spiritual warfare

Travelling Thursday– Road Trip in the Charger (6)

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Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (final)

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.

Finally…the intrepid road trip travellers reach Sydney.]

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

The conference and Rick’s never had a girlfriend

As far as conferences went, not a bad one. Lots of singing, worshipping God, that is, lectures, Bible Study, eating, and meeting new friends and old friends too. Our accommodation was down Anzac Parade, about five kilometres, halfway to the beach. I shared a small apartment with Rick and Dad. Dad drove me back and forth from the conference centre at Randwick. Not sure what Cordelia did, but I think she connected with other members of her family who attended the conference and stayed with them. Rick, I think ferried Mitch and Jack to and from the conference centre.

This arrangement becomes relevant later in the week of the conference.

One session that stands out, was the one on relationships.

Rick and I sat side by side, in the front row.

This will be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll get some tips on how to get a boyfriend and be popular like Cordelia.

‘So,’ the speaker said, ‘How many of you have had a boyfriend or girlfriend?’

Everyone including me, raised their hands. Everyone, that is, except my brother Rick.

‘What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, Laddie?’

‘Nope?’

The speaker pointed at me. ‘What about that lovely girl next to you?’

‘She’s my sister.’

Laughter.

[Photo 1: A lone tall ship in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Abandoned at the hostel and trek up Anzac Parade

Towards the end of the conference, one more event stood out.

Dad told me to wait for him at the hostel apartment where we were staying. After lunch we had an afternoon of free time before the final worship session.

I returned to the apartment lunch with my brother and friends eager to catch up on some rest and losing myself in a book. Maybe some journal writing which had been neglected in all the activity and excitement of the conference.

However upon my return to the dreary grey corridors of the hostel, my door was locked. Oh, well, Dad said he won’t be long.

I had nothing with me. All my supplies of entertainment and comfort were locked away in the apartment.

So I sat.

For hours.

After two hours, I began to sniff.

Then snivel.

Then finally, cry.

A lady poked her head out of a nearby door. ‘Are you all right?’

I wiped my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

She retreated into her apartment.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock! Almost three hours I’d been waiting for Dad.

Convinced that he’s forgotten me and I’d be waiting further five hours with that lady sticking her nose in my business every so often, I stood up. Stiffening my lip in grim determination, I marched out the hostel and strode up Anzac Parade.

I prayed that God would protect me.

[Photo 2: Yachts in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Along the cracked pavement. Past long neglected houses. And cared-for ones. Over busy roads at the lights. Narrowly escaping any impact with red-light running cars. In the humidity. Under light rain. Taking a wide berth around the many hotels. And leering drunks who spilled out onto the footpath. In the ever-fading light that faded into dusk.

Five kilometres and forty minutes later, I entered the conference centre. The session where all had gathered, was concluding with prayers. All in a circle holding hands. I slipped in the circle. 

The boy next to me squeezed my hand.

Oh, he’s just being kind to poor little old me, I thought. After all, if even my father forgets me…

After, over tea and biscuits, my miffed Dad asked, ‘Where were you?’

‘What do you mean? I waited three hours,’ I retorted.

‘Couldn’t you be patient?’

‘Not when I couldn’t get into the room,’ I said. There was a limit to my patience.

‘I went to pick you up and you weren’t there,’ Dad said. ‘I told you to wait.’

‘And, what time was that?’

‘Oh, er, um, about…’ Dad’s voice faded, ‘about five.’

‘Well, I was there at five, and I didn’t see you.’ I sniffed. ‘So, I walked.’

‘But don’t you know how dangerous that was to walk here?’ Dad showing so much concern, after forgetting me for the whole afternoon.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I replied. ‘I prayed and God protected me.’

‘He did. Praise the Lord,’ Dad said and then wagged a finger at me. ‘But don’t you ever do that again.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ As long as you don’t forget me again.

Passing through the Blue Mountains

[Photo 3: A view of the Blue Mountains from actual trip © L.M. Kling 1979]

Our return to the less crowded and more sedate city of Adelaide, was serene and uneventful as the fair city itself. Especially at the time in 1979.

A few highlights. Mostly, in fact, all associated with the Blue Mountains. We had missed the beauty and wonder of the mountains on our journey to Sydney, so, Rick endeavoured for us to see these mountains in daytime on our trek home.

At the lookout to the Three Sisters, we lunched and admired the majesty of God’s creation. Even Rick using his polaroid camera, took photos of us admiring the scene. He was taken with the layers of misty blues and subtle greens cascading down into the depths, while the cliff tomes forming the Three Sisters presided over the valley.

I burst out in song and Cordelia joined in.

After a chorus, Cordelia said, ‘You should try out for the worship band.’

‘Me?’

‘You have such a sweet voice, although it does need to be stronger.’

On the drive home I considered the prospect of trying out for the band. Perhaps singing in front of the church would make me more popular with the boys. Like Cordelia. But in the end, I decided against it. Too hard. Too much of a challenge for plain old me. After all, the worship band was a highly coveted affair, where lead singers jealously guarded their position. I’d never have a chance. Sweet voice, but not strong voice would never cut it.

Back at school, I continued my enjoyment of music singing in the choir. But I’d always secretly envy the solos with their stand-out song voices. The stars with their melodic strong notes, the audience’s focus on them alone.

Instead, that new year of 1979, my passion turned to art…and writing. These were the gifts God had given me.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

***

Want more, but too impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

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Friday Frolics–Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (5)

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Cordelia makes a brief visit to the hospital.

Jack woke and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

‘What are you doing?’ Mitch asked.

‘What do ya think?’ Rick said as he slowed to the 60 km/h speed limit of the town.

Mitch pointed the other way, out of town. ‘Couldn’t we just…’

‘No,’ Rick said.

‘Cordelia’s going to be sick,’ I chimed in.

Rick slammed on the brakes and skidded on the rubble on the side of the road.

‘Not yet,’ Cordelia said in a soft voice. ‘But I need a hospital.’

None of us asked the reason we needed a hospital for Cordelia. Under the light of the newly functioning headlights, I studied the strip map for the district hospital. Not much joy there. The map only showed the strip of road or highway from town A to town B, no diversions. However, we did find a 24-hour service station where Mitch asked the way to the hospital.

