Publication of Responses
A big thank you to all the writers who took up the challenge of Ekphrastic Challenge #10 2026. Entries closed on Sunday, 25 October, 2026. Participants really managed to, well, “sink their teeth” into this month’s challenge and provide a wonderful and imaginative mix of responses. Your ongoing support is valued and appreciated.
Our next challenge (Ekphrastic Challenge #11 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 #10 2026 published below:
Ruby Lee, Mary Szymanski, Darren Burt, Kim Crosbie, Hassan Zahedi, Mary-Jane Boughen, Bruce Waddell, Steve Gray, Mel King, Dulara Jayasekara, Nicole Lee, Howard Osborne, Geoff Gaskill, David Bridge, Guenter Sahr, Glenyse Robins-Ward, Rhonda Hyder, Jan Pittard, Catherine O’Loughlin, Ian Stewart, Ian Henricus, Kerstin Lindros, David Jones, Denise Main, Ian Chisholm, Allan Barden and J.L. Orango
Please, take the time to read and enjoy their responses.
Almond Eyes
I despised dogs.
They were filthy, endlessly unsatisfied beasts that spilled saliva over you and demolished your furniture. I especially hated the big ones.
They’d pounce atop you, their wet noses digging through your clothes, claws catching in your sweater. Disgusting creatures they were.
Yet this one dog appeared in my front yard every morning. It would wail, screaming piercing cries, but when I stepped outside, its body went completely still, like a wax figure.
Staring.
There was something disturbing about this dog.
Its eyes weren’t round.
They were shaped like almonds, like small human eyes.
One fog-shrouded morning, its sobs emanated through my slumber. When I stepped outside, between its rabid teeth lay a slim, dirtied bone. Short fingers protruded from the bone, the end splintered, as if snapped from its original length.
The dog tilted its head, staring silently back at me.
My daughter was the one who loved dogs. She’d chase after them in the street, petting them gently as I awkwardly stood behind her. She was so brave.
On one of our walks, she’d trailed off, and I searched relentlessly, only to find her near a lake. She was being dragged through the dirt by a large, dark dog, its claws caught in her favourite sweater as it heaved her towards the water.
I sprinted towards her, tears spilling as my legs synced with my heartbeat, drumming quickly in my chest. She screeched as her feet brushed the water. The dog backed into the ripples, biting her sleeves to pull her further.
She must have been so scared. If only I could run faster. If only I hadn’t let go of her hand.
Now I’m back on my porch steps, barefooted, staring back at the dog.
Lost in her eyes.
Ruby Lee
Such a Good Dog
Will you look what I found in the garden?
Could it be the kind hand that doth feed me?
Sure, I jest and request that you pardon,
such bad humour from such a good dog.
I’m handsome and loyal with my shiny black coat.
My pearly whites dazzle, along with my eyes.
But bones made of plastic, I’ll have you all note,
could be dangerous for such a good dog.
I don’t need a painful obstruction,
from ingesting faux knuckles and thumbs,
nor fearing the vet’s harsh instructions,
bowel procedures on such a good dog!
To be honest I’d much prefer flavour,
from a real juicy bone from a cow.
So, I ask that you do me a favour,
And get bones from the butcher for such a good dog.
Mary Szymanski
Hand Alone
The hand that feeds me
I alone partake
Having taken your life
My mistake
No more will you feed me
Or take me for a walk
Come here ole Blacky
Just thought it was all talk
Now to bury this bone
Evidence to rid
Guilt of my own
Of what l just did
Darren Burt
Black as Knight
Black as night, so Knight was his name
He was a good boy – extremely tame
‘He lives five doors down’
Jean said to George with a frown
George loved dogs and wanted one of his own
He’d never get one, not by Jean’s tone
He sighed. Once he do everything right
And he still tried with all his might
Jean was 53 now still his doll
But at times she acted like a troll
He knew this change of life was tough on her
But she wasn’t the only one to suffer
She ranted about the neighbourhood
Which until lately she thought was good
But the last few weeks Knight was the enemy
I thank goodness it wasn’t me
The skeleton we put out for Halloween
It’s arm was missing it seemed
‘Knight took it’ she declared
Knight run away fast I thought even he’s not spared
I went for a walk I had to get out
‘Hey Knight’ when I saw him – something was in his mouth
‘Bring it to me boy’ he didn’t want to behave
The decorations arm I had to save
Eventually he got bored
I took it home a little gnawed
I put it in the attic with the decorations unused
I definitely didn’t want to be abused
The decorations this year won’t be as good
But Knight was saved and so was the neighbourhood
Kim Crosbie
Photocopy
Your wild instinct from the Stone Age,
or some pointless choice
you found on a modern Halloween street?
