had fifty baths in that tub!
I was about to leave when one of the guys turned up. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just reminiscing.’
Ian Stewart
Mood Taken Away
As the years go by, the bathroom has become a place not for relaxation. There was a time when it was a hideaway and a place to de-stress, but now it has become a bit of an eyesore. The wear and tear has taken its toll, and cracks have started to appear.
One wonders how many bathrooms have suffered the same fate. I know mine did, and with money tight, the bathroom didn’t get considered for an upgrade; in fact, it got worse with every new crack.
Along the way, a few attempts were made to plug those cracks, and for a while a sense of newness was achieved, but every summer those repairs would melt away, leaving larger cracks to greet bathroom users.
Horrible, Horrible, was the call from the family. Tacky, Tacky was my call. Why has it been so long since we all realised our bathroom taps needed to be replaced, and that the spouts would need to be replaced as well? It’s a big job, and it still needed to match, or the job would be incomplete and untidy.
By the time the money was saved, those broken tiles were no longer available because the stock had been discontinued. This extended the job’s duration, making the bathroom a place of relaxation again.
Then one day, a thought came rushing through: a paint job could serve as a distraction, a new tile that wouldn’t need to match the rest of the tiles along the wall could be painted as a decorative mask, and with a new chrome spout and taps, the bathroom would have brightness again, where all could relax and look at the spout, which looked more like an elephant’s trunk than a spout.
Glenyse Robins-Ward
Loneliness; A Choice
loneliness became a choice
or at least that’s what I told myself
it began with working from home
when COVID arrived
and the world handed me permission to disappear
when the riddled virus finally came to a halt
everyone returned to their lives
I stayed
it made sense
no more petrol
no more fluorescent office lights
no more coworkers
who spoke lovingly of their furbabies
without knowing I had buried mine
two years before
solitude was practical
it became comfortable
I learned the shape of quiet
built routines around it
made a home inside the silence
eventually
I stopped cleaning
no one was coming over anymore
the dust no longer embarrassed me
the mail stacked itself on the kitchen bench
grit settled into the grout
until I forgot
what the tiles looked like clean
one tile still sits cracked
the same one I’ve been meaning to fix
since before COVID
the tap handle is chipped
just enough
for a slow leak to escape
I always meant to fix that too
instead
I lie in the bath
watching cold drops
fall from a broken tap
into water
that lost its warmth
long before I noticed
and I wonder
whether this house is beginning to look like me
or if I’ve simply become
another thing inside it
waiting to be repaired
Lily Foster
Hot Tap
It was the broken tap she fell on when she was getting out of the shower, slipped, hit her head, damn tap, damn bath. The hot water gas light always blew out in the middle of the night and the tap leaked. Once her son burnt himself on the tap when he was two and she was just out of the room for a minute. He promised to fix it and she believed him. She always had a flicker of hope. It was the day she reminded him he promised to fix the tap that she fell, sort of fell, she couldn’t remember how, funny that, she was lying on the bathroom floor with a sore face. She remembered how he said he’d fix the leaking tap, but he didn’t. One day he said he had the money but then he didn’t, he said he had no money for taps but he had a mate who dealt in taps, had a garage full of old taps and fittings and then it wasn’t that tap man, it was another man who was coming tonight, and she said, but I have a black eye and a sore tooth, and he said well it was all the tap’s fault, so we have to change it tonight, and he won’t mind if you have a black eye, his missus is as ugly as hell so watch out he might want one with you, one what, you know, he’ll think you’re hot and she said, yes, like the tap, and they had a laugh at the hot tap, and the broken tap, and the tap tap at the door when the other man arrived with a six pack of something and a bag of tools.
Jean Pearce
Cracked Tile
‘He has to go,’ Eve asserted to Ruth, her partner in life and boutique fashion house, as they deliberated over breakfast.
‘Since Marcus became one of our top models, his insistence on having his opinion on everything, has become demanding, even belligerent. He’s a control freak, a pain in the arse.’