Upon arriving, Cordelia insisted on entering the premises on her own while the rest of us waited in the carpark. Making the most of the opportunity not to be cramped up in the car, we sat or paced around the car in the balmy night.

*[Photo 1: Missed—the Blue Mountains © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

An hour or so later, Cordelia emerged feeling better. No explanation.

And once more we piled in the car and headed for Sydney.

‘If we drive through the night, we’ll reach Sydney by morning,’ Mitch said. ‘Plenty of time for the conference.’

Rick adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and grunted. ‘As long as nothing else happens.’

I squeezed myself against the back passenger door. I had lost my place in the front with Rick to Cordelia. I had been relegated to the back seat with Mitch and Jack.

The gentle rocking of the drive lulled me to sleep.

Lost in Sydney

I yawned and stretched.

‘Hey, watch it!’ Mitch said and pushed my hand away.

‘Sorry.’ I covered my mouth and yawned again.

The Charger crawled along following bumper to bumper traffic. High rise buildings towered over the narrow road and every side street garnered either a black and white “One Way” sign, or red and white “No Entry” sign. A bridge looking like a giant coat hanger peeped through a gap in the buildings.

*[Photo 2: Sydney Harbour Bridge before there was an Opera House © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Rick said.

‘Oh, Sydney,’ I said. ‘How come we’re not at the conference?’

‘You tell me,’ Rick muttered.

‘We’re having trouble…’ Mitch began.

‘It’s all these one-way streets,’ Rick said. ‘Who ever designed Sydney must’ve had rocks in their head.’

Jack suggested we head for Bondi Beach for a swim as it’s so bleeping hot, reasoning, that if we hadn’t had the car trouble, we’d have had a day to take in the sights and go for a swim.

‘Aren’t we late for the conference?’ I said.

Rick rolled his eyes. ‘Rate we’re going, we’ll never get there.’

‘But, if we go to Bondi,’ Mitch said, ‘perhaps we can find a park and work out where we are and how to get to the conference.’

‘But how do we do that?’ Rick asked. He moved the car at the speed of a tortoise along the road chock-full with near stationary vehicles.

I pointed at a sign which read, “Bondi”. Head east, follow that sign. I’d given up on attending the conference, and believing we’d be stuck in Sydney city traffic forever, resolved to content myself with the promise of the beach sometime in the next week. Not sure how Dad would feel about us not turning up, though. He’d made it his mission to persuade our little tribe to come. And, here we were, lost in the city traffic, wandering in circles around one-way streets.

*[Photo 3: Speaking of circles, Aquarium at Circular Quay, Sydney © L.M. Kling 2002]

I imagined Dad pacing the floor of the conference centre, wearing a groove in the carpet, glancing at his watch and peering out the window. ‘Where are those children,’ he’d be saying, ‘they should be here by now.’

‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ I asked. ‘Is it near Bondi?’

‘Have you got rocks in your head?’ Rick said. His face was flushed with beads of perspiration dripping from his temples. ‘Of course it’s not. And at this rate, no matter where it is, we won’t get there. We’re stuck.’

‘Um,’ Jack interrupted Rick’s rant, ‘I think it’s at Randwick Racecourse.’

‘And where’s that?’ I said.

‘Perhaps, if we go to Bondi, find a park, then we can study the map, and work out where to go,’ Mitch said.

‘Or we could lob into a corner shop and ask someone directions,’ I suggested.

The guys ignored my idea, as guys do. All this time Cordelia remained silent, contributing nothing to the discussion. Perhaps to be more popular with the boys as Cordelia certainly was, I considered I should remain silent. But, me, being me, I just could help myself. Being one of the “lads” and voicing my opinion, that is.

We reached Bondi. Early afternoon.

I remember the weather. Warm, cloudy and humid. Specks of rain assaulted the windscreen. Despite the inclement weather by my Adelaide standards, the streets around this beachside suburb were cluttered with more cars, and even more people. It seemed to me that Bondi was crowded with the entire rest of the population of Sydney; the ones who were not still stuck in traffic in the city centre.

As a result, no parks. Nowhere. Not a thin strip anywhere to put the Charger.

Rick sighed and drove through the park-less and crowded Bondi, along some coastal road and then up a road heading east again.

*[Photo 4 and Feature: What else, but the Opera House with the Sydney Harbour Bridge © A.N. Kling 2016]

Jack, who had been studying a simple map of Sydney that the RAA strip map provided, pointed at a road on the map. ‘I’m pretty sure if we turn down Anzac Parade and follow it all the way down, we will reach our destination.’

Rick followed Jack’s directions and we arrived at the conference just in time for afternoon tea. And, I might add, a roasting from Dad who could not understand how we could get lost in Sydney.

Mitch, though was philosophical. ‘It could’ve been worse, but I was praying the whole time, and God got us here safe and sound.’

Dad sniffed and tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Hmm, yes, you are right Mitch. Ah, well, praise the Lord.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

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Wild Wends-Day–A Celebration Treat

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Wild Wends-Day — A Special Celebration Treat

Travel to The Lost World of the Wends for Free

A Story where the past and present, and vast distances in space intersect…and Boris does what he always does…

Eastern Europe, 1848

Prussian War raged, and the Wends as a village, left their homeland, with plans to set sail for Australia. From the Eastern edge of Prussia, they journeyed on a barge destined for Hamburg’s port, where they hoped to catch a cheap fare in the cargo-hold of a ship destined for the Promised Great South Land.

These villagers, never made their Australian destination. No one ever noticed, nor missed them. The neighbouring villagers assumed they had arrived in the Great Southern Land, and considered them so far away, and too distant to maintain contact. In Adelaide, also, the city for which they headed, the inhabitants were blissfully unaware of their existence. Migrating Prussians had taken their place in the over-flowing cargo-hold and were sailing across the Atlantic to Australia.

On this barge, headed by a man, Boris Roach, the Wends sang hymns of praise to God for their liberation from religious persecution, and the war. They looked to the promise of prosperity and freedom to worship God according to the Word. Their hope that their children and their descendants may thrive in their faith in the Promised Land of South Australia.

A tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

***

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Wandering Wednesday–Road Trip in the Charger (2)

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Road Trip Adventure in the Charger (2)

Part 2

No Headlights

The highway, so straight, never curving to the right nor the left, was hypnotic. Again, in the late afternoon, the burning sun on the back of my neck, now sinking in the West, and the rushing of air from the open window, lulled me into a state of semi-sleep.