When I was in the Stone Age,
I was a predator like you,
and you were a meat-eating hunter like me.
I was looking for a predatory partner,
and you were looking for a human owner.
Was I wrong, or were you?
Go! Today is your last day!
The barrel of my gun aimed at a white duck in the air,
but you brought me a photocopy
of my fingers,
as if to mock me.
I’m sitting here over the barrel,
but you are not “over a barrel”.
Go and hold your fire! From this moment on, you are free in nature!
Starting now,
I’ll hire myself a lion.
Hassan Zahedi
Kill Your Darlings
Kill your darlings.
That’s what my very first writing teacher told me; about characters, plot devices and things you just don’t like very much anymore.
Brian was charming, supportive, and I adored him. He allowed me absolute freedom to spend leisure time on my hobbies, reading and walking and drafting my novel. It seemed we had the perfect relationship.
We decided children were not part of our story, that our fur baby, Max, whom Brian adored, was enough.
Brian taught him to stay, to fetch and to dig, and Maxie was so very loyal and true.
Max came into my study one afternoon and dropped a pair of red lace underpants in my lap. They most definitely were not mine.
How dare Brian betray me! And I’d thought he had gone on a boy’s weekend in our campervan.
And so it was that his adultery had to be punished. A few mushrooms, a bit of mess and my erstwhile darling was dealt with.
But then six months later, that dog of his dropped a second item in my lap.
Brian’s left forearm. I had done such a thorough job carving the body into pieces!
Was it my imagination or was his middle finger flipping the bird to me even in death?
Mary-Jane Boughen
The Ghost of Dalray
Halloween, The Day of the dead, or Samhain
All ignored or uncelebrated locally.
Ghoulish moments of horror
and macabre superstitious habits were coming.
All reserved for the Guy Fox bonfire
built from flammable waste to the height of a house.
Catherine wheels, rockets and crackers,
blasted around the scene until the fire lit up the November sky.
Tied to a central pole high above the gathered crowd
St Joan like was a burning reminder to pet owners.
Dogs trespassing on this farm were shot.
Horrifically, this was a scene I cannot unsee.
That year the New Zealand stayer Dalray
won the Melbourne Cup
Next birthday I was given a pup I called Dalray.
His 12 weeks of maturity matched my 12 years.
Destined to never become a seeing-eye-helper
unlike his city bred cousins in cream suits
whose familiar plastic replicas stood
on shop counters begging for change.
Both, unshackled from regulation.
with no TV, nor “Cattle Dogs” to teach us better
the black mutt became my friend. In tandem,
untethered, we rambled free.
Simultaneously we trapped rabbits,
or roamed paddocks mushrooming.
In the months leading up to the future event
we grew into an uneasy understanding.
Except, he rebelled to discipline
respectable pups in dog collars enjoyed.
In acknowledgement of his breeding he became a
contestant in the puppy section of the dog show
.
On show day he was washed and combed
into a bovver boy hairdo with a neat red collar.
Appropriately dressed in my Sunday suit and
polished shoes I wore a Stewart tartan tie.
Awkward, yet ready to make a mark,
spiritedly we entered the Show Ground.
As the sole entry we won second prize.
No wonder we have a bone to pick!