‘We’ve let him get away with too much. The arrogance of the overrated egotist, declaring he’s the best thing our fashion brand has to offer. Damn cheek. He’s out of contract so let’s cut him loose tomorrow,’ Ruth fumed.
‘So soon? That’s bold. Our first showing for the Fashion Festival is only weeks away, who could we get to replace him? Never mind having to put up with his tantrums as a result,’ Eve fumed.
‘I would like to find someone dramatically different from our regular male models; distinctive from the dark, sleek, lean look. We need someone way outside the stereotypical box.’
‘Who, for Christ’s sake, Ruth? Where would we find him?’
Loud, insistent ringing of the doorbell startled them. Before Ruth could answer Eve’s question, she rose and hurried to open the door. Standing in the open doorway was the answer to their problem of replacing Marcus. Miraculously, it had arrived in the guise of a young giant; green eyed, gorgeous; a vision, sporting glittering earrings, a wild thatch of red hair, neat moustache and beard. A toolbox gripped in his hands.
‘G’day, I’m Tyson the tiler, ’ere to replace your cracked bathroom tile.’
Ruth stared, mesmerised, not hearing a word, her eyes fixed on the splendid viking chieftan standing before her. Her mind’s eye had already transported him to the catwalk, dressed resplendently in a gloriously coloured flowing coat highlighting his masculine splendour. Catching her breath, she excitedly said, ‘Thank God you’re here. Please, do come in.’
Denise Main
Buyer’s Remorse
‘Tell me what you want to do,’ the consultant said.
‘I’ll send you a quote. Let me know if you want to go ahead.
We’ll video the area so we know what we’ve agreed,
Then there’ll be no problems if we proceed.’
‘We’d like to take the bath out, have a walk-in shower, heated towel rail.
We’ll need a power point there, and width enough for a wheelchair.
We’re bound to ail as we grow older – age is tapping on our shoulder.’
‘Not a problem,’ said he. ‘You can have what you like.
It’ll be in the costings, which we won’t hike
If you agree our price in thirty days.
You can pay in instalments – half up front,
I’m sure that won’t blunt your enthusiasm for what you’ve planned.
I’ll hand you a list of things to buy.
This store we recommend gives a discount to those we send.’
Measurements taken, he was gone.
Before long came the quote with a sum that won our vote.
With deliverables in place, we shopped for tiles and such
To give us space before commencement,
Advised the work would take four weeks to fruition
Beginning with the demolition:
Saying goodbye to old cracked tiles, the bath and spout.
No more scrubbing to clean dull grout.
Day one came and also doubt –
The shower now to be an all but sealed enclosure
To shield the towel rail from damp exposure.
He said, ‘This point the sparky won’t allow,
We have to make a change right now.’
Just so the walk-in got to stay,
But warm towel dreams were left to fade away.
Buyer beware lest you come to see
Not all offers are what they ought to be.
Acknowledge wit from Burns’ pen:
‘The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.’
David Bridge
Empty Nest
More than once Alistair declared the kids’ bathroom a depressing sight. ‘One you’d normally see in black and white.’
The bath was stained, the broken tile and the couple of taps that no longer worked were reminders of better days when the house had been filled with laughter and the joy of bathtime.
In his mouth, the word bathtime rang with the gaiety of children.
It wasn’t just that bathroom. Throughout the whole house, the only thing Alistair and Dot could now hear were empty halls and rooms with their impotent complaints of the aches and pains of old age, of loneliness and silence in the absence of the children and grandchildren.
Such was the lot of empty nesters.
‘We could move,’ Alistair suggested, about as often as he said how one day he would ‘fix the taps and broken tile in the bathroom. Just in case the kids come back for a holiday’.
‘It wouldn’t be the same,’ said Dot. ‘This whole place has too many memories. Fixing things up doesn’t fix anything.’
‘Maybe that’s a good reason to move,’ Alistair offered. ‘We can make new memories in a new place nearer the kids and the grandkids.’
Dot sighed, unconvinced.
As day followed night, as Alistair’s promises to fix things grew more extravagant and exaggerated, Dot’s agony of resignation bloomed.