By increments, as sunset turned to dusk, the air cooled. I trusted Rick to keep us safe on the highway to Sydney. I noted Cordelia resting her head on Mitch’s shoulder and then I sank into a deep satisfying sleep.

[Photo 1: Sunset near Sale, Victoria © L.M. Kling 1989]

‘Oh, no!’ Rick said.

‘What?’ Mitch cried.

‘We have no headlights.’

‘What do you mean, no headlights?’ I asked.

Car slowed to a stop by the side of the road, again. Groggy from sleep and the hypnotic effect of the endless highway, we piled out of the Charger and milled around the non-functioning headlights.

Mitch peered at the offending lights. ‘Are you able to fix them, Rick?’

Rick pulled up the bonnet and in the dim light examined the engine. He poked around at the dark nether regions of the Charger’s insides.

Mitch hovered over Rick’s back while he prodded and poked at the parts in the dimness. ‘Do you need a torch?’

‘Do you have one, Mitch?’

Mitch shrugged. ‘I don’t…didn’t think…would you have one in the glove box?’

‘Might have, but the battery’s gone flat,’ all mumbled to the engine.

Mitch had already left to torch-hunt in the Charger’s glove box. At this time, I watched Jack busy himself sorting through luggage at the rear of the vehicle.

Cordelia sat all hunched over on her duffel bag. ‘I still don’t feel well,’ she said.

‘Are you carsick?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s worse than that,’ she answered. ‘I think I need to see a doctor.’

I gazed around the silent darkened landscape. ‘Maybe at the next town, we can try to find one.’

Jack called, ‘Hey, I’ve found another torch.’

The feeble light of Rick’s torch wandered over the car engine. 

‘It’s the alternator, it’s cactus. Needs replacing,’ Rick said. ‘We’ll need to park here for the night and in the morning, I’ll fix it at the next town.’

Cordelia clutching her stomach walked up to the lads. ‘I need to see a doctor; I’m not feeling at all well.’

Mitch glanced at the girl, his eyes wide and brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps we better push on and find a doctor—hospital—something.’

‘How can we?’ Jack said. ‘We have no headlights. It’d be dangerous.’

‘I’m not driving without headlights,’ Rick said.

‘How far to the nearest town?’ Mitch raised his voice. ‘The girl needs help.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How far is it to Dubbo?’

Mitch grabbed the RAA strip map, Jack handed him the torch and with the stronger light Mitch flipped the pages and then studied the relevant page.

Cordelia sat down on her bag and was silent.

[Photo 2: Twilight at Brachina Gorge, Flinders Ranges, South Australia© L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Says here,’ Mitch began, and then continued, ‘we are twenty miles from Dubbo.’

‘I’m still not sure…’ Jack said.

‘Oh, come on,’ Mitch huffed, ‘only twenty miles. If we use the torches for our light, we can get there safely.’

‘What, waving the torches out the side of the windows,’ Rick said, ‘Are you mad?’

‘If we go slowly, we can make it,’ Mitch said. ‘Come on, give it a try. For Cordelia’s sake, we have to try.’

[Photo 3 and Feature: Rick will save the day…eventually © courtesy R.M. Trudinger 1983]

At Mitch’s insistence to save this damsel in distress, we piled back in the car, and crawled down the highway, torches flashing back and forth from the rear windows.

After a few minutes, Rick shook his head, his curls flopping about his damp forehead. ‘It’s not working.’

‘What about,’ Mitch sighed, ‘what about, if I sit in the front and you and me shine the torches from the front.’

‘If you think it’ll make a difference,’ Rick muttered.

Mitch changed places with Rick who was driving, and Rick moved into the front passenger seat where Jack had been sitting. Jack then bumped Cordelia into the middle and sat behind Mitch.

The car crawled a few metres with Rick and Mitch waving torches from their front positions.

I looked behind me at the expanse of dark landscape, and the sky clotted with the Milky Way.

‘I hope the cops don’t catch us,’ I murmured.

‘What cops?’ Jack said.

The Charger slowed, and then stopped.

‘It’s not working,’ Rick said.

‘But we’ve hardly moved,’ Mitch said.

‘I think it’ll be better if we don’t use the torches and I drive by the starlight.’ Rick sniffed. ‘I think my eyes will adjust. And we’ll take it slowly.’

‘I can do that,’ Mitch said.

‘No, I’ll drive.’ Rick pushed open his door and marched over to the driver’s side. ‘It’s my car. I know how to handle it.’

Mitch breathed in and out with an emphasised sigh. ‘If you insist.’

Rick forged ahead on the highway to Dubbo at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. I know it was twenty miles (not kilometres) an hour as it took us an hour to reach the outskirts of Dubbo. Mitch couldn’t resist the urge to hang his arm out with Jack’s torch, offering slim beams of light to guide Rick as he drove. Fortunately, we met no police on patrol.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

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Easter Treat

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Mission for Free – An Easter Treat…

If you are wanting space adventure and the mischief and mayhem that alien cockroach Boris creates…

A Taste from Mission of the Unwilling (2nd Edition)

Avoiding Monica’s Playroom, (I thought Maggie might be lurking there), I headed for the Driver room. Would Günter zap back to a Grey and be piloting there? Or would just his apes be in the Driver room? I approached the junction where the right passage led to that room of monitors and Günter. I sensed someone sliding along the wall behind me and looked back.

A lump lodged in my throat. Not the Grey Nurse again!

‘Where is he?’ She tugged at my collar choking me. ‘You go to him—get him. I want him.’ Does she ever give up?

‘If you’re that desperate, find him yourself.’ I veered the other way, ducked around the next corner, and lost her.

I headed for the Engine room. I had to see John and talk to him about all my troubles. And warn him Boris might be back. What I liked about John was he didn’t talk much; he just sat there and listened.

I entered the maze of towering machines, pumps, and raw veins of bound wires. Anxious, at every sound of a swish behind me, I checked my back. Every wheeze, and I slammed myself up against the closest engine cowling, flattening myself for cover. I reached John’s small office and lurched through the entrance.

Hands gripped around my eyes. Darkness, even darker.

‘We must leave here,’ a deep voice said. ‘Now.’

‘Why?’