Bruce Waddell
A Sunny Morning
‘Is it watching time yet?’ Gary ponders in his mind as he sits at the all-too-familiar cafe seat outside Cafe Lior. He carefully positions himself to be in the shade under the wide-brimmed yellow umbrella, away from the harsh sun. He looks out across the square, noting others now settling themselves into their usual spots at other cafes. Gary is waiting, but not for Godot. He opens his morning paper ready to scan the headlines. He is waiting for Tim and Marko.
Carlos arrives, nodding pleasantries at Gary. Smiles are exchanged along with ‘Hola’, the pair like to think they are in Spain. Alas, they are not, it could be, but no.
A white napkin strategically placed across his left forearm indicates to all and sundry that he is a waiter. He stands guard at the door, ready and willing to provide patrons with a distinctly Spanish cafe experience, even if the only authentic part is his greeting, ‘Hola …’
Tim and Marko arrive, all exchanging pleasantries. An all-black dog wanders into the picture, the men, now seated and chatting merrily, stop mid-sentence as Tim points silently to the dog.
It stops dead centre to the cafe entrance just a few metres in front of the doorway. Carlos, without a blink, gestures for the dog to move on. It moves away as instructed. The dog has a human forearm in its mouth. Just the bones, white as could be, as if bleached by the sun for millennia. The men look in unison at Carlos, who says. ‘It is not a forearm, it is a representation of one.’ The men nod in unison and go back to what they were doing.
Carlos moves across to the table. ‘The usual?’ They nod in unison. ‘Yes, thanks Carlos.’
Steve Gray
Stuck
I tried to eat a skellington
But it wasn’t made of bone
And now this plastic crap’s stuck in me mouth
And me owner isn’t home
I’ve tried to move it with me paws
Pull it free with me claws
Shake it out of me jaws
But it’s bloody stuck
Like me owner often says,
FFFFFFFFF FIRE TRUCK!
I tried banging it on the side of the shed
Like I did with that snake last year,
I banged it, bang bang bang, while me owner screamed
DROP IT! OH MY GOD BAD DOG! DROP IT! DROP IT!
JEEEEEZ I’M FLUFFING RICE!
Or something like that. Anyway I still banged it
Till it was dead
They called me a good dog for days after that
Heh heh heh
Hasn’t worked with this stupid thing though.
Anyway I’ll lay here, in the yard, and wait
In the relentless forking buffalo grass
(As me owner calls it)
And I’ll curse this thing, although I do have to say
It makes it easier to scratch me
arf! arf! arf!
You can go now.
Thanks for waiting with me.
When I was stressed out and all alone.
WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU GOT THERE, YOU FORKING TWIT?
Me owner’s home.
Mel King
Hounds of Hades
sitting in the graveyard
in the dead of night
amidst the night’s dead
amidst the yew trees with their trunks
like gnarled, stoic wrists
sprouting from earth eternal
branches scraping sky like twisted fingers
I called forth my skeleton hounds
with a whistle that rattled the bones of mountains
and the thick mist and gloam hovering
inches from the ground, darkening the soil to pitch
gathered itself into a shroud that by a gale
blew with a fearsome keening howl that ripped through
the ears of every night creature and familiar of Death,
the crows and ravens heard it- they fell about croaking throatily
the felines with lamplight eyes glowing in dark
hissed in recognition of the summons
but the call passed by unheard by every mortal
safely asleep, only the tiniest whisper
to those connected to the reaper’s breath
and in turn my hounds of darkness called back
in an eerie howling that rumbles the dirt of every tomb
and shakes the rain-slicked leaves shatteringly
and came running, looking like an approaching thunderstorm
on the horizon that seethed with night
my trusty hounds arrived
and I arose like an unbidden ghost
ready to round up every lost, nomad shade
‘Hounds of Hades’,
I bellowed
‘Return these souls to whence they came.’
Dulara Jayasekara
Please
Fetch the bone!
You command.
I sniff, sprint and spot.
Proudly clenching the skeletal arm
Symmetrical between my canine jaws.
What’s this?!
You yell.
Can’t blame me
That a simple game of fetch
Unravels a Halloween prop
Left buried in garden grounds
From last spring.
I still earned the real bone.
Please.