Eventually, with each passing day, she fulminated about, ‘The walls closing in on me, crushing the memories.’
On the day of Dot’s funeral Alistair stared at the tile that remained stubbornly unrepaired and the taps that still didn’t work. Just days before he left the house for the last time, he shook the new owners by the hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he promised, smiling his best smile, ‘I’m going to repair those broken bits before I move out.’
Geoff Gaskill
A Nasty Crack
The Roden family had just moved in. First chance, Morten, the curious, disappeared; off exploring. Immediately, he knew he would enjoy the many dark corners, strange nooks, little alleyways and crevasses.
He squeezed through a tiny space, and suddenly, from darkness, a large slash of light blinded his beady black eyes. Fascinated, he scurried to the light source and pressed his long beak against it. His whiskers tingled on the rough surface. What he saw blew his tiny mind. ‘Gotta hustle back to tell Monty to come back here quick and get an eyeful of this.’
All in a chitter, he jumped up and down and squeaked, ‘Hey, Monty, no time ta waste. Follow me, you won’t regret it, guaranteed.’ Retracing his path, guided by his long whiskers, they came to the light. Morty let Monty take first squiz through the crack.
‘Wowee,’ squeaked the little rodent. ‘Never seen anything like that, Morty?’
‘I’ll have another squiz,’ Morton said.
Back in their little family nest, Mort described their adventure. ‘I peeked through a long crack and saw the most amazing thing. Th-There was this massive pink flabby wrinkly thing with two huge melons growing on top, and it plopped into a huge hole, splashing water everywhere.’
‘Honest,’ agreed Monty. ‘Fur real.’
‘Boys, what you saw is a human. So, we’re sharing our new home with others, eh? They’re not safe, so don’t ever go back there again. Ever! D’you hear?’
‘Yair ma,’ they chorused.
Next day, same time, they were back. Curiosity had won over. They squeezed through the crack and plopped into the bath of soapy hot water.
A little while later a bloodcurdling scream shook the walls. ‘CYYYRIL, I NEED YOU HERE, NOW!!’
The moral of this story?
Curiosity killed the mice too.
Ian Chisholm
Revenge by Drip
Looking out the kitchen window at the steam rising into the crisp night air from the snazzy wooden tub, Scott admitted that the new hot tub in the backyard had been his idea. Ange didn’t want it initially. She said so with some frustration that she knew he’d lose interest in it as quickly as all the other things that were a good idea at the time: ‘Remember the lawn bowls? The golf clubs? The pickleball paddles? This is what you do. Over and over again’.
What really bothered Scott though, wasn’t that she was correct – his excuse was the tub was too hot for him! – but that she practically lived in the thing. As did her friends from the Book Club, the Tennis club, her luncheon meetup group and, as time moved on, newly acquired friends he didn’t even know.
As he sat in front of the TV he could hear them, night after night, laughing, screaming, hollering. Drinking all kinds of beverages, beer, champagne, wine! A younger friend even vaped. Disgraceful!
He wondered why Ange and her friends didn’t realise that over the bubbling and partying their conversations could be heard in the still night air. What he had overheard from some of them was surprising, verging on men’s pub talk. One night stands, affairs, marriage relationship issues. After a while these conversations bored him and the TV was a better choice than eavesdropping.
The tub wasn’t meant for any of that sort of carry on, he grumbled. Ange was using it wrong.
Ange had been at him several times to fix a small leak in the tap that emptied the tub. He had purposely always managed a reason for not fixing it when asked. It was his own way of getting back at her.
Allan Barden
Dodgy Rental Number 9!
Kitchen, lounge, bedroom. Not great but livable. She wasn’t going back to the old place now, no matter how comfortable it was; too many bad memories to reflect on and drown in. She just wanted quietness, basic comfort. Safety. A place to hide at the end of the day. And most importantly, a bath to soak in, relax without interruption. Privacy.
But when she opened the bathroom door, her stomach sank.
‘No!!! Dodgy rental number 9,’ she lamented.