‘It is not safe; there has been an accident.’

‘Günter, is that you?’

He pushed me, guiding me. Something oily underfoot made me slip. He held me. Then carried me out.

In the light of the corridor, I blinked. Günter appeared pale. His forehead was covered in beads of perspiration. And as he held me, he trembled.

My shoe stuck to the floor. I lifted my foot. On the tiles, a bloodstained shoe print.

‘W-what’s going on?’ I asked.

‘I-it is J-John…’ Günter rasped. ‘I-didn’t want you…to see…’

‘John? Is he…no, not John…he can’t be…’ I moved to enter the engineering room.

‘No danger.’ Günter pulled me back. ‘He is…he is gone.’

Günter cradled me in his arms as we both wept.

***

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© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022

Feature Photo: Mission of the Unwilling cover © L.M. Kling 2022 (UFO © Liz Maxted)

Travelling Thursday–Road Trip in the Charger

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Road Trip to Sydney the summer of 1979 – Episode 1

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.]

Lost Control

A conference on the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I wonder what gifts God has for me? I pondered while dozing in the back seat of my brother Rick’s Chrysler Charger. And Dad…why was it that Dad had to go all on his own by car to the conference? Oh, well…much more fun travelling with my peers.

Crunch!

I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. ‘What happened?’

The car fishtailed. Rocking the carload of us back and forth.

‘Hey, mate!’ Rick, my brother yelled at the driver, ‘Jack! You trying to kill us?’

Without reply, Jack, bit his thin upper lip and swung the Charger to the right, and into oncoming traffic.

I gasped.

A truck bore down on us.

Jack, who reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, clenched his strong jaw and corrected back to the left. Keep left, that’s what you do when driving in Australia. Jack’s usually blonde curls appeared dark from perspiration.

The semitrailer gushed past us, sucking the air out of our open windows.

Rick held up his thumb and forefinger in pincer mode. ‘You missed them by that much.’

[Photo 1 and feature: Rick’s Charger in strife © L.M. Kling circa 1984]

Rick’s navy-blue tank top was soaked with sweat around the neckline under his mouse-brown curls, and under his strong arms. Mid-January and the full car with only open windows for air-con, steamed with heat. And body odour.

To my right in the back seat, Mitch, taller and thinner than my brother but sporting dark brown curly hair, wiped his damp mauve polo shirt and then sighed, ‘That was close.’

Cordelia, in the briefest of shorts and tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off her classic beauty and assets, sat the other side of Mitch.  She clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick.’

Mitch leaned forward and tapped Rick on the arm. ‘How long till we reach the next town?’

‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Cordelia said.

Rick nudged Jack. ‘I think you better stop.’

Jack rubbed one hand on his blue jeans, straightened his long white shirt, placed his hand again on the steering wheel and kept driving.

Cordelia cupped her hand under her chin and groaned.

I smoothed my white wrap-around skirt, and then brushed my light cream-coloured blouse patterned with blue roses. No way did I want Cordelia to mess up my most flattering-to-my-slim- figure clothes.

[Photo 2: In my slimming white wrap-around, Clealand National Park © M.E. Trudinger 1979]

‘Stop!’ Rick shouted.

‘I can’t!’ Jack said and continued to speed down the highway. The golden expanse of the Hay Plains dried out by the fierce summer heat spanned the horizon. White posts flitted past. The red-brown line of bitumen of the highway stretched to its vanishing point on that horizon. A faded white sign flashed past. Dubbo, 265 miles. How long had Australia been metric? A few years at least; not that one would know travelling in outback Australia in early 1979. Still…

Another groan from Cordelia.

Rick screamed at Jack. ‘Stop!’

Jack slowed the car and rumbled onto the gravel beside the road.

Cordelia leapt out and hunched over a shrivelled wheat stalk. I looked away and covered my ears from the inevitable sound of chunder.

‘That was close,’ Mitch said.

‘Remember that drunk guy, your brother brought back to Grandma’s?’ Rick said. ‘Took me a week to get the smell out of her Toyota.’

‘Hmm,’ Mitch replied. ‘That was unfortunate.’

‘You mean, the guy who kept singing “Black Betty”?’ I asked. I remembered that fellow. He had messy blonde hair and a moustache. He lounged on the back seat of Grandma’s car while I sat all prim and proper in the front waiting for Mitch’s brother to drive us to Lighthouse Coffee Lounge. ‘He kept saying I was so innocent.’

‘Well,’ Mitch said, ‘you are.’

I guess I was at 15; but hated to admit it.

Cordelia stumbled back into the car. ‘That’s better.’

[Photo 3: Proud owner of his Chrysler Charger © courtesy of R.M. Trudinger 1983]

Rick and Jack arranged to swap places. So, after a brief stretch of legs and a nearby scraggly-looking bush receiving five visitors, we set off on our quest for Sydney. After all, we still had ages to go before arriving there for the Revival Conference. We hoped to arrive with enough spare time to see the sights Sydney had to offer.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Easter, the season for holidays and intrepid road trips…

Or for a reading adventure…

Want more, but too impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Or

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The Hitch-hiker

School Daze–Mrs. Cranky

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[Sharing experiences from our school days at writers’ group this morning reminded me of learning in the 1960’s.]

I Threw the Book Back at the Teacher

Mrs. Cranky (not her real name), our relief teacher looked like she’d stepped out of a Dickens’ tale—that’s what I remember of her from when I was in Grade 1. At the age of six, to me, she appeared so old, as though she were prehistoric; all skin and bone and a scowl fixed on her face.

Mrs. Cranky’s methods of discipline matched her looks; old fashioned and mean. I started school in the late 1960’s in Australia.

The regular infant schoolteachers were kind and gentle. I loved school. I loved learning. I came from a home that valued education. The regular teachers perhaps tired of my constant hand-in-the-air to answer every question and tried to dampen my enthusiasm saying, ‘Give someone else a go.’ But I experienced no trouble until Mrs. Cranky took over our Grade 1 class for a term.

Mrs. Cranky seemed to have been buried in the education system and then dug up. I reckon probably as a last resort and I’m sure the headmistress must’ve done an archaeological dig in search of a relief teacher and come up with this old fossil.

I mean to say, if the department had known what archaic methods this woman was using to control the class of us infants, surely, she would’ve been asked to retire.