Nicole Lee
A Limbic Event
A dog, so obedient, just whistle and he will follow
I guess it is what such a well trained dog might do
Just throw a ball, and he will dash to bring it back
With his heightened senses, it will always be found
Whether lying in the open or buried in the ground
I suppose he needs no training, as it is just a knack
And yet this time, the object isn’t the one I threw
Accepting what he found, is so difficult to swallow
But on this occasion, he’s taken a little longer time
Finally returning, with something awful in his jaws
It was just him being faithful, never being contrary
It was a forearm, hand with fingers, bleached white
No sound of crunching, as he has such a gentle bite
Not being anywhere near any designated cemetery
It took a moment to calm down, and take a pause
Could this be a buried body and evidence of crime
This whole event was unique, and clearly fantastic
For an instant I was frozen, in a state of hesitation
As it was my role to take it gently from his mouth
My expression clearly indicated shock and surprise
It was in contrast to the expectant look in his eyes
Yet clear to me, things were inevitably going south
Even a dog could see all the signs of consternation
But then I realised that the skeleton was just plastic
Howard Osborne
Fetch
We called our dog Fetch because that’s what he did–Fetch.
He became a celebrity the day he fetched more than any of us anticipated.
When I opened the front door to pick up the morning paper from the porch, that’s when I saw the … thing … in his mouth.
Over the years, we’d been used to cats dropping dead birds on our doorstep, but Fetch’s prize was a matter of whatever-you-can-do-I-can-do-better.
‘It looks real,’ Dad declared.
Mum staggered back when Dad wrestled the … thing … off Fetch and put it on the kitchen table. ‘We need to call the cops.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Dad, squinting at the … thing. ‘On second thoughts, maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s like one of those … things … they use in medical schools.’
‘You know of any medical schools around here?’ Mum snapped. ‘Call the cops! Now!’
Through this exchange, Fetch’s goofy I-told-you-so grin proclaimed, Whatever-you-can-do-I-can-do-better!
‘It looks real,’ the cop agreed, slipping on a rubber glove and picking up the … thing … from our table. ‘You say your dog …’
‘Fetch,’ I said. ‘His name is Fetch.’
‘… Fetch,’ the cop corrected himself. ‘… brought this … thing … here this morning?’
All of us, including Fetch, nodded.
The cop stroked his chin, prodding the … thing. ‘Yes. It certainly looks real. Let me check with the medical schools nearby.’
Dad looked at Mum with his best I-told-you-so smile.
‘Then I’ll check the local cemetery,’ the cop went on.
Mum re-lobbed Dad’s I-told-you-so smile.
‘Meanwhile,’ the cop added, ‘don’t talk to the media. They’ll make a meal out of this.’
That’s an unfortunate turn of phrase I thought.
In the end, whatever the cop wanted, didn’t happen.
Fetch got more than his fifteen minutes of fame.
Geoff Gaskill
Retriever of the Risen Dead
‘Here dog. Nice dog. Drop it.’
It would be apparent to any actual dog handler that I wasn’t. Still, I was potentially looking the part to my lady neighbour who had shrieked once she saw what the seated black retriever was holding in its mouth. An arm. Or rather, not so much an arm as what an arm looked like when it wasn’t any longer. Bones.
I thought about a bribe for the dog but, since the only thing that I had in ready supply was a pile of shredded pumpkin, that possibility looked thin. Demonstrating surprising one hand dexterity, I withdrew my mobile from my pocket and dialled triple zero. Soon I was chatting with a local police car on its way to my address.
‘A skeleton arm you say sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘And a black dog.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You are aware sir that wasting police time is an offence.’
‘I’m telling you the truth. My neighbour can confirm.’
‘That’s Mrs Goodbody you said.’
‘Correct officer. Will you be long only the dog is looking restive.’
‘Oh, we’re nearly there sir, just had to a respond to a call from one of your neighbours about some decorations going missing.’
‘Ah, that’s probably to do with the street party for tomorrow night. Everyone’s doing their bit for Halloween. I’m doing the Jack O’lanterns … Um, what sort of decorations officer?’
‘The risen dead apparently. Somewhat bony I understand. Strictly plastic of course.’