The tap set; its face. Its mouth a tile crack, its downturned nose dripping, bulging eyes in frozen despair. She’d felt that look. It followed disrespect; she thought of previous residents: did they care about their surroundings? She wondered about their lives. And the nude bodies that had languished in the bath; she got the giggles imagining the sights, sounds, and smells the tap set had witnessed.
And empathy stirred for those unknown lives. And hope for hers.
‘Yes! I’ll take it.’
An agreement with the landlord included some maintenance for her to oversee.
She engaged a tiler to lay new tiles. She bought a swivel tap with an elegant curve. And handles: one red-eyed, and one green-eyed. And she painted the walls in a cool green shade. She placed shells in a bowl on the vanity, shells she’d found as a child with her grandmother. And a photo of them on the beach. The memory encouraged her; hope warmed her.
She lowered herself into the bath in the no-longer-dodgy rental, just rental number 9, into the just-right-temperature water, and felt her body relax.
Each time she opened the bathroom door, she saw the look of respect in the fittings and personal touches and felt respect for herself and her surroundings.
This was her home for now.
Next project: the kitchen.
Julie Edmonds
Demon Bath
It always started the same way: Me sitting in the bath, water turning tepid, when Mum walks into the bathroom.
‘You don’t need this light on, it’s a waste of electricity,’ she says.
Despite my protests, she turns the light off and leaves me alone in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from a small, frosted window high above the bath.
There I sit, shivering, partly from the cold but mostly from fearful anticipation. Soon my fears are realised. The water begins draining from the bath in a sucking and gurgling clamour. A crack in the bath forms, black and menacing like the jagged mouth of a porcelain demon.
The bath speaks to me in dark and guttural tones, its words a strange and foreign tongue. Nonetheless I understand that I cannot escape, that I belong to it, the spirit of the bath. Once the last word is uttered, I am sucked down into the drain, down into an always new and terrifying nightmare.
My wife thinks it’s hilarious that I am still uncomfortable being in the bathroom without the light on. I am convinced she deliberately turns the light off sometimes when I am in the shower to see if it still freaks me out. Of course she always pretends she didn’t mean to. In all honesty she probably has good reason to find it amusing. I’m a 55 year old still haunted by my childhood dreams. That, undoubtedly, is a fine source of amusement for anyone who observes it. Yet, invariably, even today when the light goes out in the bathroom, I am transported back to those terrifying nights, alone and cold, awaiting my fate at the hands of the demon bath.
Scott Hunt
Cracks
It’s a flaw in my thinking,
That a crack is an ending,
It’s naught but a moment of time on my path.
Such a small imperfection,
That upon some reflection,
Proves I’m the stronger for having the fall.
That fib that I told,
When I wasn’t so old,
Still bothers me, all this time later
I’ll not try that again,
I shall always refrain.
I’ll be true, a humble commentator.
You look at a crack,
So deep and so black,
And your heart sinks for something so broken.
But it can always repair,
With love and great care,
With tenderness, sometimes unspoken.
It was such a delusion …
Which became great confusion …
Made her pause and even think twice …
I opened my mouth –
All those words going south –
Saw my heart break; a lost paradise.
All these cracks are upon me,
All these flaws lie within me,
They’re the things that make me unique.
I have to accept them,
Move on, never vet them,
Try and weather my own great critique.
For it can transform
To a beauty newborn
Into something perhaps even better.
A duckling so ugly
Can emerge so abruptly
Into something that leaves you the debtor.
Ian Henricus
A Fixer-Upper
Look no further – this is meant to be
Infinite possibilities abound
Excellent bones (It is recommended that the Purchaser obtain an independent Building Inspection)
Shape your dream home
A blank canvas
Limited only by your imagination
Lease it out while you plan (subject to compliance with current rental regulations)
Live a life of luxury
Indulge in the oversized bathtub and melt your troubles away
Extravagance can be yours
Say goodbye to paying rent (with the advent of recent interest rate rises, only pre-qualified Purchasers will be considered)
Adam Stone