As Grade 1 students, we submitted to her authority with fear and trembling, not to mention a few toileting accidents on the classroom’s linoleum floor. I guess Mrs. Cranky’s colleagues congratulated Mrs. Cranky on her class of obedient and quiet students.

How was I to know, as a six-year-old, that a teacher shaking, hitting and shouting at children was not appropriate? But I sensed something was off.

So, on one dull winter’s day, Mrs. Cranky presided over her class from her desk. She’d taught us our arithmetic lesson which seemed to make her particularly angry.

As we finished our work, simple sums where neatness was prized over correctness, we lined up at the desk, our work to be marked by Mrs. Cranky.

I finished my sums and joined the queue which by this stage stretched from the desk to the door. Now I was not the most observant pupil and as work was too easy, I tended to daydream. My mind wandered out the window and floated to the clouds as I waited.

A mathematics exercise book flew past me. My mind returned to my body in the classroom. I looked from the book, pages strewn on the floor, and then at the teacher’s desk.

‘This is rubbish!’ Mrs. Cranky screeched and tossed another book across the room.

As I watched that book land in the aisle, one more book whizzed past me.

‘Go pick it up!’ Mrs. Cranky said.

My classmate scuttled over to the book on the floor, picked it up and slunk back to her seat.

Mrs. Cranky was on a roll. ‘Rubbish!’ she cried, and I ducked yet another book-missile.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked the boy in front of me.

The boy shrugged.

Mrs. Cranky glared at me and said, ‘Go to the back of the line, Lee-Anne!’

I took my place at the end of the line. I checked my work. Yes, one plus one is two. Yes, all my sums neat and correct in my estimation.

A book landed at my feet. I went to pick it up.

‘Don’t you dare, Lee-Anne!’

I straightened up and watched another poor pupil pick up his book, bite his trembling lip and shuffle to his desk.

This is not right, I thought. As I waited my turn, I imagined my counterattack if the teacher cast my sterling efforts across the room. It seemed to me I’d wasted half a lesson standing in line and watching the Maths books fly.

My turn. Surely Mrs. Cranky would see my superior efforts and not throw my book.

She did throw my book. And with much demented screaming and ranting that my work was the worst she’d seen in all her years of teaching. Considering how old she looked, boy, that must be bad.

Her implications that I must be the worst student in the history of the world sank in. What? How dare she! No, that can’t be right. I won’t let her get away with that. She had crossed the line.

I paced over to my wreck of a Maths book, plucked it up and then flung it back at Mrs. Cranky.

O-oh, bad move. Very bad move.

I’d stuck my neck out, executed justice for me and my classmates, but had not considered the consequences.

Mrs. Cranky’s face flushed red. Her eyes bulged from her bony sockets. She bared her teeth.

My situation was not looking good.

I fled. First, I scampered down the nearest aisle to the back of the class. Mrs. Cranky armed with a twelve-inch ruler clattered behind me. She screamed and raged. ‘Why you little…!’

I ran along the back of the class. Mrs. Cranky followed. She swatted the ruler at me. Missed!

I weaved through the maze of desks and chairs. I searched for refuge from the teacher’s rage and ruler.

I dove under a desk. But the boy with red hair swung his feet.

Mrs. Cranky gained on me. She growled. She waved the ruler at me.

I fell to my hands and knees and scrambled under another desk. More legs, more kicking at me. I crawled along the floor. Mrs. Cranky chased me into a corner.

I had nowhere to go.

Mrs. Cranky cut the ruler into my tender thighs. ‘There, that’ll teach you for throwing the book at me,’ she said.

***

Education, I decided was not so much for gaining knowledge as to learn to submit to the control of authority. The system taught me that to be successful and get good grades I must behave, be quiet, don’t upset the norm or challenge the people who had power over me. So, I learnt to be a “good” student, and when I grew up, a “good” citizen, minding my own business out of fear of that wrath, that punishment, if I question or challenge the status quo.

However, recently, as I’ve matured and seen injustice and oppression, sometimes suffered by those close to me, I have been challenged and I wonder: Have I allowed evil to prosper because I’m too afraid to speak up?

This is why I write. My words can be used to promote God, His love and goodness. They can also be used to speak out against deception and injustice. Part of me is still afraid of retribution, that figurative “twelve-inch-ruler” ready to strike because symbolically I’m “throwing the book back at the teacher”.

In the good book, the Bible, 1 Peter 3:17 says: ‘It is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer doing good than doing evil.’

True, as a Grade 1 student, it was not the wisest choice to make and “throw the book back at the teacher”, but as an adult, it is my hope and intention to “throw the book”, that is, my words into the world and community for good; right the wrongs, stick up for the oppressed, defend the victims of bullying and make waves to change attitudes and thus generate God’s character and values of justice, truth, responsibility and love.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2023

Feature Painting: Sunrise over Brachina Gorge (c) Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014

(Brachina Gorge is in the Flinders Ranges, South Australia. Brachina Gorge is known for the abundance of fossils that can be found there. Probably won’t find the likes of Mrs. Cranky,  there though.)

***

Want to explore some more?

Another world? Another place and time?

Escape into some space adventure? Or just delve into some plain dystopian adventure?

Click on the links to my novels below and learn how this war on the alien cockroach Boris began and will continue…

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

***

Or if memoir is more your thing,

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Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Choice Bites–Shock Horror with Boris (2)

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[After last week’s gross and gory post, I received criticism that this story was too horror-filled and disturbing to be published. They felt that the warning was not strong enough. The truth about Evil, is that it’s ugly, it’s confronting, it’s something we shy away from; our innate human condition dictates that we have a bias to satisfy our own selfish needs to the detriment of others. As it says in the Bible in Romans 3:23: “All have fallen short of the glory of God.”

Part 1 of Boris’ Choice may look like I, as a writer have fallen short of God’s glory. What I was exploring, though was the pure evil character that Boris is.

In this story’s conclusion, I endeavour to show the opposite of Boris in the goodness of Joshua, the answer to the destructive consequences of evil. Boris, being Boris cannot tolerate Joshua.