I looked as carefully as I could at the retriever’s trophy. Realistic certainly but exceptionally clean. And anatomically intact, even the smallest hand bones in place.
‘Officer, I think I might be able to solve both of your callouts in one.’
‘Yes, sir, we were thinking the same thing.’
David Bridge
Canine Games
I dig your game, daddy-o!
You hide it, deep down beneath the vegie patch.
I paw through the parsnip seedlings,
scrabble and up-ed the wan asparagus shoots.
I dig a fragrant crater in the humid, manured soil.
I find it! I find it! I find it!
I retrieve it and bring it to your back porch.
Daddy-o, your reaction tells me this is not
what you expected.
I can, I can, I can fetch more if you like!
Guenter Sahr
The Bone Digger
As night falls, Judas, the dog, loves to wander through the dark cemetery at the bottom of the hill. He leaves his home (usually on his own); our Judas is a real breakout artist.
Cara and Kyle, his owners, have tried everything to secure their backyard and keep Judas contained, but he still manages to escape to the cemetery.
Because Cara and Kyle work long hours, they often arrive home after dark, only to find that Judas has already gone on his walkabout. Most of the time, he comes back on his own, but a few times he gets waylaid, so Kyle goes to look for him.
Usually this isn’t too eventful, but on one or two occasions Judas has decided to explore a few of the shallow grave sites and has been caught red-handed with a bone or two, forcing Kyle to do a makeup job at the graves before the cemetery supervisor inspects them in the morning.
Knowing his master is displeased with his antics, Judas begs for mercy with solemn eyes, and, like the softie he is, Kyle gives in to his sadness.
It has come to desperate measures for Cara and Kyle, so they have decided to sell up and move away from the cemetery. Their new home is closer to work, so they have less travel time and can take Judas on a daily walk to the local park, which has a special dog area where he can roam and satisfy his urge to dig up bones.
After a few months with no more breakout scenarios, Judas became a completely reliable watchdog, but the hole digging continued; this time, he buried his own bones and dug them up again.
Glenyse Robins-Ward
Magpie
I named him Magpie.
I called him that, because he was a collector. I don’t know what his real name was. He wasn’t my dog, you see! I don’t know who he belonged to. He met me each night as I strolled around the cemetery. He came from town. We shared a deep friendship. I loved him dearly. Magpie seemed to love me back.
Magpie loved my fingers running through the beautiful shiny black fur along his back. I rubbed behind his ears, sometimes under his chin. He was happiest when we played our favourite game for hours. Fetch! On a moonlit night I would throw his beloved stick across the lawns. Magpie would bound ecstatically in pursuit. Quickly returning with his prize, he proudly accepted my accolades.
When we played Fetch among the headstones, Magpie would really earn his moniker, distracted by things visitors left behind on the graves of their dearly departed. He would drop each obstacle at my feet and look up, eyes pleading for praise. I would laugh and tell him he was a “Good dog!” Then Magpie and I would go together to fetch his cherished stick.
One night, catastrophe struck! While playing Fetch, my good throwing arm was ruined when the sinews of my elbow gave way. My lower arm went flying off after the stick! Aghast, I stood appalled and dismayed. Then Magpie reappeared, staring up with his captured prize before dropping it at my feet. Morning sunlight had arrived. Magpie forlornly turned towards town, his pace quickening as he left me behind. As for me … I did what I had done after every night of play. Picking up my arm, I strode back to my own grave. I slipped quietly back into my resting place and lay silently waiting for darkness again.
Rhonda Hyder
Trick and Treat
‘Drop it, Shadow, drop it,’ Tara demanded as the playful kelpie cross bounded up to her with what looked like a skeletal fragment in his mouth. Reassured by the loose attempt to simulate the human radius and phalanges, Tara assumed it came from the kind of spooky mannequin used to decorate ghost trains or, given the season, more likely someone’s front lawn. Shadow dropped the phony limb at Tara’s feet and she announced ‘good boy’ ruffling the hair on his head and neck to reward his obedience. ‘Where’d you get it, boy?’ she asked.