Thus, the war on Boris, the battle between good and evil begins…]

Boris’ Choice (2)

Slipping Away

Days passed and the promise of barbequed Joshua eluded Boris. Worse, he sensed Maggie slipping from him, enticed by the weird teachings of the man with no shell. By the third day Boris curled up on his nest of droppings, sucking his top claw and sulking. Now, that Earth creature had a following, a rag tag clutch of disciples and had the audacity to preach from the front steps of his castle. Thoughts of love, peace, law and order filtered through the atmosphere. Boris folded his antennae under his helmet attempting to block out the infectious purity. Still the cleansing vibrations penetrated. Boris’ intestines boiled with rage. He rose from his bed and then slamming the door, marched through his home to the porch.

His whiskers recoiled at the radiating goodness. ‘No! Get out of my life!’ He stomped his needle feet on the ‘Go Away’ mat.

The monolith of pale flesh turned and reached out to him. ‘Please turn over your life, Boris. If we start now, your world will be a much better place to live. If you keep on killing and destroying, you’ll end up—alone.’

Boris bristled. He turned, his armour facing the crowd. ‘Don’t care. At least I’ll be free to do whatever I please.’ A dragonfly skimmed the water of the fishpond filled from last night’s rain. Boris shuddered.

Maggie tapped Boris’ hull. ‘Please, love! Listen!’

‘No!’ Boris spun round and with a wing stiff, hit Maggie hard so that she curled into a ball and bounced down the steps. As she straightened, he raised his weapon-arm.

Joshua stepped in front of him, blocking his aim. ‘What are you doing? Do you not love her?’

‘Pah! Never did.’ Boris pumped venom into Joshua’s unguarded chest.

The giant creature sank to his knees and groaned.

Boris waved his proboscis. ‘You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that.’ The disciples recoiled and scattered.

‘Three days. He’s only been with us—’ Maggie raced to the prostrate Earth-being. She held his bulbous head and gasped. ‘What have you done, Boris?’ She looked up at him, her antennae twisting into an anguished knot.

He poised his needle-like mouth over the creature’s supple neck. ‘Only what must be done to survive.’

‘Kill me if you have to, but—’ the alien rasped, ‘—whatever you do, don’t touch my ship.’

‘You have a ship? Hmm?’ Boris said, his fangs twitched at the prospect of a crew full of large, tender, succulent prey.

‘Well, of course he has. How do you think he got here?’ Maggie combed Joshua’s fine white hairs. ‘But he said not to touch it, so—’

‘Shut up, female!’ Boris aimed and vaporized Maggie. He flapped his wings and cleared the cloud of particles from his prize, the alien. Sharpening his pincers, he examined the limp neck and shiny skin begging to be consumed. He lanced his fangs into the soft neck and chomped through the layers of skin, gristle and bone. By midnight, with his belly distended over his lower legs, Boris packed the last of the sealed bags of Joshua in the freezer. He gazed at his handy work stacked on the shelves and sighed. Then he nudged the door closed.

He patted his stomach and passed gas. ‘Well, nothing like the present. Before they get wind of it. And besides, I’m all fuelled up.’

Boris spread his wings and soared into the atmosphere. He banked higher, above the clouds lined silver with the moon. He closed the vents in his shell as he rose up into the icy stratosphere. The air thinned, not that it mattered to Boris as he didn’t breathe much anyway. He looked down, his hometown merged with the continent. He sailed with the solar winds, drifting with the rotation of the planet as he hunted for the alien ship. A speck glittered at the point where the curve of his world met the black of space. Boris powered up his rear booster rockets and charged towards the glint. As he approached the triangular-shaped chunk of metal, he magnetized his feet and plopped onto the frigid surface of the dark side. He set his weapon spike to maximum and cut into the hull.

Sharp spasms quaked from the surface through Boris’ legs. A shot of electricity jerked through his exoskeleton. ‘O-oh!’ Boris retracted the magnets and darted away. Boom! A wave of energy hurled him into space, rolling, flying, knocking against fragments of ship, and reeling like space junk towards the moon. As a ball he plopped into a lunar lake padded with dust. He straightened his body and watched as his world glowed red and vascular with lava and then in silence caved in on itself into a lump of coal.

Alone Boris orbited the moon, scanning the pock-marked surface. ‘There has to be a space station here somewhere. And when I find it, and get me a space craft, I’m going for Earth. That Joshua and his kind are not going to get away with what they’ve done.’ He watched his sun dim for a second. He knew he did not have much time.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2021; 2023

Feature Photo: Notre Dame, Gargoyles © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 1998

[From my understanding about Gargoyles and a read of Wikipedia on the subject it would seem that Gargoyles from medieval times were used not only to drain water from the building, but their hideous animalistic forms were to remind the people that evil is all around, and that it’s in the church that one finds refuge from evil.]

***

Curious about what mischief and mayhem Boris will get up to?

Check out my new novel, fresh on the virtual shelves of Amazon Kindle—click on the link below:

The Lost World of the Wends…

Or take a look at my earlier novels—

Download your Kindle copy of Mission of the Unwilling now,  for less than the price of a cup of coffee.  Just click on the link below…

Mission of the Unwilling

Or for the price of a chocolate bar

 The Hitch-hiker

Choice Bites: Shock Horror with Boris (1)

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Boris’ Choice (1)

[How the war on Boris began…on a planet hundreds of light-years away, and hundreds of years ago. Warning, this over-sized alien cockroach is not for the faint-hearted. The story is best to be digested away from meals. This story contains violence, gore and cockroaches.]

Boris crept towards her. She hunched over, back draped with a tattered shawl, picking rotting peel from the over-flowing garbage tin. Boris eyed the bundle of hessian rags and wrinkled flesh. She’s useless. Who would want her? She’s way past child-bearing age. Surprised someone hasn’t eaten her already. Old females were a specialty on his world, his favourite—boiled. Although he must admit, he’d never pass up the offer of a baby, cooked fresh out of the womb. Boris wiped the acid dripping from his crusty lips and scuttled closer to his victim. With his probe he stung this brown heap in the round of her back and she melted into a pool of oil. Boris extended his hollow proboscis and sucked the puddle, all of her black fluid on the pavement.

Boris thrust forward his abdomen swelled with this snack and waddled past his fellow Bytrodes. They smiled at him and nodded. ‘Well, done!’ ‘Ridding the world of waste.’ ‘I wish I had your guts.’

Boris grinned and with his surround optical vision guarded his armoured back as they moved behind him. No fellow Bytrode can be trusted.

Then Boris burped, lifted the flaps in his spine and unfurled his wings. A potent gust of gas enabled him to lift into the air and ferry through the ruined structures, once ziggurats with lofty peaks that vanished into the clouds, now a pile of broken stones. On a mountain over-looking a river of septic waste, his palace gleamed gold and white; his reward built on the shells of his competitors and any other Bytrode that got in the way.

Flying spent the fuel that was the old woman, and hunger gnawed at his ribs. He spied a neighbour, Gavin basking on the roof of a satellite wreck close to the foamy shore. He plopped onto the carcass of yesterday’s breakfast and sidled up to Gavin’s shiny black back. The heat of the metal roof stung his many feet, so he stood on the tips of his pointy toes.

‘Do you want a little something to help you on your trip?’ Boris purred.

His fellow rotated his bald head. ‘Sure. What have you got?’

Boris reached into the pocket of his armour and pulled out a plastic bag of white powder. ‘Here, try some. It’s fresh and clean.’

‘Thanks.’ With whiskers twitching, Gavin positioned his snout over the bag and absorbed the contents.

‘There, that will make you happy.’ Boris chuckled. ‘And me.’

Boris drooled and waited as the goo that was Gavin fried on the metal in the searing afternoon sun. At the crisp and bubbly point, Boris reached underneath the wreck, and pulled out a plastic spatula. ‘Ah! Neighbour biscuit!’ His tentacles wriggled as he snapped off a piece and munched. ‘A fitting entrée to dessert and the object of my lust—Maggie. A perfect end to a delicious day.’

Boris climbed the mountain of victim waste his shell splayed as a force field to protect against the attack of scavengers. His belly bloated, and home too close to wing it, he lumbered up the hillside of rotting corpses to his castle, his numerous eyes like surveillance cameras scanning for any movement of the enemy pretending to be dead. A hiss. Boris froze, antennae vibrating. In the crimson rays of the setting sun, a shell rose defiant. Boris charged his weapon arm and fired a stream of fusion energy. Puff! Ash of foe added to the mountain.

Boris folded his weapon prong into his scales, and exhaling, curled into a ball of hard silicon, rolled the final leg of his journey home. At the titanium steel door, he unfurled his body and then tapped the musical security code, using four of his six legs. The door Bytrode-body thick with reinforced steel and telephone directories, creaked open.

‘Were you successful, my lust?’ Maggie projected her thoughts to Boris. Her shell glowed auburn, as she flicked her long scales and caressed Boris’ aura.

‘Yep,’ he said waddling past her, and then brushing against her waiting claws. He sailed to his throne, the recliner rocker, inherited from yesterday’s breakfast, and planted his thorax on the leather seat. While his peripheral vision traced his female’s scuttling steps to his side, he aimed his proboscis at the shag-pile rug and regurgitated the mashed contents of his stomach, decorating the cream shag with a lumpy pool of umber.

Boris burped. ‘Gavin.’

‘That’s nice, dear. Never did like him,’ Maggie said. She extended her trunk, groping and fusing with his. She dug her hooks into his scales.

Boris quivered as the fermented juice of last cycle’s enemy pumped into his gullet. ‘Ah! Tyrone! That was a good victim.’ Swelling with victory, power and the ether of Tyrone’s spent life-force, he thrust his favourite female onto the shagpile and Gavin goo, his thoughts and intent on more pleasurable pursuits than feasting.

‘Boris, dear…’ Maggie retracted her spikes and slid from under him.

Splat! Boris’ raw flesh grated on the shag fibres, while is face kissed the blow-fly flecked stew that was Gavin. He lifted his head and sucked in a fly-flavoured morsel. ‘What?’

Maggie’s antennae twitched. ‘We have a visitor.’

Boris straightened up and smoothed his scales. ‘Why didn’t you say something before?’ His abdomen purred with the delicious thought of food killed and prepared by his be-lusted.

‘I was overcome by the moment, I suppose.’ Maggie picked at the bugs in the shag-pile stew. ‘He’s an alien, from a far-away planet.’

‘Mmm! Even better!’ Boris rubbed his stomach. ‘I haven’t had an alien in ages. Where is he? In the kitchen boiling?’ He used his eyes to zoom his focus into the kitchen.

‘But, dear, the lust of my life,’ Maggie said, her voice warbling, ‘this alien is different. You can’t eat this one. I won’t let you.’

Boris’ scales bristled. ‘What? You can’t stop me! I eat everyone.’

A slug-like creature twice the size of Boris, who was big by Bytrodian standards, emerged from the hallway and filled the living room. Boris studied the biped from the antennae-free head that scaped the ceiling, to his massive extensions of legs that disgraced the rug.

‘Okay, I guess it would be a challenge,’ Boris said, ‘although I’d like to know how he got this far without being harmed. He’s got no shell.’

‘Insect spray,’ the biped conveyed while making sounds through one of the holes in his face. Then with one of two hands, he covered this pink face hole and made low pitched grunting noises.

Boris and Maggie stared at the alien, their eye whiskers twitching.

‘Oh, pardon me,’ the alien said through his thoughts and vibration of the airwaves. He extended a thick rope-like limb to Boris. ‘I’m Joshua, by the way. I’m from the planet Earth.’

Maggie clasped her middle legs together and shimmered with an orange hue. ‘Oh! How wonderful! We’ve never had someone from Earth for dinner before.’

‘So you mean you’ve changed your mind, my dear Maggie?’ Boris beamed red as he stroked Joshua’s jelly-like hand and sniffed his salty skin.

‘No!’ Maggie snapped. ‘Why do you have to kill and eat everyone, Boris?’

Joshua tore his hand from Boris’ claw. He rubbed the scratches and wiped scarlet ooze on his white robe.

‘I’m a Bytrode, that’s what I do,’ Boris said, splaying his wings and then prancing around the room. ‘I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t trod on a few shells.’

‘But I’ve been talking with Joshua and he’s shown me another way, a better way to live.’ Maggie scuttled over the rug and Gavin puddle to her mate. ‘If we could be friends, and stop destroying each other.’

Filing his external fangs Boris fixed his beady eyes on this over-sized amoeba. ‘Friends? And end up like Gavin here? What planet are you from?’

‘A better one than yours. Seems like this one’s messed up,’ the alien said as he pointed a stubby tentacle through the window at the wasteland of crumbling shells, and the screams of Bytrode souls in conflict.