Shadow bounded off again. Tara’s eyes followed him as he disappeared around the corner out of sight. Moments later he returned his face festooned with strands of the spray-on web stuff, hazardous to birds and insects, that some people put all over their hedges and fences at Halloween.
Tara was now convinced Shadow was interfering with some neighbour’s front yard handiwork. Curious, she gave him an encouraging pat and small a treat and followed him as he took off again. At number 50 Barwick Crescent she found the solution to the mystery: an elaborate Halloween panorama liberally coated in the webby stuff. Shadow had begun tugging at a witch’s broomstick at the base of a corflute. Tara raised her eyes to the ‘Vote 1 Pauline Hanson’s One Nation’ sign. Two environmental threats side by side! It was too much! She glanced around for witnesses then she and Shadow got stuck into tossing the pumpkins, scythes and skulls in all directions.
Jan Pittard
A Good Dog
Keeley was a good dog (most of the time).
He was a loved dog (all of the time).
In favourable westerly winds at Whites beach we scattered his ashes, without fear of him flying back into our faces.
Keeley deserved to rest in peace, amongst the rock pools. They were his happy frolicky place. The place where he splashed, chasing his ball, big goofy paws plopping in and out of the ocean. We laughed when he plummeted as shallow pools turned deep, then watched expectedly as he paddled calmly like a lumbering black bear, emerging waterlogged, wagging tail. Shaking. Rolling in dry sand. Our lamington dog inciting laughter from children passing by.
Back home on Halloween Eve we pondered life without Keeley. This year there would be no sloppy mouthed offerings of assorted collections of plastic bones. Our neighbours’ skeleton decorated gardens would remain unharmed.
We laughed until we cried.
Catherine O’Loughlin
Hold – Don’t Bite
My Dad’s best mate Kenny always by his side
Raised him from a pup
Was the only one to feed him, said it was the way
To keep his loyalty and trust
‘Do this,’ he said, ‘and he’ll never
Bite the hand that feeds him’.
The day came when Kenny all roughed up
Came to the back door, whining
He looked at me and I knew right then
There was something wrong
On the bike, with Kenny up front
I took off for the paddock
Where the old man had been working
Mending a fence
There he was, stretched out, still
Foam at his mouth
Kenny went to him, licked his face
It was then I saw the dead snake
Kenny was growling
I knew what had gone on
Ian Stewart
Tuesdays with Boston, 2
When Siri passed away, I knew that his heart was heavy.
He was a lonely boy now.
*
Today, it’s a new deal. He has all the bones to himself.
I can mow lawns, weed and water and he will leave me alone for he is far too busy.
We both have our own tasks to attend to.
I enter my gate and I hear his crying whine of anticipation.
I see him at his gate, his snout wedged at the bottom of the palings.
Hurry, sir! Do hurry!
The big marrow bone is on the ground behind me.
Hello, I say; I am genuinely pleased to see him.
Hail … fine welcome …
But he is gone … sniffing for his bone.
He will take a break.
He will walk up with purpose and lean his bulk into me.
He is loving me.
I rub his eyes, his ears, his undercarriage, his back, his chest.
I love him back.
*
When I water, he responds.
I can bite the water if you let me … see?!
He likes the jet stream the best.
After 15 bites, he lets me water his back and sides.
He is still, now used to our routine.
He’s rather happy to have it run over his penis and anus,
One touch to the neck and he shakes it all away.
Once the marrow is gone, it is now time for his second course.
In the garage, it is a small bone with shards of meat on it.
Thank you sir, as he dutifully trots away.
Same with the third course.
When it is time to close the gates, he knows.
His anguished cry is now one of tears and loss.
Oh please do not leave my dear uncle! Please do not!
But I must.
Ian Henricus
The Mask
The three monitors on the sleek cockpit desk radiate a cool, blue light. Pinned into the contours of his ergonomic chair, Danny sips strong black coffee and looks at the flyer on the left screen: Neighbourhood House Halloween Parade, 5 pm.
He’s always loved Halloween. Dad used to take him Trick or Treating. They were Grim and Funny Bone, while Mum created the most disgusting looking morsels for all to share.
He hits SEND on the last invoice. Work done. Outside, the street is filling with young ghosts and vampires. Families chat in little groups. Danny retrieves the box from his wardrobe, unfurls the black-and-white skeleton suit and climbs in. Mask on. Hood. Ready.
Through mesh eyeholes, he glances left and right at the door, a threshold he hasn’t crossed since July. The footpath feels nothing like his smooth and predictable treadmill. As he passes, people pause their conversations and shrug, like every year.
The crowd starts moving; only young Noah from upstairs keeps glancing at him. The boy looks right at the dark circles that hide Danny’s eyes. Danny looks away. Then a small, hesitant hand touches Danny’s bone-fabric gloved fingers. ‘You can walk with us,’ the boy says.
Danny is pulled along by the moving train of people. In the park, he pinches tiny pieces off a charred BBQ sausage, tilts his head back and pokes them bit by bit through the narrow slit in his plastic jaw. He looks at the soggy, glistening fabric that stretches over his fingers. Looks at the Coke―cans covered in moisture beads―so tempting. He can’t risk it. But tonight, with Noah by his side, the mask doesn’t feel so much like a hiding place. It’s more like a shell that’s cracking and letting some light back in.
Kerstin Lindros
Drawn
“The greatest danger to our future is apathy”
Jane Goodall
Through low penumbra
the Black Dog comes
takes my hand
Leads me to bitter Styx
where, upon the dark littoral I wait
for to here, the ferryman will reach
An obol earned
in deeds past
sulphurous pustules
bubble to the surface of present
A brimstone drawn
from subconscious repressed
released into fragile conscious
too delicate a vessel
for broken sherds of perception
Drawn by scent of despair
the Black Dog comes
seeks its prey
lures the damaged
… for sins of the past
we pay the price …
David Jones
Nettie, Number One, Naughty Kelpie
‘Jake, put your book down. Nettie’s herding the hens again.’ his mum yelled.
‘Gees, Nettie you know Mum hates you messing with her hens. Concentrate on the rooster so the hens can feed without being hassled. Come, heel, your energy engine never quits, let’s burn off some.’ Nettie obediently abandoned the corralled hens. Jake stroked her black head; he loved her to bits and her him, even when reprimanded.
‘Race you to the old barn.’ Nettie took off like a rocket with Jake running, shouting with glee. Passing the dam Nettie rounded honking geese, scattered the black sheep, sent screeching cockatoos into flight and horses pigrooting. At the barn door she waited, ears pricked. Jake tumbled in, threw himself on the hay, holding aloft his script of Hamlet.
‘Nettie sit and hear my lines for the school’s play. Here’re bones to keep you quiet and get ready for your part.’
Nettie’s eyes showed puzzlement at Jake’s acting voice and actions as he expressively practised his lines; her deep brown eyes followed his movements.
‘What do you think? Am I eloquent? Don’t be shy speak up.’
Nettie barked encouragingly.
‘Mum, after dinner I want you all to be my audience as I recite my lines for Hamlet.’
The family sat before a rug stage. Jake, in black track suit and cape, strutted in, bowed, struck a dramatic pose for the famous lines from Hamlet and Horatio’s dialogue. With a flourish he flicked a black scarf to reveal a skull on the table.
‘Alas poor Yorick I knew him,’ he began and called ‘Nettie,’ who appeared with a skeletal radius and hand planted firmly in her mouth. They finished the lines to loud applause. His mum whispered to his dad, ‘must have got the bones from the skeleton in the cupboard.’
Denise Main
Show-off
As a Kelpie, I’m an opportunist. One day, the front gate was slightly ajar. I took the chance and scarpered creek-side to fossick. My shiny black sniffer vibrated. I dug. I struck gold: a tasty long bone, white and irresistible. I must show her my trophy, I thought. Might come in handy.
Coming soon was the Halloween Dress-up Dog Parade. I love these big-time events, although I know very well, I’m the pawn in this game.