Boris planted his six hands on his scaled sides, his limbs akimbo. ‘Well, if you don’t like it, you can go back to where you come from.’ He wished this creature would stay, just long enough for him to execute a plan to over-power him, chop him up, bag him and store him in the freezer.

‘But dear, we can learn from this Earth-being.’ Maggie licked Boris’ feet. ‘He’s from the other side of the galaxy. Surely that must count for something in getting ahead.’

Boris rolled his thousand mini eyes. ‘Very well, then. He can stay in the garage.’ He rubbed his abdomen, and in a part of his mind blocked from scrutiny, rearranged the shelf space to fit bags full of Joshua flesh; so much of it, keep them going for weeks. He purred in anticipation.

[…to be continued next week]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2021; 2023

Feature Painting: The Choice © L.M. Kling 2016

***

Curious about what mischief and mayhem Boris will get up to?

Check out the story of how Boris led a village of Wends astray in…

The Lost World of the Wends…

Or

Download your Kindle copy of Mission of the Unwilling now,  for less than the price of a cup of coffee.  Just click on the link below…

Mission of the Unwilling

Or for the price of a chocolate bar

 The Hitch-hiker

Travelling Thursday–Risky Road Trip to Brisbane (3)

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When Angels Jump Off (3)

Seedy in the Graveyard Shift

“Phew! Pooh! What’s that smell? Rob! You’re disgusting!” Tania revived by the potent fumes fanned the stale atmosphere with a spare cushion.

“Who me?” Rob shifted his skeletal frame and adjusted his pillow.

“Ugh! That’s foul! I’m opening a window.” Karen yanked at the sliding window and stuck her permed head into the stiff breeze.

“Looks like we’ll have to stop,” I said.

“Are we there yet?” the brunette whined.

“I’m hungry, can we stop? I have to visit the ladies,” the afro blonde said.

“No, and we’re not stopping, we have to keep on going, or we’ll be late,” Tom said and then swerved. A kangaroo skittered off onto the embankment and into a clump of bushes.

[Photo 1: Watch out for kangaroos © L.M. Kling circa 1988]

“Aw! I’m bored! I want a break!” Tania said.

“Are we there yet? This is so boring! How far north do we have to go, anyway?” Karen flung empty chip packets around the cabin.

I jabbed Tom on his skinny arm. “The tribes are getting restless and we are running out of fuel, or haven’t you noticed.”

The two girls chanted, “Are we there, yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

I turned the map bought in Orange around in my hands. The signs seemed unfamiliar and did not fit the expected location.  “I hope this is a shortcut.”

Screech! In a matter of seconds, Tom slowed the van to snail’s pace and eased into some northern New South Wales town. At the Shell Roadhouse, we piled out into the icy air, and milled around while the sleepy attendant filled our tank. I shuffled to the kiosk, but I was jaded with the nausea of no sleep and exited with nothing.

Bill had another go at Tom. “Isn’t it time to let someone else drive?”

Tom anchored himself in the driver’s seat and refused to budge.

[Photo 2: Feeding time for roos © L.M. Kling 2022]

As I loitered by the plastic-coated restaurant, the smell of cheap coffee and stale hamburger grease made me queasy. I contemplated quitting the tour of terror. I filed through the meagre number of notes in my purse. I’ll get a bus home. Anything but get in that van again.

Bill hailed me. “You coming?”

The girls scuffed in their “Ugg” boots towards the Toyota armed with packets of fantails, cola and salt-and-vinegar chips. So innocent.

I sighed and made the decision to trail after them. My minimal influence was better than none at all to get us to Brisbane alive. All aboard and plugged in, on my insistence, Mad Tom Max revved up the engine and the van like a bullet shot out of the station and into the moonless night. I strained to keep my eyes open in the hours of imminent death, singing, praying and talking, willing myself not to fall asleep. Bill sat beside the driver, rambling in conversation to a young man focussed on one thing and that was to get us to Brisbane dead on time.

[Photo 3: Over the Great Dividing Range © L.M. Kling 1989]

The grey light of dawn crept over the horizon to our right. On the side of the road a truck burned. Bright yellow flames leapt and danced within the cabin. Tom slammed on the brakes and the van screeched to a halt, skidding on the gravel. We jumped out to inspect the bonfire of truck metal. A man stood behind his truck shaking his head and watching the monster “Mack” melt and burn. I lifted my camera.

“Don’t!” Tania glared at me. “That’s not appropriate.”

My cheeks prickled with humiliation; the shame of it, a 16-year-old girl telling me what to do. I spent a few minutes’ vigil observing the truck driver’s unrecorded misfortune.

Not to be outdone in true and noble acts that show up their leader, me, Tom hopped from his seat of privilege and targeted the forlorn truckie to comfort. He asked if he was alright. He was. They nodded and commiserated over the loss of a magnificent vehicle. The truckie indicated that help was coming in the next half-an-hour. Tom turned and strode towards the van. As he passed me, he tipped his pointy nose up at me, and the smug smile pasted on his mouth read: Look what a good a virtuous guy am l!

Ready to step into the driver’s seat, his smile switched to a scowl. Bill perched in the coveted seat, a wide grin spread between day-old stubble. “I’ll take it from here, mate.”

[Photo 3 & Feature: Safe at last on the Gold Coast © L.M. Kling 1989]

As we passed a shimmering green sign with the name “Brisbane” in silver on it, Tom brooded in the back of the van. Couched either side of this red-faced man, the girls soothed him, whispering schemes of revenge. Rob rocked and rolled in slumber in the middle row under a pile of patchwork quilts.

We wound through the Great Dividing Range, and I rested my head while viewing the lush green hills and the white timber houses on stilts that grew and multiplied as the out-lying townships morphed into the suburbs of Brisbane. We arrived at the Conference centre 23 hours after departing Melbourne.

I thanked God. The angels had hung on, this time.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

Feature Photo: Safe at Last on the Gold Coast © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 1989

Note: Story based on real events. Names and sequence of events have drifted into the realm of fiction.

***

Want more Australian Adventure, but too expensive to travel down under?

Why not take a virtual travel with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Or

Is an adventure in space calling you?

Engage in the War against Boris

and

Escape to the Lost World of the Wends.