I got the full treatment. A huge spring clean, er, dog-wash, almost drowned in a tub of warm soapy water, blow dried and super grooooming.
The big day arrived. Odessa was dressed as a witch. Her face was painted white, thick black eyeshadow, black lipstick, black Gothic style dress and black knee-high, thick-soled silver-studded boots. It matched my shiny black coat, silver collar attached to my black, silver-studded leash.
What a relief when we arrived at the hall. I was eager to show-off, especially, to the pouting Pomeranian, the humorous, homely Havanese (they’re like a mobile carpet sweeper,) and the deliciously ooh la-la prim, parading prancing poodle. They all received a cool, complimentary nod and a wily wink.
It was our turn. Odessa, the Gothic witch, flaunted, fancifully, darkly, dangerously, seductively swishing her dress. When, from her sleeve, she produced the white skeleton arm I had dug up and placed it in my mouth, the sudden applause shook the rafters.
More thunderous applause; we won the blue ribbon, plus a year’s supply of Royal Canine and another chance to show-off: a photo on the front page of the local paper.
The day after, a policeman came to our house, spoke to Odessa, and took my trophy away.
She told him where I’d found it. Now, I’m in the news again.
Ian Chisholm
The Neighbourhood Watch
Fred has lived alone in the town since his wife died. His dog, Chilli, is his constant companion. Next door Hilda, a retired school teacher, also lives alone in her two-story apartment.
Hilda is a notorious town gossip and regular complainant to the local authorities on dogs, children, noise and a host of other petty grievances. The authorities have learnt to be sceptical of her claims and find her bothersome.
The murders of several women in the district have rocked the usually quiet, quaint town and everyone is frightened.
One morning, Hilda looks down on Fred’s garden, and sees something suspicious. Chilli sitting on the grass with a skeleton hand in her mouth. Hilda’s imagination takes over. She immediately decides that Fred must be the murderer.
Hilda phones the police but given her reputation they dismiss her. Frustrated, she calls the Council who also dismiss her and suggest that she speak to Fred. That afternoon she mentions what she saw to the local postmistress. Very soon the whole town knows.
By late afternoon several people had contacted the police to accuse Fred of murder. The police descend on his house. By the time they arrive Chilli has, as was her habit, buried the hand in the garden.
Fred protests his innocence while Hilda, watching from her upstairs window, is convinced she has saved the town.
The police notice freshly disturbed earth in Fred’s garden. On digging they discover the hand is plastic. Fred explains that it belongs to a Halloween skeleton he bought for his grandchildren. With no other evidence against him, he is cleared of suspicion.
That evening, as Hilda closes her curtains, Fred looks up at her window, smiles and quietly locks the garden shed.
The town returns to its former frightened state.
Allan Barden
Sit. Stay. Haunt.
Ada’s dog had been dead for eleven years when he returned with her husband’s hand.
She recognised the wedding ring before she recognised the bones.
She had buried both herself.
Duke sat outside her kitchen door, his black coat untouched by the years, his ears raised, his patient ember eyes waiting for praise.
‘Oh, my beautiful boy.’
She fell to her knees.
Once, he had been the only creature in that house who understood what the sound of a belt leaving its buckle meant.
He knew which footsteps made her flinch. Which cupboards she was forbidden to open. How quietly a woman could learn to cry.
And on the night Ada’s husband wrapped both hands around her throat, Duke finally stopped being obedient.
Ada buried her husband beneath the apple tree.
Her dog slept beside her bed for another nine years.
They grew old together in a house where nobody shouted.
He died in the sunshine, his head resting in her lap.
She had thought that was the end of their story.
Now he stood before her, eleven years gone, holding the hand she had buried.
‘What have you done?’ she whispered.
He dropped it at her feet.
The ring was gone.
Ada looked towards the apple tree.
Fresh earth lay scattered beneath its branches.
Someone had found the grave.
Someone had taken the ring.
Then she noticed the muddy footprints leading from the garden to her back door.
Human footprints.
Inside the house, a floorboard creaked.
Duke once again stepped between Ada and the doorway.
And for the second time in her life, Duke showed his teeth.
J.L. Orango